The crossbowman frowned and glanced at the coin, then at me. “What does this mean, signor?” the crossbowman asked his captain.
“Give him the coin,” Da Canale said.
I warily accepted it, and was shocked to see my likeness stamped there.
“It’s you,” Da Canale said, “is it not?”
Erasmo, I realized. He had stamped coins in his image—my image. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t accept the features he’d been born with? Surely he had become powerful enough to drop the pretence.
“I knew you looked familiar,” Da Canale said.
He held his sword and he darted a meaningful glance at the crossbowman. The man picked up his loaded weapon. Others stood. Steel scraped out of wooden scabbards.
I handed Da Canale the coin. “The sorcerer changed my features so I’d look like him. Why he did this, I cannot fathom, unless he thought it a joke.”
Da Canale became thoughtful. “We all might have died except for you. I owe you that, and I pay my debts.”
I felt an easing of tension.
“I wonder if you would grant me a favor,” Da Canale said.
I waited.
“You wear mysteries like a cloak, signor, but I would appreciate it if you could tell me why you helped us.”
He did not add, ‘Tell us truthfully.’ Yet I heard the plea in his question. I stared at the flames. These were hard times for men. These here struggled manfully, and they faced devils in the night. It was good to be among brave soldiers. I wondered if I had become one of the things of the night. The answer was so obvious it pained me.
“I believed that if I helped you,” I said, “you would willingly answer certain questions of mine.”
He nodded. “There is reason in that. Please. Ask.”
“Why do you think the goat-men attacked you? So far, I’ve only seen them attack peasants.”
“Men say the Lord of Night is hurt,” Da Canale said. “Rumor speaks of him lying abed in the Tower of the East. From peasant, to knight, to lord, everyone fears him. Yet I’m sure you know this. Now, however, the lords of Milan, Pavia, Bologna and Modena have plucked up their courage. These lords have cast silver into the wind to hire companies, lances and even scattered men-at-arms, anyone who dares face this sorcerer. Signor Hawkwood of the White Company leads the army. The armed camp grows on the shore of an evil swamp, the first rampart to the Tower of the East. The Lord of Night may be hurt, but he sows fear and death through his minions. They butcher villagers, burn hamlets and attack small companies such as ours.”
“How long have these brave lords cast their silver into the wind?” I asked.
“It is several weeks now.”
“Will this host besiege the Tower of the East?”
“I’m not yet privy to their counsels,” he said.
“It is a dangerous undertaking.”
Da Canale’s nostrils flared. “If you’re asking why do I join? The answer is simple. I’m Hawkwood’s man. And I’ve seen too much evil lately. Things like the Great Mortality, evil castles and goat-men are abominations. I will fight to stamp them out—given that I have a fighting chance.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Signor da Canale,” I said, standing.
“You won’t stay?”
I noticed he didn’t ask me to stay. “I wish you luck, all of you.” I bowed and then strode from the fire. Once hidden by darkness, I resumed my lonely trek to the Tower of the East.
-24-
Signor Fangs for Teeth and his dead-faced men reappeared two nights later.
It was a mistake on their part. Or maybe it was fear. Erasmo wanted to harass me no matter the cost to him in lost minions. How difficult was it altering men, giving them supernatural powers? Maybe what Erasmo needed was time and he was willing to expend underlings to buy it.
I, on the other hand, wanted information. So I broke branches, stomped my booted foot in soft soil and slowed my remorseless trek to the Tower of the East. Finally, in the middle of a forest, I climbed a large cypress tree and waited in the mid-level branches.
Horsemen soon approached. I waited patiently, a human leopard ready to drop upon its prey. Signor Fangs for Teeth did not disappoint. His dead-faced men surrounded the tree. I recognized him by the floppy hat. The crow’s feather looked frazzled. He clopped near and peered up.
I was already dropping and had timed it perfectly. His eyes widened and my boots collided with his shoulders. The horse staggered, almost went down and then ran into a tree. It wobbled like a drunk before it collapsed.
