Assassin of the Damned

— 33-

I would not be able to duplicate the knife-trick I’d used against the chief of the lycanthropes. Signor Orlando wore armor, with a steel gorget around his neck.

I’d climbed far, almost all the way. From outside the tower came roaring sounds and peals of thunder. The walls trembled. The floor shifted with a grind of stones. Signor Orlando sat beside a table. Behind him were ornate double doors. On either side of our room were barred shutters. They rattled at every thunderous crash.

The black knight rested his armored elbow on the table. He held a goblet and sipped wine. A flagon was open, the cork beside it. His black helm lay on the table beside iron gauntlets. Near them lay his sheathed sword, the famed Durendal.

“So you defeated the dog,” he said in his deep voice.

He had white skin, the whitest I’d ever seen. The eyes were all red, although there was a hint of darker red pupils. He had high cheekbones and black hair. Once, women might have found him handsome. He had too many scars now, a battlefield on his face. It wasn’t quite brutality I saw there. Long ago, he had been the world’s greatest knight. Maybe he had fought too long, killed too many foes. The stamp of the killer permeated him. I wondered if even the Darkling could defeat the black knight, Orlando Furioso. Was he mad? He did not seem crazy.

“He’s destroying our world,” I said.

A tight smile stretched those battles-scarred lips. He poured himself more wine.

I eased onto my toes and then settled back onto my heels. Could my deathblade pierce his armor? Was it enchanted? Maybe I could walk away, assemble my blowpipe and pepper his face with poisoned darts. I should have already assembled it.

“You’re a persistent bugger,” he said.

“I almost had him on the dead Earth. You walked away from the cave, remember?”

“Killing him there would have been bad for all of us,” he said.

“It would have saved our Earth.”

Orlando shook his head. “The Earth is finished like an old whore. The other Lords of Night all have plans. Erasmo just happens to be the first to try his.”

“Why do you protect him?” I asked.

He patted Durendal, and for a moment, something else appeared on his face. Maybe it was a lost memory of honor.

“How does blowing the trumpet help you find Angelica?” I asked.

He tilted his head as if he found me strange. The all-red eyes became unsettling. I saw his ruthlessness. He killed like other men ate food.

Maybe it was senseless, this line of inquiry. I yearned to sink my deathblade into Erasmo. I didn’t want to fight Signor Orlando, the greatest knight of Charlemagne’s glittering empire. I’d been raised on tales of Orlando. How was it he still lived? Where had he acquired his strange eyes? Could he be like me? The red eyes and his practice of spells in Perugia pointed to evil changes. Maybe he was no longer human, but altered in some nefarious manner.

“Angelica died a long time ago,” I said. “You know that.”

He stared at the goblet, and he drained it.

“Stand aside, signor,” I said. “Let me send the spell-casting cur to the place he belongs.”

“No.”

Maybe there was another reason I spoke with Orlando. I feared him. I admit it. It was long into the night. I’d done much and used much of my moon-given strength. The flame powers stood in the way of the moon: somehow blocked its normally healing rays. I wished to bypass Orlando so I had something left to slay Erasmo with.

“What more do you gain by your post?” I asked. “You have your sword, but-”

“Don’t say her name again,” he told me. His face was like granite.

I said, “What other reward does he-”

Orlando Furioso rose abruptly. He picked up his helm. He weighed it. Then he set the helm on his head. He put on the gauntlets, and with the slide of steel, he drew Durendal. It was a big sword, meant to bash through armor. It was a battleblade and it shone strangely.

“You probably talked the dog to death.” His voice echoed within the helm. “With me, you must fight.”

“I would rather not fight you, signor.”

“Then scurry back to your hole.”

“Look at my face,” I said.

He shrugged. “So you look like Erasmo. That’s a parlor trick.”

“I am Gian Baglioni. He has masqueraded as me. He has stolen my wife and children. Yes! He took my Angelica from me.”

“Soil my lady’s name again with your lips and I will cut you down, signor.”

