Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods) (21 page)

The knights already butchered in the trap and those dying now to Orlando might decide the battle at any movement. If the last knights and the men-at-arms around them should turn and run, the battle could turn into another slaughter as men milled in a confused horde. They would become like sheep—the causeway itself had become a trap.

On their giant horses, the knights, the heroes of each side, hammered at each other. Sword and maul crashed against shields or plate armor. It sounded like a smithy. Yet knight after knight went down before the glowing sword. Durendal became a living wand in Orlando’s hands. He was a god of war. He was death. He was the black knight and he was invincible.

I scooped up a fallen pike. It was huge, heavy and unwieldy. I ran and I heaved. The twelve-foot pike wobbled in the air. It sailed over the knights and at Orlando, or more accurately, at Orlando’s prized stallion. Was it luck? I was the damned one. I’d thrown to pierce the animal’s side. Instead, the pike slithered between its legs as the stallion cantered forward. The pike snapped. That’s all I saw, other than the prized stallion pitch to the side and Orlando go flying.

Da Canale staggered up to me. His face was pale and his red beard glistened with sweat.

I grabbed him by the collar and roared orders into his ear. He nodded, sucked down a large breath of air and began to shout orders. Other mercenary captains must have understood. For soon, they beat at the bunched-up soldiers to leave the causeway and form a line, even a line into the swamp.

We had to bring our numbers to bear.

Orlando regained his seat, but that momentary respite had brought hope to many a man-at-arms. The black knight could lose.

Crocodiles attacked then. Some were sluggish, however, with bulging gullets. They must have feasted on the dead earlier. Still, many men wept in terror of the giant swamp creatures. Our front on the causeway wavered.

That’s when I saw the priestess of the Moon. The men-at-arms streaming into lines on either side of the causeway had lessened the mob bunched behind the front-fighters. Other, tough-looking soldiers had finally been able to form a second line. The priestess directed them, pointing here and there. Small Ofelia stood near her, and she looked petrified.

The thirty knights who followed Orlando, nearer twenty now, had awed our knights. The glowing sword terrified. Some of our men-at-arms clawed to get away from that sword.

Fortunately, for the army and for me, the priestess not only employed tough men-at-arms, but ruthless ones. They had formed a second line, a shield-wall. When the last of what must have been the original knights tried to burst through the shield wall to escape Durendal, the ruthless men-at-arms hacked them down. It was brutal, but it might have saved the night. For if those knights had streamed through, they might have jammed into men marching up the causeway and created debilitating confusion, a mob, in other words.

The priestess stood behind her picked guard. Under her direction, Ofelia and other maids in long silver gowns set up a stand and a brazier and poured hot coals into it. The priestess climbed onto a stand. She pitched fistfuls of powder into the stirred fire. Then she waved her arms in complex motions. Her chanted shrieks rose above the din of battle.

She jumped down. Maids in silver staggered to her. Each clutched one end of a carrying pole attached to a silver chest. The priestess produced a key. She unlocked the chest and lifted the lid. She shrieked again, and she wrestled something heavy from the chest.

A silvery ball the color of the moon rose by jerks and sways. It rose above the heads of fighting men. The priestess lifted her arms. She implored. Her hands shone silvery. And suddenly the ball poured out light. The light was bright like a full moon.

Men shouted. They cheered. The light revealed altered men who slunk through the jungle toward them. Men-at-arms charged the surprised goat-men. The goat-men scampered back into the swamp.

On the causeway, men-at-arms, knights and others surged around the thirty, now less than twenty enemy knights. Signor Orlando hacked two more times. Then he savagely sawed the reins. He turned his mount and galloped back in the direction of the Tower of the East. His remaining knights followed. No one among our host had the courage to chase them.

Using the moon-bright light, men slew crocodiles in teams. Then the battlefield emptied of enemies. The besieging host had driven off Erasmo’s force, but at a wretched cost.

-28-

The rebel camp was in turmoil, a seething cauldron of pain, fear and grim determination.

The pain bled into the air with the cries of the horribly wounded. The battle last night had proved costly. The bonesetters and barbers had worked throughout the day and now into the next night. Many of those wounded perished in raving delirium. The groans, the mumbled last rites and the sounds of spades cutting earth for a mass grave added to the misery.

The swamp began several hundred paces from the edge of camp. That was the beginning of the causeway. The Alps rose in the other direction to the west. The moon was bright enough to show snow-covered peaks in the distance.

The camp was a sprawling city of tents. There were big tents, small tents, silk ones and old, leathery affairs. There were tents for horses, some for weapons and others for barrels of salted fish. Now there were tents for the badly wounded and dying.

That brought out the fear, as did the countless retellings of the swamp fighting last night. The giant crocodiles, the possessed and Orlando Furioso with his magic sword Durendal frightened the soldiers the more they thought about it. Work had begun on a wooden palisade to protect the camp. Worse, soldiers had begun to slip away, to desert. It had only been in ones and twos so far. Yet there were already camp orators who openly spoke about the futility of this fight. Men could not stand against demons. Men could not face witchery and hope to retain their humanity. Too many campfire talkers dwelt on the horrors of becoming altered men. That particularly had become a canker, and the dread of it bored away at soldiery courage.

