“Why is my daughter on the galley?”
“Others fear your deathblade. But long ago, Old Father Night dipped me six times in the River Styx. I have the skin of a pine and the strength of a behemoth. Come, little man, end this charade, or I shall only knock you senseless and then drag you down to the Forgotten Ones.”
He charged. I darted out of the way and chopped as hard as I could. Black stuff oozed from him, although it quickly hardened.
Octo-men bellowed from the approaching galley. Giant oars dipped in time to a booming kettledrum, and like a ginger beast, the galley creaked closer. Tentacle-limbed crossbowmen wound their weapons. A slotted lantern swept the shore with light.
I sheathed my knife and lifted a heavy rock. Anaximander charged with his club held high. He may have been strong and his skin was tree tough, but he was slow and fought clumsily. I heaved. The rock smashed against his chest. He toppled back and hit the sand with a thud. I sprang like a leopard, rolled him onto his belly and grabbed a fistful of hair. I yanked back hard, arched his neck. Then I hacked at his neck, once, twice, thrice.
Anaximander roared and put his hands on the sand. He heaved up. I hacked three more times. Black fluid gushed from his neck. I made ready to saw off his head.
Crossbows twanged. Several stubby bolts hissed past me and kicked up sand. Two smashed into my back and almost hurled me off Anaximander. One bounced off him. I hacked at the remaining shreds of flesh and parted Anaximander’s head from his torso.
Black stuff oozed from the stump of his neck, but his body refused to wilt. It still pushed up, twisted and the wide hands grabbed for me.
I darted aside, astonished and sickened.
“Oh, that was foully done,” the detached head said as it lay on its side.
The lumpy muscled body lumbered to the head. It reached down and grasped the long hair. It lifted the head, swiveled around and aimed the face at me as if it were a lantern. The flow of black blood had stopped, and the mouth made odd gasping noises.
How could he speak without air from his lungs?
“I will never forgive this indignity,” Anaximander rasped. “I vow before Old Father Night that I shall drag you into the underworld. You shall serve me ten thousand years, crying out in agony every minute.”
I shuffled back from this creature and finally felt the two crossbow bolts protruding from me. One was stuck between my shoulder blades while the other might have hit a kidney. They hurt and made it difficult to concentrate.
By now, the galley had moved dangerously near shore. More crossbow bolts flew. I dodged them. Then planks crunched and the vessel lurched to a sickening halt. Waves pounded it. Planks groaned. Several more crunched. A man in a red cloak roared orders.
Crossbowmen leaped into the water. Many went down over their heads. A few must have hit a sandbar. They waded toward shore with their tentacles holding their weapons high.
The thud of a boot on sand startled me. I twisted around in time for Anaximander’s club to connect with my chest. He held it one-handed. The other hand continued to clutch the hair of his head, which dangled like a lantern. The blow pitched me backward, off my feet and I rolled, and groaned. A bolt went deeper into me. The other snapped off. Even through the agony of that, I realized he had swung harder earlier. His coordination was lacking now. Maybe with his head swinging from his hand threw off his perspective.
Anaximander lumbered after me. I scrambled out of the way. His club smashed wet sand. I tried to slash at his hair. He jerked his head out of the way and the club zoomed at me with frightful speed. This went on for several desperate moments.
Then the first crossbowmen reached shore. Some knelt, others stood, and they fired at me in volleys. The bright moon gave them light.
Waves continued to pound the galley. More octo-men waded ashore, rowers, sailors and soldiers. A few had belying pins or gaffs. Some simply angrily waved their tentacles, while others had shield and cutlass.
Then I saw her. The octo-man in the red cloak held my daughter out of the water as he waded toward shore.
“Francesca!” I shouted.
“Daddy?” she cried. “Daddy, is that you?”
Anaximander gave harsh orders to the milling octo-men. A clump of them advanced, too many with lanterns. Crossbowmen ran closer.
“Daddy, help me!” Francesca shouted.
I almost threw myself at the mob of advancing altered men. Anaximander was among them, his head urging them faster.
“Be brave, my darling!” I shouted. Then I ran along the shore and turned hard into the sea. I waded as crossbow bolts plinked the waves around me. Soon I was underwater in a kelp forest.
