Assassin of the Damned

— 25-

I returned to the beach the following night. The galley lay half-ashore like a stranded whale. Its underbelly had a jagged gash. Masses of sandy footprints showed where they had been. Once, I spied Francesca’s smaller footprint.

The thought of her among those altered men, with Anaximander and his lantern-like head-it nearly drove me wild with rage and despair.

I searched for the vacchette, the ‘little cow’ rowboat. It was gone.

Had Anaximander and the captain rowed the vacchette to the Tower of the East with my daughter? I prayed they had not.

The size of their mob made the trail easy to follow. I ran, and found a split two miles later. Most had climbed the rocks and headed inland. Maybe two dozen or more had continued along the shore. The shore party footprints showed me Anaximander’s larger boot-print and Francesca’s smaller one.

I fairly flew in my haste. Time had become my enemy. Everything I had to do, I had to do tonight. That was the horror of my condition. If just once an enemy found me during daylight and stole my coin, I would perish. It was a frightening thought. I banished it-for now. It was still night, still the hour of the Darkling.

The shore changed in time. The rocks shrank and then vanished. The sand turned slippery. Reeds appeared. The mushy sand became mud. The mud began to take on the consistency of slime. I must have entered the swamp near Venice. I’d visited Venice once. It had been built atop small, swampy isles isolated from the mainland. Soon I waded past trees thick with Spanish moss. In the still air the dangling moss hung like spent webs. Many of the swamp trees had humped roots, knotted and thick near the trunk, and smaller and ankle grabbing farther away.

A hidden bear roared. At least, it sounded like a bear. I found an octo-man shortly thereafter. He lay face-first in the muck. Blood leaked like oil from jagged wounds in his side. Had a bear done this?

I lifted my head. There were faint cries in the distance.

I took the octo-man’s knife. It had excellent balance. Then I ran north toward the cries. Sometimes mud sucked at my boots. Sometimes I splashed through murky water. A huge serpent hissed at me from a tree. Its massive body was coiled seven times around a branch and it flickered its forked tongue. I detoured around it, and I pondered the creature. The swamp in and around Venice had never been like this. Nor had such serpents infested it. Had Erasmo enlarged the swamp through sorcery? Had he seeded it with monstrosities?

It was then I noticed the water, specifically its warmth. The Adriatic Sea was normally much colder than this. Steam rose in places. Soon, the swampy growth thickened and the trees and foliage became jungle-like. The cries had stopped. Instead, I heard roars, but no bear had ever made sounds like that. Amidst the roars were hisses like serpents.

I had no doubt then but that Erasmo had conjured this place. This was African terrain. I’d spoken before to a Moor who had sailed far up the Nile River. He’d trekked to places that by his description had sounded like this.

How could mere barons and knights hope to besiege the Tower of the East? Erasmo could conjure serpents and swamps. He drew the aid of Old Ones, if that’s what the Goat Man and Anaximander were. Neither had died from killing wounds. Next time, I would hack each into pieces as I had Lord Cencio. I’d burn their bodies and sprinkle the ashes over a wide area. Erasmo also had the aid of lycanthropes and Orlando Furioso. I just had my dagger and an ability to heal wounds.

I understood better that I could not roam the world like a knight-errant. I was an assassin. I was the Darkling. I’d defeated Lord Cencio because I’d acted like an assassin. I had eliminated him. I had fought the Goat Man like a knight-errant. He yet lived.

They had my Francesca. She had called for her daddy.

The hisses and strange roars increased. I drew aside vines. In a shallow area bathed by the moon, huge crocodiles fought over octo-man remains. One brute locked its jaws onto a torso held by two other beasts. The brute spun. It was an incredible performance. It twisted off a bloody hunk. The giant creature opened its jaws and lunged, and it swallowed the bloody hunk like a glutton.

There were dead crocodiles, too. One had been pin-cushioned with crossbow bolts. Crossbows!

I scanned the shallow area. It had water, reeds and sandbars. Crocodiles battled everywhere. There had to be over ten dead octo-men, although it was hard to tell with all the half-eaten bodies and dismembered tentacles.

I spied a crossbow. Over there…that had to be a pouch of quarrels or bolts. I slipped through the vines, ran and splashed into the shallows. The crocodiles crawled over each other like slugs, but had the sudden speed of wasps. One hissed at me. Another lunged. I jumped, sidestepped, ran and leaped. And I picked up the crossbow. Then I high-stepped as four crocodiles in a row snapped at my ankles. I scooped up the leather pouch of bolts. Then I hurried into the jungle and left the enraged beasts to their grisly meal.