The dead-faced men sat like statues throughout. Their bared swords never wavered.
I concluded they were an extension of Lord Cencio’s will. He lay on the ground, my knee on his chest and the tip of the deathblade at his throat. I wrenched the golden chain from him, twirled it twice and flung the medallion far away. I wished for a private conversation.
“No smiles, my lord?” I asked.
His black eyes burned with hatred.
“You seek death, I’m told.”
“Your death,” he said.
The wolf-like teeth were obscene. I wondered which was worse, a minor alteration or something like goat-men?
“My death,” I said, “by which you gain restful oblivion for yourself.”
Several of the dead-faced men swiveled their heads so they watched me with cold eyes.
“That is a poor choice,” I said. “Here I offer you oblivion, and you try to be sly. No, Lord Cencio, you should consider my offer.”
“The Lord of Night will simply reanimate me,” he said.
“Even if you’re chopped into small pieces, each burned into greasy ash?”
His dark eyes lost some of their intensity.
“I will vow to do this,” I said.
The dead-faced men sheathed their swords. Signor Fangs for Teeth arched his neck. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Ah, signor, first you must earn it.”
Hatred tightened his face.
“Tell me something of interest,” I said.
“…Of what nature?”
“Where are my wife and children?”
He frowned, and I think I understood why.
Even though I hated to say it, I asked, “Where are Erasmo’s wife and children?”
He blinked several times. “It is odd you should ask that, signor. His daughter returns from aboard. She lands at Cape Lodovico in several nights.”
“How do you know?”
“I overhead him tell the satyr.”
“Why would Erasmo tell him?” I asked.
“We were to keep you from heading that way.”
“And now you tell me this?”
He bared his hideous teeth. “Look at me, signor. I did not bargain to become one of the living dead, urged to hunt with infernal hate. I have accepted your offer and now demand that you keep your vow. Slay me, and burn this body. Do it. Or my soldiers will slay you instead.”
Swords slid from scabbards.
I pressed my full weight onto his chest. I grabbed a handful of hair, stretched his neck and cut with furious strength.
The soldiers collapsed as before. I took one of their swords and used it for the grisly task. The pieces I faithfully burned in a fire. They smoked with a foul stench. Before I finished, the once dead-faced soldiers stirred. There was fearful animation in their faces now, terror. Whatever spell had held them in thrall was broken. Most slunk away, several ran. One picked up his sword and charged. He died swiftly. I concluded that each had made bargains with the darkness, and had become ensnared. Maybe for them this was a second chance.
All I knew was that Francesca, my daughter, came by galley from wherever Erasmo had sent her. Why did he want her now at the Tower of the East?
I wiped my hands on the leathers of the slain soldier. Then I strode into the night, headed for Cape Lodovico.
***
Two nights later, I reached the coast as the moon wobbled past stars and as surf crashed against
rocks.
I climbed slippery boulders. I crunched across sand. Crabs feasted on a washed-up dolphin. Cape Lodovico was an unhealthy place, and I wondered who would be foolish enough to sail so close to shore in the dark? The answer soon revealed itself. A galley swayed a quarter mile from shore. The captain had thrown out anchors. Lanterns burned fore and aft, and I saw movement on the decks.
Galleys were finicky vessels, low in the water and narrow. Rough seas demolished them or such seas made life miserable for those aboard. The galley’s purpose was speed. That speed was gained through oars. Masses of poor men supplied the muscle. In Genoa, a seaman with rations was paid 18 soldi a month or 30 soldi without rations.
Every time the wind blew toward shore, I smelled the stench of packed humanity. Normal galley practice called for pulling ashore each night. The men stretched their legs. Cooks built fires for hot food. Rowers and sailors dug holes instead of defecating over the rail.
Once, Venice had been queen of the waves. Her trade ships had gone everywhere in the Mediterranean. I still found it incredible that the plague had slain the city. Had Erasmo built his tower there out of arrogance? Perhaps there was a strategic reason. Maybe he allowed trade ships at the tower. Maybe he used it as a port. Maybe instead of an army, Da Canale’s lords should have built a fleet.