“You’re a bitter man.”

“I am the eternal mercenary,” he said.

“You’ve bound yourself to a demon.”

“Who,” he said, “is soon to become a god.”

Thunder boomed outside. The tower rumbled. Beads of rubble dribbled from the ceiling. One line of it showered onto the table, sounding like sand.

I drew my deathblade, and I drew the octo-man’s knife. They were pitiful weapons compared to Durendal, compared to knightly armor. He stood poised, the battleblade held in both his gauntleted hands. I’d lost the majority of my clothes, which had burned off. I had my moon-cloak, boots, belt and knives. The deathblade was long and perfectly balanced, almost two feet of oily steel. The octo-man’s dagger was shorter, although wickedly sharp. Under normal circumstances, I would never dare try to parry the battleblade directly. That was my one advantage. He was armored and armed for battle. Durendal had been forged for use among the press of warriors. We were about to duel. The armor would slow him, maybe only fractionally. Yet I needed that fraction. I needed something, some edge. The armor gave him an advantage another way. Any glancing cut would hurt me. I didn’t even know if either of my knives could punch through his armor. That was the problem. I would have to punch my point into his armor. He needed only nick me to cut. To punch the deathblade into him, I had to get past Durendal, past the magic sword. I had to get under his guard. Not only that, but I had to commit myself. To punch a dagger into armor, maybe enchanted armor, I would have to set myself. In a fight like this, that left you vulnerable. That gave him time to react and possibly hack into a relatively stationary target.

I crouched like a knife-fighter and shuffled toward him. He laughed, and he attacked with a short chop.

The next few moments laid out the parameters of the fight. He thrust and cut in perfect arcs, never over-committing, never leaving himself vulnerable. I danced back, shifted, twisted, deflected with my knives and backed away once more. I made certain to back away in a curve, to insure there was always more room behind me. If he backed me against a wall or into a corner, I would be dead.

Whenever the deathblade and Durendal touched, sparks erupted, steel clinked. The other knife soon looked like a saw-blade, and that had occurred at the slightest meeting of blades.

Then Orlando pivoted on his left foot. Durendal licked toward my face. I ducked and parried with the octo-man dagger. The magic steel sliced through the ordinary metal. The saw-like blade clattered onto the floor and I was left holding an empty hilt.

“You’re quick like a wasp,” he said. “But in the end I’ll swat you down.”

I leaped away, overturned the table and picked up the chair he’d sat on. I lifted it as a buckler. I was faster, but not fast enough to set and punch the deathblade into his armor. The moment I tried that, Durendal would hack me down. I dreaded trying to parry his heavy blade with my mine. To deflect, to shift away his sword, yes, to utterly stop a two-handed swing against me-I wondered if it would snap my knife in two.

Outside, thunder boomed with ferocious sounds. The walls groaned and swayed. Rubble rained, some against Orlando’s armor. The shutters rattled, one insanely. Then the wood splintered and blew inward.

I threw myself flat onto the floor. Wooden shards hit like arrows against Orlando. He staggered backward.

Outside the wind shrieked. Flames writhed and heat poured into our room. Thunder boomed again, and the flames changed colors with bewildering rapidity. Then darkness shrouded that.

“Is this what you’re protecting?” I shouted.

“Once he’s a god, he will bring me Angelica! Can you fathom that? After all these centuries, after all this time, I will have her. She escaped me once, and I was damned for it. Yes! I will protect a thousand lords of Night if it brings me my woman. She will be mine!”

Orlando Furioso gripped Durendal two-handed and stalked toward me. His red eyes blazed with wrath.

I backed toward the open window. For how many centuries had Orlando dealt death? He meant to deal it now to me. I felt a strange surge of warmth on my back then. It felt good. It felt like ambrosia. I didn’t dare to turn and see why it was so, although I could guess.

“Wait!” I shouted. “I–I think you’re right.”

The red eyes blazed wrath between the bars of his helmet. I was afraid that he was beyond reason.

