Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods) (11 page)

-17-

I refused the evidence. Perugia, Perugia, eagle of the mountains, home to heroes. My city lay in ruins, a ghost town of overgrown vines, rubble and creaking shutters. Skeletons were strewn like fallen leaves. In the great piazza, I found overturned wagons, smashed barrels and skulls. Looters had ransacked my palace. Lichen grew on the walls.

I sat on the lip of a broken fountain, the pigeon-stained statute of Mars minus its arms. After all my haste to return, Perugia was dead. What had become of my old companions in arms? The merchants, the priests, the tanners…they were gone. By the evidence, they might have been gone for years. No. I could not have lain in the swamp for years.

I swiveled my head. A rat scurried across the weedy bricks of the piazza. Motion caught my eye to the right. An owl swooped down. At the last moment, the rat squealed, darted aside and the owl lofted upward as its talons grasped nothing but air.

What had happened to my wife? Where were Francesca and Astorre? I stared at the nearest skeleton. A snake slithered through its ribs. That reminded me that grass had grown through my chainmail. If I’d lain in the swamp years, how had my body survived?

I stood, picked up a chunk of masonry, raised it above my head and hurled it at Mars so it clanged. I lifted another and heaved so the masonry shattered, and I gouged the bronze statue. I drew the deathblade. The dagger was oily and dark. I set the razor-tip against my chest, over my heart. I frowned. My heart no longer beat. Would plunging the deathblade into it kill me? I set the edge against my neck and vaguely realized that it might prove impossible for a man to hew off his own head. I sheathed the knife, took out the silver coin and hefted it. It was my spark of life. Why should I bother to exist if my Laura, my children—

I howled and shook my fist. The urge to hurl the coin pulsed through me. It was an ache, a need, and with a roar, I flung it. The coin glittered in the dark, and it clinked against a ruin across the street.

I gasped, and a spasm caused me to sink to my knees. Good, let me perish. Let me fade into nonexistence. Oh, Laura, oh my darling Francesca. Had Erasmo slit my daughter’s throat? What grim evils had he committed upon my son?

Erasmo! He had done this. He had lured me to the swamp. He had planned revenge, and to become a Lord a Night, a ruler of this broken world. He had—

The coin glittered strangely. I heard its siren call. I began to crawl. Maybe Laura lived. Maybe my children had survived Erasmo’s treachery. Yes, Perugia lay ruined. But maybe sorcery had done this in a day. Maybe I hadn’t been gone years. I ground my teeth together in fury. There was another place where Erasmo ruled. He held the Tower of the East, whatever that was. Maybe Laura and my children were there.

As I neared the coin, strength flowed into me. I climbed to my feet, hurried to it and picked it off the bricks. I would find this Tower of the East. I would—

A terrible premonition touched me. I glanced at the starry sky. Dawn threatened. What would have happened if the sun had caught me in the open without the coin? I hurried to my old palace, to hide in the dungeon for the day. I would make plans tomorrow night when I revived.

***

I rose the next night and drifted through the ruins until my sorrow hardened into rage. I picked up a skull and stared into the sockets. Erasmo had done this. I set the skull on a table within a house. Rats scurried at the clunk. Vermin ruled Perugia now.

—There came a whispery noise from outside. I hurried to the nearest window, stood flat against the wall and peered out the shutter. There was a flicker in the air like a candle’s flame. Yet there was no source for it. The whispery, breezy noise occurred again. I had the sensation that the flicker called with an ethereal voice. I listened carefully. It called for me!

This had been the Angelo District, the people here hardy supporters of House Baglioni. Could one of their spirits have survived the city’s destruction? I climbed out the window and approached slowly. The unattached flame stretched taller. Then it zipped to me, circled once and floated near my head.

“Follow,” it whispered. Then it drifted down the street.

I drew my blade and followed warily. The faint voice had sounded familiar. Still, Erasmo had lured me into a trap once already. To allow him to do so again would be unbearable.

“Hurry,” the flame whispered, and it floated faster.

I lengthened my stride. It soon darted into the Golden Inn, a place much frequented when Perugia lived. As the flame darted to a rear room, it grew into a ghostly outline of a small woman. A cap appeared on her head, one with bells on the ends.

“Lorelei?” I asked.

She beckoned me toward a room, and walked through the door.

