Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods)

by Vaughn Heppner

  I was sick of not knowing what people talked about. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “I can’t see how that matters to you.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  “A touchy Darkling. How amusing. Don’t you think that’s amusing?” she asked her invisible friend.

  I concealed my annoyance, and said, “I couldn’t help but notice a creature down the way. Do you happen to know what it is?”

  She leaned across the table and listened to her invisible friend. Did he speak in ghostly whispers? She studied me. The humor had left her and the weight in her eyes seemed more pronounced.

  “You appear edgy,” she said.

  “Quite the opposite,” I said.

  “No. No. You’re too…. What happened?”

  “After the ceremony I took a stroll. My swift elevation, all these accolades, I needed time to think. I hate to admit it, but now I’m lost.”

  “You wear the apparel. Yes, you have the deathblade, the boots.” She tilted her head to listen and soon nodded in seeming agreement. “You lack the cold-bloodedness of former Darklings. Your eyes are—”

  An invisible chair scraped back. As if to match it, the woman stood in alarm. “No!” she cried, turning toward her invisible friend. “Stay. I need your—”

  A door slammed, one I couldn’t see.

  She muttered a curse, eyed me. “He’s sure to cover his bets. His position here is precarious at best. He has to maintain good relations with the maenads.”

  “Madam,” I said, “you’ve misread the situation.”

  “Hm,” she said. “—Call me Lorelei.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Clearly, something went wrong with your pledging. That’s why you’re asking about the beast. You want to leave, and in a hurry.” She spoke in a rush and her thoughts seemed to tumble one after another.

  I rested my hand on the knife and strode nearer. I didn’t like the accuracy of her thoughts.

  She sat down and weighed the dice in her palm. She eyed me coolly. “I must keep my hands clean. The priestess is fastidious concerning protocol. Yet I can answer a few questions. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Among other things,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  This Lorelei didn’t fit. Her costume, her manner, even this dice playing…it implied…I wasn’t sure what. “Madam, the truth is that I lack certain memories.”

  “Indeed,” Lorelei said, and there was curiosity in her eyes.

  “Before I proceed with other matters, I want to remember my past. I felt coming here would stir those memories.”

  “Here?” she asked. “In the dungeons?”

  “No. The castle.”

  She rubbed her pointed chin. She had elfin features. “The priestess has been charged by the Moon Lady to.…” Lorelei grinned. “You’ve made me curious. You want lost memories?”

  “I’ve found that firm decisions are the best. Before I pledge to the Moon Lady, I want to remember what I’ve forgotten.”

  “Oh, cleverly put. Yes. I like that. I also find it interesting that you’re sly enough to confide in me. But then Darklings are said to have the luck of the Damned. Hm. I’m sure she meant you to look at the pool eventually.” Lorelei tapped the table with her fingertips. “Will you trust me?”

  “…To a point,” I said. Not at all, I thought.

  She laughed. She had white teeth. “I understand. Come.” She headed toward a hidden door.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I followed.

  -10-

  “Madam,” I whispered, “I do not wish to appear churlish. Yet even less do I wish to be brought like a fool into the priestess’ presence.”

  We crept through a secret passageway dusty with misuse and thick with webs. Lorelei carried a candle, its flicker our only light.

  “What troubles you?” she whispered.

  “Doubt,” I said.

  “Concerning?”

  “Why you should help me.”

  “That’s reasonable enough. So let me put you at ease. First, you appear to be unique.” Lorelei held up a hand to forestall any questions. “I’ve seen…certain situations before so that current events trouble me.” She glanced up at my face. “Old Father Night troubles me. I’d rather the Moon Lady—” She smiled oddly. “The priestess understands my antipathy toward him and thus attempts to persuade me to the Moon Lady’s course. But perhaps there is a third way. I’ve always been partial to third ways, the reason I am who I am.”

  “And that is?” I asked.

  “Shhh,” she whispered.

  I heard muffled voices from the other side of our secret passage. Soon I heard thumps and clanks. Lorelei led me down a different passage even narrower than the first. There she flipped a latch and pressed her right eye to a spyhole. We had used many narrow stairs and secret corridors to reach here. She replaced the latch and put a dusty finger to her lips.