It also brought out grim determination in others. Signor Hawkwood had ordered patrols around the sprawling camp to net those who tried to run. Whipping posts arose in the center of camp. Soon there would be new cries, those begging for mercy. It wouldn’t be long before gallows arose, too. Guards marched down the lanes. They bore halberds, crossbows, lanterns and mastiffs. They marched in groups of fifteen or more. They wore white sashes, or pinned a white rose to their chest or clipped white-painted straw to their cap. As part of the White Company they deemed themselves above fear.

The camp held more than soldiers and pages. There were whores, armorers, smiths, servants, peasants and merchants. They were the usual attendants of men-at-arms in the field. They drained the fighter of coin while providing him with his endless needs. The horses, mules, dogs, cattle, goats and herders also added to the noise and confusion. Since leaving the swamp in Avernus, I hadn’t seen so much humanity in one place or so many animals.

“I will not commit treason, signor,” Da Canale told me.

We stood under a tree outside the camp and near the swamp. He held the clothes I needed. So I realized he wished to be reassured. He had told me last night that he paid his debts. This was my payment for scouting for him yesterday.

“The one you call the sorceress holds possessions of mine,” I said.

“She has heard about your fighting with us last night.” Da Canale glanced around and lowered his voice. “She knows I spoke to you at the mantelets. She summoned me this afternoon and questioned me concerning our talk. I told her you warned us about the attack. She called for Signor Hawkwood and told him about the seriousness of capturing you. She claimed you serve a goddess of Darkness. She promised me double the former reward for your capture. And she began to threaten me with the stake if I held back needed information. Fortunately, Signor Hawkwood cleared his throat. That stopped the witch from finishing her threats.”

Da Canale gave me a searching look.

“I am Gian Baglioni of Perugia.”

“She said Gian died.”

I slapped my chest. “The dead don’t do that.”

He nodded, but he still appeared troubled.

“The Lord of Night destroyed my city,” I said. “He stole my wife and I know he holds my daughter.”

“You swear this is true, signor?”

“I swear it on my honor.” I lowered my voice. “You realize I have gained abilities. I do not deny this. I have become a prince of Shadows. Now I need the tools your sorceress keeps. I need them so I may slip unawares into the Tower of the East and slay its grim lord.”

Da Canale nodded thoughtfully.

“Do you think this army can drive through the swamp and reach its shores? Do you think it can storm the hundred foot walls that surround the Tower of the East?”

“We are doomed,” Da Canale said. “Last night showed us that. We were lucky to have survived. We faced a pittance of the Lord of Night’s hosts. If we flee, however, we are also doomed, as he will hunt us down. The Lord of Night is revengeful above all else.”

“You’re a man of the world, signor. You realize that sometimes a knife can accomplish what a dozen swords cannot.”

“That is true.” Da Canale shoved the bag of clothes and weapons toward me. “You are our last hope, signor. But if you are caught….”

“I am a prince of Shadows.”

“Listen, signor, and I shall explain the camp’s layout.”

I took the bag of clothes, the sword and boots. I listened. Then I shook Carlo da Canale’s hand and faded into the night. I watched him hurry back to the camp, and I dearly hoped he had spoken the truth.

***

An hour later, I spied the camp from a ditch.

Guards marched past. After they turned a tented corner, I scrambled to my feet.

I wore mercenary garb now, soft leather breeches, a dark shirt, a silk cape and hat. Along with my knife, I bore a slim sword. I had bathed. My Darkling garments and boots were stashed in a sealskin bag in the swamp.

I desired to speak with the priestess of the Moon. It was one thing for da Canale to realize this army’s plight, but why hadn’t the priestess insisted on a siege train? I’d thought to find rafts, moveable towers, catapults and maybe one of those newer cannons here. Did an admiral wait for the army to reach the inner edge of the swamp before he brought in his galleys? If so, I needed to know.

I marched down a lane past a creaking wagon and its driver. Fortune favored the bold. Tonight I would be brazen, even though I realized the priestess had many searching for me.

In this sprawling camp, despite the countless cries of pain and the bitter debates, soldiers diced, drank and snored. They sharpened weapons, repaired armor and tumbled with whores. Lantern oil and smoky torches, cooked meats and horse-piss smells mingled with leathery odors and too much spilled blood. It produced the unique stench of a military camp. Dogs growled. Others wagged their tails. Squires ran errands. Women screamed in rage, in pleasure, in pain and wept over the dying.

The foot patrols among the tented lanes grew more frequent. Then I saw Ofelia. She had six burly men-at-arms behind her. She held a pendant in her hands, and she concentrated upon it. She stopped suddenly. She looked up and peered in my direction.

I’d stepped into a tent as a precaution.

She looked at the pendent in her hand, peered hard. Then she spoke fast to the six burly men. They drew swords and stalked toward my tent.