I tried the handle. Locked. I pushed, but it was sturdy oak. So I lowered my shoulder and charged. Wood splintered. The heavy door thumped into a dusty room. If I’d breathed, I would have been coughing amongst all the dust.

Lorelei’s ghost pointed at an old chest in the corner. I tried it and found it locked, and smashed a hole with my fist.

“There’s a silver dagger,” she whispered.

I rummaged through moth-eaten rags until I found it.

“Pick it up, please,” she whispered.

I hesitated, and then picked it up. Immediately, her form gained greater substance. Her hat’s bells tinkled as she nodded approval.

“Good,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Lorelei?” I asked.

“This is my wraith.”

I frowned.

“That’s the wrong nomenclature, isn’t it? This is my spirit. I’m locked in the castle, a prisoner of the priestess of the Moon.” She grimaced. “Through the ages I’ve provided for various contingences. If I could send my spirit hither and yon, without aid, I’d be akin to a goddess. The dagger is my focus.”

I only half listened. “What happened to my city?”

“The plague began there.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Listen—”

“Where’s my wife?”

“You’ve badly frightened Erasmo. There are signs—that doesn’t matter.” She glanced over her shoulder, faced me again and spoke faster. “He’s summoned the black knight—”

“He can’t be Orlando Furioso,” I said, “Charlemagne’s old champion.”

“My jailers could interrupt us at any moment. So you must let me talk. I think I’ve discovered Erasmo’s secret. How he found out—that doesn’t matter, either. Prince Gian, there are other Earths than ours. How and why this is so I have no idea. Erasmo employed an ancient spell, a terrible and dangerous thing. He opened a door to a destroyed Earth, one where Perugia, Rome, all Italy never existed. Armageddon came early there, or so I suspect.”

“That’s lunacy,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Erasmo took a terrible risk.”

“No. The very idea of…of other Earths is madness.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “All I know is that he returned with the Black Death, which he released in Perugia. The millions of dead—you’ve seen the results. Erasmo and his cohorts now possess a dreadful sorcery, and through it, they reshape men as if they were wax.”

“Erasmo must die,” I said. “Where is the Tower of the East?”

“He built it on the ruins of Venice.”

I swayed. Great Venice with its mighty arsenal, its merchant galleys and sea captains and its maze of canals was gone?

“How did that happen?” I asked.

Lorelei nodded. “Erasmo and the other Lords of Night are reshaping our world. The how is related to his single journey. Yet he lacked the sorcerous power—he plans to return there.”

“Return where?” I asked.

“The door lies in Perugia. I’m certain of it. I think Erasmo moves sooner than he wanted. Your appearance has frightened him. The priestess agrees with that. This time he desires help, the reason why he summoned Orlando Furioso. The destroyed Earth is reputed to be a grim place. The journey is perilous, yet the rewards for Erasmo are apparently tremendous.”

“You wanted me in Perugia,” I said.

“You hate Erasmo, yes?”

“Are you the Moon Lady in disguise?”

“I wish it were so,” she said, “for my sake. No. I am the third way, as I told you before.”

“I saw the black knight in Velluti,” I said. “He came to collect creatures called lycanthropes.”

Her spirit paled, becoming fainter so I could see through her.

“Erasmo is mad, as you suggest. Lycanthropes,” she shook her head. “Erasmo seeks the Trumpet of Blood. He needs it for his Grand Conjuration. If he can complete it, we, you, the Earth is doomed with him as its new god.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I’ve heard the oracles,” she said. “Listen and you’ll understand. ‘
The first angel sounded his trumpet and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down upon the Earth. A third of the Earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up
.’ Erasmo seeks the trumpet used on the dead Earth, the one where Armageddon has already taken place. He must believe he has sufficient sorcerous strength to bring the dread object into our world. How he thinks he could wind it here—”

Lorelei’s spirit clutched my wrist, or she tried. Her hand passed through me, although a numbing sensation caused me to drop the silver dagger. She faded as the blade hit wood.

I snatched up the dagger.

“That almost broke the spell,” she whispered, her spirit solidifying by degrees. “Don’t drop it again.”

“Where’s my wife? What happened to my children?”

Lorelei turned her head and looked at something I couldn’t see. Fear washed over her elfin features. She turned back to me.