The crossbow was a powerful weapon, although thoroughly hated by many knights. My two back wounds, fortunately, had already healed. I found that I’d acquired a heavy crossbow or an arbalest, as some termed it. The bow was made of tempered steel. The octo-man had probably used a windlass to crank back the string. I doubted his tentacles had given him greater than ordinary strength. Such was the pull of the crossbow’s steel string that a man could not have pulled it over the notch. The stock of wood that held the bow was heavy. Inlaid ivory and pegged parchment decorated it. This was an expensive weapon. Its power lay in the steel bow, which could send an iron-tipped bolt through armor, at least at close and middle range. That’s why knights hated it. Any peasant could aim, fire and kill a noble knight with it. Where was the honor in that? The heavy crossbow had a longer range than an English longbow. The crossbow and particularly the arbalest’s weakness lay in the windlass.

Winding the crossbow took precious time. Ordinarily, a team of crossbowmen could get off one volley before charging knights would be among them dealing death. Thus, in a battle, a company of crossbowmen fired in volley by line. Or they needed guards to protect them from swords and lances.

I hefted the crossbow and slung the pouch’s strap over my shoulder. Then I checked the stars. My lips drew back. I had little time left.

I slipped through the jungle like a shadow. Vines flashed by. A leopard snarled. A log twisted into life as I jumped off it. It developed teeth and a nasty temper. The log had been a crocodile. Once, tentacles lashed at me. No, those weren’t tentacles, but thorny vines.

I had never heard of such a tree.

I cocked my head. Waves lapped a nearby shore. Oars clunked. Gripping the ornate stock with one hand, I grabbed the steel cord with the other. I yanked, notched it, and fitted a bolt into the firing grove. Great strength had its uses. Then I darted past trees, more trees, until I broke onto a muddy shore.

I gaped. The Tower of the East rose before me. It was a massive construct, gargantuan. I estimated distances. It was a mile or two away and squatted upon the tiny isles that had once made up Venice.

Obsidian walls rose like titans. The walls stood-it was hard to judge, maybe three hundred feet, maybe four hundred. The city of Byzantium was reputed to have massive walls. I doubted they stood higher than the Tower’s. The walls seemed to circuit the isles. Venice had been famous for its many canals. The people had used them like roads. The walls had no openings, no iron-grilled tunnels to suggest such ‘roads’. Could Erasmo have conjured more land for the isles?

Towers rose above the walls as high as the walls rose above the sea. A central spire rose above the many towers. It was like a spear hurled at the stars. Mortal man had never built that tower. It was too tall, too massive. Erasmo was vain. The central tower proved it. Unless…maybe it had a magical significance.

I knelt on the shore and lifted my crossbow. The vacchette bobbed along the water, headed for the tower. Six octo-men rowed. One steered. Anaximander hunched in the center of the vacchette. He held up his head with one hand and kept the other on Francesca’s shoulder.

His bearing…I believed he feared the water. That had to be the reason why they’d marched on shore instead of heading straight by water to the tower. Had the altered men carried the vacchette on their shoulders all this way? I thanked fate if that was so. I would never have caught up with them otherwise. I recalled that some stories said demons feared salt water. Old Ones surely acted like demons.

I had one chance to rescue my daughter. From shore, I sighted Anaximander’s lantern-like head. I had one surprise shot to rip the head out of his grip and possibly send it into the water. I refused to think about what would happen if I missed.

I pulled the lever-the trigger. The steel bow snapped. The stock shook. The string propelled the crossbow bolt. It sped like a hawk. I watched. I bit my lower lip. A rower cried out. He pitched against Anaximander. The Old One let go of Francesca and hurled the wounded man from him. Water splashed as the octo-man sank into the sea. The other rowers stopped.

I gripped the stock and yanked back the string. I slapped in another bolt and waded into the water. “Anaximander!” I shouted.

Before I could pull the trigger, the brute jerked my daughter in front of him. “Shoot again, and you risk killing her,” he bellowed.

“Daddy!” she screamed.

I shook with impotent rage, and I noticed that a gate rose in the distant tower.

At Anaximander’s command, the octo-men began rowing. My dear little daughter wept.

A galley slid out of the tower, but I could no longer watch. I’d failed. Now I had to think about tomorrow. Bitter, I retreated into the jungle. They had my daughter. Somehow, I had to rescue her. To do that, I had to remain free, alive, as it were. I thus began to search for a place to hide.