  I’d moved soundlessly the entire time. More than once, I’d almost suggested she remove her jester’s hat with its bells.

  After a muffled thump from the other side, Lorelei’s mouth twisted with distaste and she brushed aside long, dusty webs.

  “These secret corridors are old,” I whispered.

  “The reason the priestess doesn’t know about them,” Lorelei said, swiping at webs as we crept along.

  “That’s contrary to reason. The castle is new.”

  “New to Tuscany,” she agreed. “But from the old days.”

  “What days are those?”

  Lorelei grinned. “When the gods were young.”

  “Madam, I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.”

  “This is an old game,” she said, “and some of the players have gone mad. You’ve undoubtedly heard the term ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ Well, dog spelled backward is god. Do you see what I mean?”

  “When were the gods young?” I asked.

  “It’s a matter of perspective. Now you must keep quiet. We’re near the pool. I suspect guards, traps or hidden alarms. We must be alert.”

  That amounted to standing motionless for a time. When the gods were young, what had she meant by that?

  Lorelei pinched the wick. “Can’t let them smell the smoke,” she whispered. She pressed her hands against the wall. Something clicked. She pushed open a hidden door, wiped her feet and stepped through.

  My gut clenched as I followed her into a corridor that glowed with eldritch light. I expected a waiting throng with capture nets, and knew sick relief that it was just her and me. Lorelei pushed the door shut and it was impossible to tell it was there.

  “That’s excellent craftsmanship,” I whispered.

  “Coming from a Darkling, that’s praise indeed.”

  “Do Darklings normally sulk through secret passageways?”

  She smiled knowingly. “Darklings are the prince of Shadows.”

  “You mean they’re assassins?”

  “A crude word,” she whispered. “Come.”

  We crept through the corridor, entered another. From far down the other way, maybe two levels, I heard marching soldiers.

  “The priestess has called out her guard,” Lorelei whispered. “That might be good for us. If my invisible friend has spoken, I think they’ll hunt in the warrens first. We must hurry.”

  We soon reached the threshold of a strange place. I glanced through and spied a steeply sloping floor. Torches crackled along the sides. Lorelei studied the threshold and finally moved her hands an inch from the frame, seeming careful never to touch wood. She stepped back and took a deep breath.

  “I can’t tell for sure,” she whispered. “The priestess could have employed a hidden guardian. But calling forth such a one is difficult. I suspect she would first let the guards search for you. Are you willing?”

  “I want my memories,” I said.

  “Watch your step. Keep your hands out of the water. It’s…well, don’t let even a drop touch you.”

  She tried to s
end me in first in case an invisible guardian waited, or so she wanted me to believe. I listened. It felt more like a cave than a room. I hated caves, and I hated traps even more. I grasped her elbow. She tried a cunning twist to free herself, but I clamped harder.

  “We’ll both go,” I whispered. And I marched in with her.

  She cringed. I looked right and left. The pool was a sunken pit of oily water, a small patch at the bottom of the room. Droplets formed on the ceiling and a drip plunked into the pool. The torches hissed, until slowly they flickered as before.

  “That was a foul thing to do,” she whispered.

  “Will you forgive me?”

  Her mouth lost its tightness. She even managed a wry smile. “There’s a needed spell. Without it, the water merely remains poisonous.”

  “When were you going to tell me this?” I asked.

  “There’s a price for its casting,” she said.

  “I have three thousand florins in the courtyard.”

  “You offer me silver-colored dirt?” she asked, offended.

  “Florins are coins,” I said.

  “And coins are fashioned out of veins in the Earth. My price is greater. You must answer three questions.”

  “Done,” I said.

  She gave me a pitying smile, as if I could have whittled her down to one or two questions. “You must answer truthfully.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  She gave me a level stare. “Why did you take so long coming to the castle?”