There I yanked out one of the crossbow bolts. The other in the small of my back…I screamed underwater digging it out of my flesh.
I felt weak, drained, and needed the moon to restore me. I walked underwater farther from Cape Lodovico and slipped ashore for the moon to strengthen me. Before I could return to the galley, however, dawn neared. So I waded back into the sea to wait out the day.
-25-
I returned to the beach the following night. The galley lay half-ashore like a stranded whale. Its underbelly had a jagged gash. Masses of sandy footprints showed where they had been. Once, I spied Francesca’s smaller footprint.
The thought of her among those altered men, with Anaximander and his lantern-like head—it nearly drove me wild with rage and despair.
I searched for the vacchette, the ‘little cow’ rowboat. It was gone.
Had Anaximander and the captain rowed the vacchette to the Tower of the East with my daughter? I prayed they had not.
The size of their mob made the trail easy to follow. I ran, and found a split two miles later. Most had climbed the rocks and headed inland. Maybe two dozen or more had continued along the shore. The shore party footprints showed me Anaximander’s larger boot-print and Francesca’s smaller one.
I fairly flew in my haste. Time had become my enemy. Everything I had to do, I had to do tonight. That was the horror of my condition. If just once an enemy found me during daylight and stole my coin, I would perish. It was a frightening thought. I banished it—for now. It was still night, still the hour of the Darkling.
The shore changed in time. The rocks shrank and then vanished. The sand turned slippery. Reeds appeared. The mushy sand became mud. The mud began to take on the consistency of slime. I must have entered the swamp near Venice. I’d visited Venice once. It had been built atop small, swampy isles isolated from the mainland. Soon I waded past trees thick with Spanish moss. In the still air the dangling moss hung like spent webs. Many of the swamp trees had humped roots, knotted and thick near the trunk, and smaller and ankle grabbing farther away.
A hidden bear roared. At least, it sounded like a bear. I found an octo-man shortly thereafter. He lay face-first in the muck. Blood leaked like oil from jagged wounds in his side. Had a bear done this?
I lifted my head. There were faint cries in the distance.
I took the octo-man’s knife. It had excellent balance. Then I ran north toward the cries. Sometimes mud sucked at my boots. Sometimes I splashed through murky water. A huge serpent hissed at me from a tree. Its massive body was coiled seven times around a branch and it flickered its forked tongue. I detoured around it, and I pondered the creature. The swamp in and around Venice had never been like this. Nor had such serpents infested it. Had Erasmo enlarged the swamp through sorcery? Had he seeded it with monstrosities?
It was then I noticed the water, specifically its warmth. The Adriatic Sea was normally much colder than this. Steam rose in places. Soon, the swampy growth thickened and the trees and foliage became jungle-like. The cries had stopped. Instead, I heard roars, but no bear had ever made sounds like that. Amidst the roars were hisses like serpents.
I had no doubt then but that Erasmo had conjured this place. This was African terrain. I’d spoken before to a Moor who had sailed far up the Nile River. He’d trekked to places that by his description had
sounded like this.
How could mere barons and knights hope to besiege the Tower of the East? Erasmo could conjure serpents and swamps. He drew the aid of Old Ones, if that’s what the Goat Man and Anaximander were. Neither had died from killing wounds. Next time, I would hack each into pieces as I had Lord Cencio. I’d burn their bodies and sprinkle the ashes over a wide area. Erasmo also had the aid of lycanthropes and Orlando Furioso. I just had my dagger and an ability to heal wounds.
I understood better that I could not roam the world like a knight-errant. I was an assassin. I was the Darkling. I’d defeated Lord Cencio because I’d acted like an assassin. I had eliminated him. I had fought the Goat Man like a knight-errant. He yet lived.
They had my Francesca. She had called for her daddy.
The hisses and strange roars increased. I drew aside vines. In a shallow area bathed by the moon, huge crocodiles fought over octo-man remains. One brute locked its jaws onto a torso held by two other beasts. The brute spun. It was an incredible performance. It twisted off a bloody hunk. The giant creature opened its jaws and lunged, and it swallowed the bloody hunk like a glutton.
There were dead crocodiles, too. One had been pin-cushioned with crossbow bolts. Crossbows!