Rocks rose here like fangs. Sea spray drifted inland with each crashing wave. Recalling the pond, I considered wading into the sea and to the anchor. I would shimmy up the rope, onto the galley and find my daughter. I discarded the idea because I realized it would be too dark underwater for me to find the anchor.
I studied my surroundings and noticed caves. The shore over there was a thin ribbon of sand and then jagged cliffs. The caves struck me as ominous. Or was I simply being superstitious?
Why would they land my daughter here instead of heading straight for Venice—the Tower of the East? Had Signor Fangs for Teeth lied?
Maybe a half-hour later I heard the clink of chains and spied movement in the largest cave. I ducked behind a boulder to watch.
Shambling…men emerged, men and women. They wore tatters for clothes or went stark naked. Each wore an iron collar, with a heavy chain that linked one to another. Several recoiled as they stepped into the moonlight, and they made keening sounds and whimpered with utter dejection. Behind them strode a huge man, nearly a giant. He wore rough leathers and boots and held a whip. He cracked it. The whimpering stopped on the instant, and they cringed in abject terror.
The near giant had long hair and cruel scars along his cheeks. The face was wide, almost square and the nose mashed.
I recalled dark tales of the chained dead. Did those wretches belong to the Forgotten Ones? Lorelei had spoken about someone called Anaximander who marched to Erasmo’s aid. Is that why the galley had anchored here?
Two big men in crude leathers appeared. One held a lantern. He waved it back and forth.
I glanced at the galley. A lantern waved there. Soon, a rowboat splashed in the sea. It was a vacchette or a “little cow,” with eight oars. Men slipped over the galley-side and into the vacchette. They picked up oars as a sailor shoved off.
The chained wretches in the cave began to shriek. Whips cracked and the leather-clad men shouted harsh commands. Those in the chain-gang began a grotesque jig.
“Faster you scum!” a whip-master roared.
Another of the leather-clad men rushed forward with a white-hot brand. He burned one of the wretches, melted flesh. The prisoners danced with greater zeal and their chains clinked more often. Whenever I spied a face, whenever he or she entered the moonlight, their twisted features and haunted eyes told the story.
Had Erasmo forced my daughter to witness such horrors? A grimmer thought speared me. Had Erasmo sent my daughter to the Forgotten Ones and only now, he sent for her? A fierce rage took hold of me.
The big men in their crude leathers roared with mirth. They slashed their whips and bellowed lewd curses. One shoved a package at the near giant. Unlike the others, he wore a cloak. He handed over his whip and accepted a club. The one who might be Anaximander hooked the knotty club to his belt. As the wretches danced, he took his leave and began to work down the cliff.
To my relief, no one joined him, no terrified girl. But I had become too enraged to easily become calm again. Where was Francesca?
The vacchette could have moved faster. Several times, the rowers stopped. I imagine the awful noises from the cave terrified them.
Whips cracked from the cave. The leather-clad men roared, and they drove the chained wretches into the darkness. I didn’t want to think about how deep the cave went or where it might lead.
The thump of oars soon grew louder. The man in the prow held up a lantern. He wore a black corselet and helmet. He had a narrow, evil face and reminded me of a snake. There was something odd about his hands.
If Francesca wasn’t in the caves, she must be on the galley. I needed the vacchette in that case. So I slipped past the waves and waded until I sank out of sight. Then I curved back toward where the vacchette headed. Fortunately, it was a cloudless night with a bright moon, and the splash of oars guided me. I pushed against the water and grabbed at wavy kelp. I hurried to get to the right spot. The bottom of the vacchette neared—I jumped and caught an oar. From above there came a muffled shout. I dragged myself up.
As I surfaced, sailors stared in horror. There were ten of them in the vacchette, eight rowers, a helmsman and a steersman. The helmsman held the lantern—and I saw his hands. It was the tip of a tentacle curled around the handle. The nearest rowers had hard faces and rubbery tentacles instead of arms. It was a sick marriage of octopus and human. More altered men!