“You must stop, Erasmo, or these terrible changes to our world will become permanent.”

Lorelei twisted around, raised her arms and spoke a harsh word. The knife grew hot. I let go, and as it fell, I saw Lorelei as she stood in a small room. A door opened there. I think it was in the castle that grew. I glimpsed a silver robe. Then the dagger clunked onto the table and Lorelei, the room and the image of the moon priestess vanished.

***

I climbed rotted stairs and seemed to have developed a sense for which ones would creak. Those I avoided. It was slow going, but soon I reached a trapdoor. I pushed, and winced as the hinges
s-q-u-e-a-l-e-d
. Above me, a startled bat flapped away.

I crawled into a watchtower that was moldy with bat guano. Floorboards groaned at my weight. I reached an arch filthy with webs. In the corner, a spider bit the thorax of a squirming bug. I concentrated on the road outside Perugia’s main gate.

The black knight had hobbled his horse there and tended a fire. Strange creatures crouched nearby, although farther away from the flames. Two lay like lions, curled in sleep. A third hunched like a primitive man and gnawed on a bone.

Lorelei’s spirit…could I believe her? I believed the black knight knew the whereabouts of my wife and children. I would trail him and await my opportunity to touch him with my knife and learn exactly where Laura was. And if Erasmo arrived, I’d kill him.

I wondered if the ruins frightened them enough so they waited until daylight to enter. Their actions seemed to say I was the evil creature that haunted Perugia. I studied the stars. There was less than an hour of night left. I decided to in the tower during the day.

Soon, the knight took off his armor and stretched out on a cloak. The lycanthropes slunk into nearby thickets. Then I knew no more, forced under my cloak as the sun rose.

-18-

A bat stretched furry wings and let go of its perch. Because it had slept hanging upside-down, the little creature dropped. Before it struck the floorboards, it shot out the arch and into the starry night.

I eased up and peered toward the city gate.

The black knight saddled his horse. Half again larger than lions, the lycanthropes paced. One growled what sounded like words. The distance made it impossible to understand his speech.

The knight hoisted himself into the saddle. It was the first time I’d really seen him move. He mounted with grace, with strength, as the real Orlando might have done. He flicked the reins and cantered toward the gate. The lycanthropes slunk after him.

I hurried down the stairs. Maybe an hour later, I heard the knight and his horse and I climbed a pitted wall. Like a vulture, I crouched on a slate roof, hidden by a gargoyle statue.

The lycanthropes padded into view. They were thinner than lions, but had a big cat’s silky way of trotting. They sniffed wolf-like and growled among themselves, giving off the sense of speech. The knight followed on his horse. He held his morningstar and a triangular black shield. His hellish eyes glowed with sinister purpose and he glanced back and forth. The clop of hooves echoed in the ruins, and they passed underneath my gargoyle, the lycanthropes first.

I tensed and slowly drew my deathblade. I could drop like a vampire onto the knight, knock him off the horse and stab between the bars of his visor. But the armor looked sturdy, and I dreaded the idea of snapping my knife against it. Suppose he turned his head, or suppose he was really Orlando Furioso, the world’s greatest knight. The fight might take time. Would the lycanthropes simply watch?

The horse clopped past my hiding spot. The spike on the knight’s helmet looked sharp. I sheathed the deathblade. After they turned the corner, I dropped onto the street and hurried after them. I would have to whittle down the odds before I faced the black knight.

It galled me to slink like a thief in my own city, but I trailed them. I knew the shortcuts. That helped. I wanted to ring the city bells and call out the guard, but the guards were dead and someone had stolen the bells. So I peered around corners, climbed buildings and watched from glassless windows.

Once, the lycanthropes howled in chorus. I lay on a roof across from the Golden Inn. An eight-foot giant with a grotesque face and great hairy shoulders slunk out of the inn. His apish arms almost dangled to his knees. He would be a formidable foe. He held the silver knife, Lorelei’s keepsake. He held it by the end of the hilt as if it was poisonous. He flung it so it clattered onto paving.

“Who held it?” asked the knight.

The giant shrugged furry shoulders. Was he a lycanthrope? Were they shape-changers?

“Did a man or a woman hold it?” the knight asked.

The primitive giant cast a hateful glance at the knife. The lycanthropes, the other two, kept far from it. I suspected then that it was true what people said about silver weapons. They had a deadlier effect on such creatures than regular iron.