I scanned the shallow area. It had water, reeds and sandbars. Crocodiles battled everywhere. There had to be over ten dead octo-men, although it was hard to tell with all the half-eaten bodies and dismembered tentacles.
I spied a crossbow. Over there…that had to be a pouch of quarrels or bolts. I slipped through the vines, ran and splashed into the shallows. The crocodiles crawled over each other like slugs, but had the sudden speed of wasps. One hissed at me. Another lunged. I jumped, sidestepped, ran and leaped. And I picked up the crossbow. Then I high-stepped as four crocodiles in a row snapped at my ankles. I scooped up the leather pouch of bolts. Then I hurried into the jungle and left the enraged beasts to their grisly meal.
The crossbow was a powerful weapon, although thoroughly hated by many knights. My two back wounds, fortunately, had already healed. I found that I’d acquired a heavy crossbow or an arbalest, as some termed it. The bow was made of tempered steel. The octo-man had probably used a windlass to crank back the string. I doubted his tentacles had given him greater than ordinary strength. Such was the pull of the crossbow’s steel string that a man could not have pulled it over the notch. The stock of wood that held the bow was heavy. Inlaid ivory and pegged parchment decorated it. This was an expensive weapon. Its power lay in the steel bow, which could send an iron-tipped bolt through armor, at least at close and middle range. That’s why knights hated it. Any peasant could aim, fire and kill a noble knight with it. Where was the honor in that? The heavy crossbow had a longer range than an English longbow. The crossbow and particularly the arbalest’s weakness lay in the windlass.
Winding the crossbow took precious time. Ordinarily, a team of crossbowmen could get off one volley before charging knights would be among them dealing death. Thus, in a battle, a company of crossbowmen fired in volley by line. Or they needed guards to protect them from swords and lances.
I hefted the crossbow and slung the pouch’s strap over my shoulder. Then I checked the stars. My lips drew back. I had little time left.
I slipped through the jungle like a shadow. Vines flashed by. A leopard snarled. A log twisted into life as I jumped off it. It developed teeth and a nasty temper. The log had been a crocodile. Once, tentacles lashed at me. No, those weren’t tentacles, but thorny vines.
I had never heard of such a tree.
I cocked my head. Waves lapped a nearby shore. Oars clunked. Gripping the ornate stock with one hand, I grabbed the steel cord with the other. I yanked, notched it, and fitted a bolt into the firing grove. Great strength had its uses. Then I darted past trees, more trees, until I broke onto a muddy shore.
I gaped. The Tower of the East rose before me. It was a massive construct, gargantuan. I estimated distances. It was a mile or two away and squatted upon the tiny isles that had once made up Venice.
Obsidian walls rose like titans. The walls stood—it was hard to judge, maybe three hundred feet, maybe four hundred. The city of Byzantium was reputed to have massive walls. I doubted they stood higher than the Tower’s. The walls seemed to circuit the isles. Venice had been famous for its many canals. The people had used them like roads. The walls had no openings, no iron-grilled tunnels to suggest such ‘roads’. Could Erasmo have conjured more land for the isles?
Towers rose above the walls as high as the walls rose above the sea. A central spire rose above the many towers. It was like a spear hurled at the stars. Mortal man had never built that tower. It was too tall, too massive. Erasmo was vain. The central tower proved it. Unless…maybe it had a magical significance.
I knelt on the shore and lifted my crossbow. The vacchette bobbed along the water, headed for the tower. Six octo-men rowed. One steered. Anaximander hunched in the center of the vacchette. He held up his head with one hand and kept the other on Francesca’s shoulder.
His bearing…I believed he feared the water. That had to be the reason why they’d marched on shore instead of heading straight by water to the tower. Had the altered men carried the vacchette on their shoulders all this way? I thanked fate if that was so. I would never have caught up with them otherwise. I recalled that some stories said demons feared salt water. Old Ones surely acted like demons.
I had one chance to rescue my daughter. From shore, I sighted Anaximander’s lantern-like head. I had one surprise shot to rip the head out of his grip and possibly send it into the water. I refused to think about what would happen if I missed.