With a heave of strength, I dragged along the oar and latched my hands onto the gunwale.
“What are you?” the helmsman bellowed, as if he should ask?
“Gig it!” screamed a sailor. “Gig it! It’s trying to get aboard!”
I heaved up into them. The top of my head smashed against an octo-man’s chin. He slumped. The hook of a gaff thudded into my back, with two tentacles twisted around its handle. I lashed out. The hook tore out of my flesh. That was raw agony. Then my knife was in my hands. I slashed. Octo-men screamed. The hook came down again and I twisted. It thudded into wood. That was their last chance. I had my feet under me now. I stabbed with brutal precision, fast. The rocking vacchette was too sluggish to affect my balance. One by one, they toppled overboard and sank under the waves. Apparently, their tentacles didn’t supply them with greater ability in the waters.
I tested my shoulder, the one where the gaff had hooked me. It hurt to move, but now I owned the vacchette. Unfortunately, the waves slued the boat so it went sideways toward shore. The leather-clad man stood there. He held his club two-handed, and he craned his head as if to see what happened here in the vacchette. It told me he couldn’t see in the dark as well as me.
Since I couldn’t control the vacchette single-handed, not until I had time to study it, I slipped over the gunwale farthest from him and rolled into the sea. The salt water stung my wound.
I wondered briefly if the moon’s constant healing was making me clumsy. The cuts and bruises hurt as much as ever. But a man’s reactions were different when he knew everything could be healed.
I eased my eyes above water. The large, leather-clad man shouted at the vacchette. Was he blind to some of the octo-men floating nearby?
I rose slowly. Waves rolled against my back and pushed me. The near giant—my head almost reached the height of his shoulders—shouted louder. The vacchette scraped against sand, and the sea turned it over.
Now shouts floated from the galley. Lanterns appeared, but it was too far for them to see at night. Did they have another vacchette? I froze then, for I spied a girl on the galley deck. She was half the size of the altered man beside her. That made her much taller than I remembered. Just how long had I slept in the swamp?
From higher on shore, the near giant raised his club. “Who are you?”
he shouted.
I waded out of the water with the moon at my back. I waded with a feeling of floating, with exquisite rage roaring in my ears.
Underneath his leathers, he appeared to have lumpy muscles. He appeared to be strong, likely inhumanly so.
“You!” he shouted. “Are you from the boat?”
“I am,” I said, and my voice sounded strange.
He cocked his head. The package was between his booted feet. “Why did the vacchette tip over?” he shouted. “I thought I heard fighting.”
“Did the screaming give it away?”
“Mock me at your peril, O man. I am Anaximander. And I come from the Forgotten Ones.”
“Does that make you an Old One?”
He stepped toward me, squinting. Then he jerked back. “Bodies float in the water. What happened, man? Why did you fight among yourselves?”
There were more shouts from the galley. Sailors heaved in time to a sea-chantey as they pulled up the anchors. Others lit lanterns and hung them on the sides. It seemed as if the captain had decided to bring the galley closer to shore. He must not have owned a second vacchette. The little girl had disappeared or someone had taken her away.
Anaximander took a wide stance and gripped his club with both hands.
“You never did tell if you’re an Old One or not,” I said, drawing my knife.
His face tightened. “You’re the Darkling,” he whispered.
My cloak flapped as I leaped. He swung. It was powerful. I heard it swish. But in relation to me, the club was ponderously slow. I cut, and the blade barely scratched his skin. I almost stopped in shock. The club swung back. I barely jumped away in time.
“What are you?” I asked.
“Elated that I can gain my reward so soon,” he said with a laugh. “Why do you think the Lord of Night begged for my aid? Mortals fear your blade, but not me.”
I darted in again like a wolf. This time I hacked at his arm. It was like hacking at a tree. He used his knees like battering rams. He swung his club in short, chopping arcs. I ducked, sidestepped and hacked three more times. This could go on all night.
“One of these times my club will connect,” he panted.
Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods) Page 17