  I suspected she wanted to hear something other than my wagon ride with Ofelia. Why was the answer important? I shrugged. I wanted my memories and here was the pool. So I told her how I’d awoken with grass sprouting through my chainmail.

  She muttered to herself before asking, “Was…was the circle tampered with?”

  “What circle?” I asked.

  She stared at me and soon became thoughtful. “I’ll save the last question.” She drew a pocketknife and shuffled down the steep incline. She spoke softly, cut her palm and squeezed out several drops. The water rippled, became darker. She took a shuddering breath, folded her knife and took out a handkerchief. She wrapped it around her palm and used her teeth to help tie a knot. Then she trudged up to the level area beside me. “Go ahead,” she whispered, sounding winded. “It’s safe. You didn’t have to drag me in with you. I’d have given you away before now if such had been my intent.”

  I crouched and slid my feet down the incline until the tips of my boots almost touched the water. A drop plunked from the ceiling. The oily water stirred. I stared greedily into the waters.

  …Images slowly formed under the rippling surface. I saw myself ride out of mountainous Perugia. I rode with armored men-at-arms in the dark along the Via Lavicana. Our lanterns rattled and Tuscan cypresses lined the road. The trees sheltered us from a cold wind. We galloped for the coast. Erasmo rode beside me. His father had been loyal to House Baglioni since before my birth. The underwater images blurred. They turned into—

  I saw myself wade through a swamp with a sword held in one hand and a torch in the other. Erasmo waded behind me, his cheeks slick with sweat. The soldiers had remained behind, frightened by Avernus’ wicked legends. Erasmo and I searched for deathbane. We sought it because—

  In the Pool of Memories, in the images underwater, I climbed out of the swamp and strode among hangman trees. Erasmo struggled out of the muck and hurried after me. His jeweled fingers gripped a heavy bag. Ahead of him, I found a huge tree stump. It had iron bolts riveted into the ancient wood, with rusty chains attached to the bolts. On the ends of the chains were manacles. I remembered thinking that the legends were true. Sorcerers committed hideous sacrifices in the grove of hangman trees. Here was an ancient altar of wood.

  Standing above the Pool of Memories, I clutched my head and moaned. Dizziness gripped me. I lost my sense of perspective. It seemed as if the “I” of myself whirled around in a mental twister. I lifted out of my body. I plunged down into those images in the water, down into lost memories.

  -11-

  I had the sense of falling, and then grew aware of new surroundings. I was young again, a nine-year-old lad. I ran upslope among towering pines. I slipped and slid over a carpet of brown pine needles.

  “Come and look, Gian. You have to see this. It’s lost treasure.”

  I ran after Erasmo della Rovere. He was young again like me, nine. My father the prince of Perugia had taken us with him as he inspected country estates. Erasmo sprinted up a steep slope. He was a reed of a boy and wore a costly tunic with black leather boots.

  “Wait for me!” I shouted.

  Erasmo slithered through a giant bush and disappeared. I barreled through a moment later, and twigs and branches clawed me.

  “Look out, Gian,” Erasmo said with a laugh. He darted aside.

  I stumbled out of the bush, past him and smacked my forehead against a granite cliff.

  Erasmo laughed shrilly and slapped my back.

  “That was a dirty trick,” I muttered, tasting bits of granite between my teeth.

  Erasmo only grinned wider. He had sandy colored hair and bright blue eyes. He had a narrow face and was clever like a fox. His parents were nobles. His father was my father’s closest friend. Between us, Erasmo was taller, but I was stronger.

  I shoved him, and thought about clouting him a good one.

  “Look at that, Gian.” Erasmo pointed at a small cave.

  I shrugged moodily. I had scratches on my arms and face.

  “There’s treasure in there,” Erasmo whispered.

  I looked at him with wonder, all my bruises forgotten.

  Erasmo darted into the cave, and a moment later, I followed. It was dark and narrow.

  “Come on!” Erasmo shouted, and his voice echoed.

  I felt my way forward and marveled at his courage.

  I found him with a candle, with flint and tinder. Soon he had the candle lit, and in the flickers, our faces glowed with perspiration. “Look there,” he whispered.