“Sniff it,” the knight said.

The giant made a face. But he bent down, put his hairy palms on the paving and leaned his nose near the knife. From where I lay, I heard him sniff.

“I sense a woman,” the giant growled.

“Is there any blood?” asked the knight.

“No.”

“Why did she leave it?”

“I’m not an astrologer,” the giant said. He sounded angry.

The knight chuckled, which I thought odd.

“Is your laughter a slur?” the giant asked.

“You can’t slur dogs.”

The giant hunched his shoulders, and he growled.

“Instead of calling you a dog, would you rather I called you a wizard?” the knight asked.

“We three are brothers of the fang,” the giant said. “We are hunters.”

“Dogs,” the knight said.

The giant snarled. One of the others snarled back. The humanoid beast stood to his imposing height. “Dogs are hunters. Dogs are good. Wizards hide behind spells.”

“Dogs hunt,” the knight agreed.

“Then you did not insult me?”

As if bored with the conversation, the knight stood up in the stirrups and scanned the street.

As he watched the knight, the giant’s lips drew back. He stepped toward the armored man.

I cursed under my breath. I was across the street and atop a building. If they fought among themselves, this was my chance. I debated jumping down and attacking.

The horse’s head swiveled around then. The giant stopped and flexed his grotesque hands, hesitating. The knight settled back in his saddle, patted the horse’s neck and chuckled. He did it in a way that said he knew exactly what was going on. The giant fell into a crouch, and in the shadows, he blurred. A moment later, he trotted away in beast form.

“Dogs,” the knight said. He clucked his tongue. The horse followed the sniffing pack.

I crept down the stairs and hurried out the back. I had a good idea which way they went. Maybe I could finally ambush them. Unfortunately, I guessed wrong, and was forced to continue my shadowy game. They dissected the ruins in efficient patterns, and after scouring one district, they began in another. Like a persistent cough, I remained near them throughout, waiting for my chance.

“Rabbits, foxes and rats,” a lycanthrope said later.

I peered from a window on a third floor. It was an ancient tenement building from Roman times. Tanners had lived here, workers in the leather guild. It was in the Bettona District, a former stronghold of republican sentiment and a hotbed for those hostile to Baglioni rule.

“You’re certain you haven’t smelled a woman’s tracks?” the knight asked.

All three lycanthropes shook their heads. All three were in animal form.

The knight leaned toward them and spoke in a dangerous voice. “Have you smelled anything else?”

“Rabbits, foxes—”

The knight made a curt gesture. “Forget about animals.”

“There is a dead thing—”

“You fool!” the knight said. “What dead thing?”

The three lycanthropes exchanged glances.

“None may insult us,” the chief lycanthrope said.

The red eyes behind the knight’s visor seemed to glow hotter.

“…It is very faint,” the chief lycanthrope said, “hints of a dead thing. You said to tell of scents.”

“So tell me,” the knight said.

“Why worry about carrion?”

In the third storey room, I flexed my hands. They were powerful, whole. If the lycanthrope spoke about my scent, he was wrong. I’d seen carrion before, rotted flesh. I had nothing in common with it.

The knight peered down the street; he peered up it. He examined the relics of buildings. “Your noses are legendary,” he told the beasts. “You can track anything. But you lack wit. If you desire to return home with important scalps, you must tell me everything.”

“Even dead things?” the lycanthrope asked.

“Did you smell it in more than one place?” the knight asked.

“It is faint.”

“You mean it’s an old scent?” the knight asked.

“It’s like a whisper that is hard to hear.”

“Is it old?”

“It is hard because here there are many dead scents.”

“You’re the lycanthropes,” the knight said.

“That is why it is hard to explain it to you. Death once squatted here and has tainted the trails.” The lycanthrope shook his head. “This is an evil place with haunted scents.”

“But among them,” the knight said, “you smell this dead thing?”

“That is so.”

“Is the scent in many places?”

“It is very faint,” the lycanthrope said.

“Answer my question, beast.”

The lycanthrope’s eyes became dark. “We are not beasts. We are shape-changers, the Chosen.”

“And your noses are legendary,” the knight said. “Did you smell this thing in many places?”

“…It is possible.”

The horse snorted and shook its head.