“What if I lay down my knife?” I shouted.

He stopped. “You surrender?” he asked, and he sounded disappointed.

I heard chanting. It came from outside, and it came from above. The flame powers no longer roared with fire. Their kaleidoscope of lights no longer flickered. I think they were gone. I did not check. Instead, I felt the moon’s rays bathe my sore, burned body and renew my energies. I needed time, time to absorb the healing rays, time to rethink my strategies. I believe I understood what had happened. The flame powers had done their task, and they had departed. I don’t think they wanted to be around when the being Erasmo summoned arrived in the Tower of the East.

“Listen,” I said. “You can hear him.”

Orlando cocked his helmeted head.

We both heard Erasmo chanting in the room above. We heard through our broken window. The voice was hoarse and weary. I had the terrible feeling that Erasmo was near the end of the great spell. Surely he held the Trumpet of Blood.

“Soon,” whispered Orlando. He shifted toward me.

“You won’t take my surrender?”

“The day you set out to kill Erasmo della Rovere, you were a dead man.” Orlando Furioso clanked nearer. He held Durendal two-handedly. He had finally backed me against a wall.

The open window, the departed powers and the resurgent moon gave me my single chance. Yet I hesitated. I didn’t know the extent of Durendal’s power. I dreaded its magic, the eerie glow along the blade. I could not defeat Signor Orlando in a fair fight. He was the better warrior. I, however, was the Darkling. He stood in the way of my freeing Laura, of my touching Francesca once more. He guarded Erasmo.

I lunged. I put all my hopes on a single thrust of my knife. It was the opposite of how I’d fought so far.

Orlando chopped hard. Durendal shattered the stool I used as a shield. The sword kept coming, and the blade sank into my hip. It grated against bone. It staggered me and the pain exploded with fiery intensity.

Yet in that instant, with almost all my weight on my right leg, my right hip, I punched the deathblade. I had gotten inside his guard by paying the price of receiving Durendal’s edge in my flesh. The deathblade’s point screamed as it touched his armor. The armor resisted and then it parted. The oily blade entered his gut. It sank to the hilt. Then the force of Durendal cutting into me hurled me aside. I lost my hold of the deathblade and crumpled upon the floor.

The black knight stumbled backward and slammed against the wall. It was a clank of noise. The sword Durendal crashed down onto the floor. Signor Orlando wrapped a gauntleted hand around the hilt of the deathblade. He yanked. He groaned. The blade came out. So did smoke, and then torrents of dark blood.

“Ah, but that hurts,” he said.

I crawled to the open window. Sluggish fluid poured out my hip. I let moonbeams fall on it. That leeched some of the hurt, and almost immediately, the flow lessened.

“You’ll never make it now,” Orlando gasped as he leaned against the wall. He’d torn off his helm. His face had the pallor of death. Smoke trickled from his mouth as he spoke. Then his eyes narrowed. He studied me, how moonlight fell across my hip.

“You’re healing,” he whispered.

“I’m the Darkling.”

He groaned as he bent down, groped and then lifted Durendal. He took a horrible, lurching step toward me. He raised the sword, and his eyelids flickered.

I judged the distance to my deathblade.

“You didn’t fight fair,” he said. He slid an armored foot toward me, and he moaned. Blood stained his teeth. Smoke billowed from the stomach wound. He was dying on his feet. “Dog,” he whispered. He lowered his sword, and he began to swing it like a boy swinging a bucket of water. Then, with a howl of agony, he pitched Durendal.

I flinched. The sword sailed over me and out the window.

“It’s my sword,” he whispered. “No one else shall ever use it.” Then he crashed upon the floor, dead.

I lay there for a time. The bleeding stopped, and I heard the Moon Lady whisper in my mind. I groaned as I worked to my feet. I limped to the deathblade, sheathed it and glanced at the black knight.

“It wasn’t fair,” I whispered. “It never is against a man who is already dead.” Then I limped for the double doors.