  There was a hole in a dirt wall. Erasmo’s thin arm shoved the candle nearer. I crouched, peered in. At the back was the corner of a small chest sticking out of the dirt.

  “It’s buried treasure,” Erasmo whispered.

  My young heart pounded with excitement.

  “I’ll hold the candle.” Erasmo shoved a dagger at me. “You crawl in and pry it out.”

  I took the dagger, hesitated only a moment and then squeezed into the narrow confines. I jabbed dirt. I sweated, and I heard earth shift around me. I would have backed out, but Erasmo might have called me a coward. So I dug, and all of a sudden, the hole collapsed. It surprised me, and I found myself unable to move or breathe. I screamed. I sucked down dirt. Then I felt hands on my feet and Erasmo tugged. I slithered hard and he must have dug like a dog. Soon I was out, my face wet with tears and stained by dirt.

  “Were you crying?” Erasmo asked amazed, the candle by my face.

  I glared. We both wanted to be knights. Knights were brave. They certainly didn’t cry.

  “Are you hurt?” Erasmo asked.

  I brushed past him and rushed out of the cave, desperately trying not to hiccup as children sometimes do after they’d been weeping. If he ever told anyone about this….

  ***

  The situation changed. I was powerless to halt the leap in time. The dizziness returned, motion, and then there was a sudden halt and I found myself in a new place, several years older. Erasmo and I mock battled with axes. We were twelve. He was thin as a reed. I had thicker shoulders. I laughed as I saw him clearly.

  Erasmo wore a quilted jacket made by his mother. She worried that he might bruise himself training with weapons. She doted on him, fed him pastries and pies and bought him canaries, cats and dogs. She couldn’t understand why the animals kept disappearing. Erasmo did secret experiments with them: cruel, boyish pranks that often went too far.

  Today we mock fought, practiced in a sandy training area. A smith banged an
anvil in a nearby shed, likely straightened a knight’s sword. Whitewashed walls surrounded the area. Older squires sat on benches, idly watching us.

  We swung, but never to hit, just to pretend. We yelled mock insults. We clouted the axes together, liking the sound. They were old axes, but still too sharp for young lads to be using like this. We were too young to know better.

  “Soon I’ll be a squire,” Erasmo panted.

  “Me too,” I said.

  We clashed the axes together. Erasmo grinned. So did I.

  “I’ll certainly never cry in a cave,” Erasmo said.

  I frowned. He darted around me, and he used the flat of his axe to thump me in the back. He laughed as I stumbled.

  “Remember?” he shouted. “Don’t let insults get the better of you.”

  I whirled. He faked a chop at my head. I flinched.

  “Oh-ho!” Erasmo laughed. And several of the squires laughed from the benches.

  I swung hard. He darted aside and swung his axe down against mine. The blow shocked and numbed my hands. The axe dropped free and thudded onto the sand.

  “I win!” Erasmo shouted.

  My face blazed with shame. I snatched up the dropped axe. “Let’s try that again,” I said between clenched teeth. I swung, but Erasmo was ready. He did exactly the same thing, clouted my axe hard with his and knocked it down. This time I hung on tightly with both hands. I stumbled forward, and my sharp blade chopped into Erasmo’s extended left foot. Bones crunched. He screamed, and toppled like a felled tree.

  I let go of my axe-handle, horrified. Erasmo, my best friend—what had I done?

  ***

  My father whipped me for that with a belt. Erasmo della Rovere was crippled for life. He would never run again and would certainly never become a knight. I begged Erasmo’s forgiveness. He gave it sullenly at his father’s prodding. His mother glared at me every time I entered her presence.

  The years passed. I become a squire, a knight and finally the prince of Perugia after my father’s death.

  Much to Erasmo’s chagrin, he entered the Church, the priesthood. For a noble there were two courses, knighthood or the Church. Before long, because of his father’s station and wealth, Erasmo left for Avignon, Provence. Provence was technically a part of old Gaul, but presently belonged to the King of Naples. The popes had fled Rome many years ago and had held court or the papacy in Avignon.