I slipped out the back. The priestess used magic to try to locate me. This would make things harder. I had no choice. I’d seen the Tower of the East’s walls. I needed Darkling tools.

I hurried, and I soon spied the priestess’ silver tents behind a wooden palisade. Vigilant crossbowmen patrolled the walkways. Guards with nets and halberds stood at the gate.

I made a wide circuit to try to throw off Ofelia. Then I ducked behind some tents and approached from a different direction. I waited and timed the crossbowmen’s circuit. Then I strolled behind a tent pitched beside the palisade. I pretended to make water, glanced both ways and leaped. I clutched the top of the palisade, swung up and over and landed inside the priestess’ defenses.

In an easy stride, I moved behind a tent. It was more orderly here, the talk subdued. There was a lack of dice games or ladies of the evening. Then I saw a maenad—a maiden in a silver gown—rush out a tent and hurry toward the main gate.

I listened keenly for an outcry. I had little time. I worked near the middle tent, unbuckled the sword and coin pouch and rid myself of the cap and cape. I knelt and wriggled under the tent.

It took a glance to orient myself. The priestess stirred on a cot. She had furs for blankets and several silk pillows. I spied many chests. Some looked like pay chests. Others surely held magical paraphernalia. A goblet half-filled with wine stood on a small table. The plate held greasy chicken bones.

I crawled to her cot, rose to my knees and looked down. She was beautiful, with regular skin, not silver. The small chin made her seem elfin like Lorelei. They could have been sisters. Her eyes snapped open. She opened her mouth. I suppose to scream. I pressed a hand over her mouth. It put lines in her forehead. She became stiff.

“I’m here to talk,” I said.

She nodded fast.

I drew my knife, the evil blade. I touched it to her cheek.

“Let’s be clear on a few matters,” I said. “I want answers. You want to live. I’ll let you live if you answer my questions. Does that sound fair?”

She nodded again, just as fast. I didn’t trust that speed.

I tapped the blade twice against her fair cheek. “A cut from this knife—”

“Hmmm, hmmm,” she tried to say.

“Scream and I’ll cut you,” I said. I took away my hand.

She drew a deep breath. She worked her mouth. “Can I sit up?” she asked.

“No. Lie as you are.”

“Is this a rape?”

“You need to listen,” I said.

“Don’t get angry.”

“No! Answer my questions. Don’t seek to give me commands.”

I think she longed for light. Her tent walls were thick, or there was magic at work. The sounds of camp were muted here. Little light penetrated, although enough for me.

“I’m surprised you made it this far,” she said.

“I am the Darkling.”

She scowled. It marred her beauty. Then her features smoothed out. I think she remembered I could see in the dark.

“This army can never break into the Tower of the East,” I said.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Ask,” I said.

“Can you remove the knife?”

“First give me answers.”

“Ones that you like or the truth?”

“For a naked woman with an evil knife resting upon her face you have a lot of daring.”

“My guards will hear whatever you do.”

“Now you threaten me?” I asked.

“I just want
you
to have all the facts.”

I tapped her cheek again. I liked the way it made her flinch. “This knife is all the facts you need, milady. Now…tell me. How is this army supposed to take the Tower of the East?”

“Signor Hawkwood has sent messengers back to Milan. He wants siege engines.”

“How will these engines cross the lake?”

“You’ve seen the tower?” she asked.

“You mean you haven’t?”

“Erasmo’s magic guards against mine. We’ve sent scouts, but none has returned. If you’ve seen the tower, you need to speak to Signor Hawkwood. You can tell us what to expect.”

“I expect Ofelia to show up sooner or later,” I said. “What exactly does she see in the pendant?”

“Have you spoken with the Moon Lady lately? I truly believe it would be in your best interest. You shouldn’t let Lorelei guide you. She doesn’t understand all the complications. The Moon Lady can—”

As the priestess spoke, I sheathed the deathblade and drew the knife I’d picked up from a dead octo-man. I pricked the tip under her chin, made her arch.

“You talk too much,” I said.

“I know you need silk,” she whispered, “enough to make a really long rope.”

I kept the pressure under her chin.

“I have old weapons,” she said. “Ones a former Darkling used. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“How would you know that?”

“I have a chest. It’s over there. I can open it for you.”

“Why do you think I need a rope?”

“The Moon Lady told me.”

“What else is in the chest?”

“Tools of former Darklings,” she said.

“And you’ll simply give them to me?”

“I’m bargaining for my life, aren’t I?”

I wondered if they feared Erasmo and his trumpet more than my being free. The Moon Lady must understand that this army had no chance of breaking into the Tower of the East. I removed the knife.

The priestess felt under her chin and rubbed her fingers together as if testing if I’d made her bleed.

I thrust a robe at her and realized she couldn’t see it. Or she was a wonderful actress. I pressed the robe onto her.

She slid it under the blanket, wriggled into it and then drew back the covers. “Can I light a candle?”

“You know where the chest is,” I said. “Crawl to it.”

She did crawl, felt around. When she finally knelt at a small bronze chest, she frowned, with her hands on top of it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I forgot where I put the key. Isn’t that silly?”