“A predator likely dragged the carrion,” the lycanthrope said. “That is why we smelled it in—”

“What predator?” the knight asked in a contemptuous voice.

“This world has many predators. This we know. Bears, leopards, wolves—”

“What predators have you smelled here?”

“The carrion must—”

“What hunters?” the knight demanded.

“Foxes, owls and—”

“Foxes dragged this so-called carrion? Is that what you’re saying?”

The lycanthrope blinked. Then he turned to his brothers of the fang. They snarled back and forth between themselves.

The knight whistled sharply so the lycanthropes spun toward him.

“Our paymaster has deadly enemies both open and hidden,” the knight said. “Among them are powers unwise to name. Some do not approve of his ends. Among them are those who can cause the dead to walk.”

“This is ill news,” the lycanthrope said.

“To the superstitious it may be,” the knight said. “Dead or alive, all things fall to me. Since you are with me, you need not fear dead things. But you must tell me what you smell, even if it is faint.”

“We only hunt the living. We fear nothing that lives.”

“Your courage is legendary, of course. I want to know what this faint smell means. We will track it and find out.”

“Spells are needed against dead-things-that-walk. But only weaklings use spells. Lycanthropes are strong. Forget the faint scent. That is my advice.”

“The paymaster did not seek you because this thing is easy,” the knight said. “Honor comes from great exploits. It is faint, you say. Maybe what made it is gone. Maybe it is here, hidden like a wraith, watching us.”

I needed a crossbow, a heavy one. Then I could put a bolt through the knight’s brain.

The lycanthrope lowered his head, and he snarled at his companions. They traded sly glances and soon snarled softly.

“We hunt,” the lycanthrope agreed.

I heard the deceit. They feared me as most normal people had so far. No doubt, the black knight also heard their deceit. He sat back in his saddle. After a time, he slotted the morningstar and scratched the horse’s neck.

“Did you smell this faint scent on the silver knife?” the knight asked.

“…Yes,” the lycanthrope said.

The knight lowered his helmeted head. Then he looked up sharply at my building.

With slow deliberation, I eased back out of sight. When I heard a jangle and clank of armor, I eased forward to the window.

The knight had dismounted. He unbuckled a saddlebag and withdrew three objects: a clothbound thing, a scroll and an ivory box.

“Keep quiet,” he told the lycanthropes. “Don’t ask questions until I’m done. This is delicate work and I can’t afford any mistakes. Do you understand?”

“Should we hunt?”

“No,” the knight said. “Just keep out of my way and don’t make noise.”

The three beasts slunk to the broken fountain of Mars where they crouched and muttered together.

The knight took off his gauntlets, knelt and opened the scroll, weighing down the ends with stones. He unwound the cloth to reveal a dagger and scratched lines into the cobblestones that soon took on an elaborate shape. Then he opened the ivory box and took out six candles. He set them in various places, rose, stretched and crackled his knuckles. Finally, he took a long stick from the saddlebag and scratched the tip against paving. The tip burst into flame.

The lycanthropes had quit muttering. They lay by the fountain, their necks stretched as they watched the proceedings.

The knight lit each candle in turn, maybe in a special sequence. He shook out the lit stick and picked up the scroll. The massive horse clopped to him and peered over his shoulder.

I caught a whiff of the candles. They smelled like burnt human. Worse, I heard faint screams, and I thought in one of the flickers to see a tortured ghost-face.

The knight cleared his throat and read aloud from the scroll. A flame whooshed from the tallest candle. It flickered high and the wax melted and flowed into the etched lines. Then the air above the etching became hazy and filled with billowing smoke. The smoke began to take shape as if under a sculptor’s chisel. A forehead appeared, the bridge of a nose, lips, chin—no, it was a spade-shaped beard.

With a start, I realized it was my face, although I presently lacked a beard. Had the knight used a spell to locate me?

Before I could flee, the smoke-face opened its eyes. It smiled. What a sly smile. What an arrogant stare. Then it came to me. The smoke-face wasn’t mine. Well, it was. But it showed Erasmo in my likeness. The lips parted. He spoke with a puff of smoke as on a wintry day.

“The ruins are secure?” Erasmo asked.

The knight bowed his helmeted head as one does to a high official. “The lycanthropes have prowled Perugia, signor. They found a silver knife, but no traces of a woman’s trail.”