I pulled the lever—the trigger. The steel bow snapped. The stock shook. The string propelled the crossbow bolt. It sped like a hawk. I watched. I bit my lower lip. A rower cried out. He pitched against Anaximander. The Old One let go of Francesca and hurled the wounded man from him. Water splashed as the octo-man sank into the sea. The other rowers stopped.
I gripped the stock and yanked back the string. I slapped in another bolt and waded into the water. “Anaximander!” I shouted.
Before I could pull the trigger, the brute jerked my daughter in front of him. “Shoot again, and you risk killing her,” he bellowed.
“Daddy!” she screamed.
I shook with impotent rage, and I noticed that a gate rose in the distant tower.
At Anaximander’s command, the octo-men began rowing. My dear little daughter wept.
A galley slid out of the tower, but I could no longer watch. I’d failed. Now I had to think about tomorrow. Bitter, I retreated into the jungle. They had my daughter. Somehow, I had to rescue her. To do that, I had to remain free, alive, as it were. I thus began to search for a place to hide.
-26-
I hid in a trunk-branch wedge of a jungle tree. I would rather have hidden in the water, but I feared that during the day crocodiles might swim by and devour me. That day, I dreamed of the tramp of feet, the clank of armor and the muttered oaths of soldiers. It was closer to a nightmare. The dream passed…
I stirred. And with a start, I raised my head. It was night again. The sun was gone. I crouched in the crotch of a branch and its trunk. I listened. There were squawks, hisses, roars and screams. I relaxed. Those were regular night-jungle sounds.
I jumped down onto trampled ground. Grass, fungi and thorns had been thoroughly crushed into mushy pulp by many men. My dream—had soldiers hunted me?
I turned toward shore. Then I reconsidered. Such trampling obviously meant someone had searched for me. Did Erasmo know how the sun sent Darklings into a lifeless stupor? I slipped through the jungle until I reached virgin ground. Fronds slapped my face. Long, thorny vines with unholy life tried to tangle me. I soon gazed on the Tower of the East. The lake or this inlet of the Adriatic Sea was its moat. I studied the walls. Could I scale those? If not, how would I get within?
The water was placid. The battlements were bare of guards, which reminded me of the moon castle. The o
nly sign of life were lights in some of the towers.
After a thoughtful study, I returned to the trampled ground. Now that I considered it, my dreams had hinted about Orlando Furioso. He must have led the search party. I was grateful the lycanthropes had remained behind. Their noses might have ferreted me out.
I stood where I had last night when I’d tried to shoot Anaximander. Instead of a vacchette, an owl skimmed the water. Maybe I could find a log and float over.
I pondered that. Last night, they had sent out a galley. Despite the lack of visible guards, the tower had watchers. That made sense. An army supposedly waited on the edge of the swamp. It was not technically a siege, and yet…. The quickly sent galley showed me the tower-watchers were nervous. They’d reacted fast.
I began to trek along the muddy shore. I spent a quarter of the night and saw more crocodiles, more vine-lashing trees and more and larger serpents. Some of the serpents had mottled skin. Some had stripes like tigers. A few could have swallowed a bull. No swordsman could have hacked those in half. It would take carpenters with two-man saws. The swamp in and of itself was a defensive rampart with animal guardians. Maybe none of the guardians could effectively stop me, but they would slow a human army.
My marching paid off with sight of the bridge. It spanned from the tower to the mainland. A cavalry troop trotted across it. They went from the tower to the swamp.
I climbed a lightning-smashed tree and considered the tower in light of this knowledge. From this distance, the walls looked smooth. There might be some irregularities, but probably not enough to give me handholds. Had Erasmo conjured vast slabs of obsidian? Or were those bricks? I might drive spikes into mortar and work up the wall like a spider.
Spiders…there was something about spiders that tickled a memory. I set that aside for the moment. My trek had shown me the smooth walls. Of garbage chutes, canal-entrances or tunnels I had seen none. The tower and Venice were unalike in that regard. Erasmo’s sorcery must have effected the changes. My problem was simple. How was I supposed to get past four-hundred-foot walls? I would have to walk through a gate or climb a wall. If bricks formed the walls, I could possibly use spikes. If slabs of obsidian formed the walls, I needed a ladder, a very long one. Or, I needed a rope.
Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods) Page 18
