Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Go bar the door,” I said.

  She frowned. Then she got the idea and hurried across the room, with her bare feet slapping tiles.

  “Wait,” I said. “I left something in the corridor.”

  I retrieved my bag, and I helped her push several chests against the door.

  “This isn’t going to do us much good once the spell is finished,” she said.

  I strode to the window. If only the central tower stood closer. If only I had wings, I could fly into Erasmo’s window. I struck the windowsill with my fist.

  “Do you have a plan?” she asked.

  “Who guards that tower?”

  “You won’t break into it like you did here.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She laughed grimly. “Why do you care how I know?” she asked.

  I studied the central tower. I stared at the bright window high up there. The sorcerer here had feared seeing me. He had wondered how Erasmo could be away from his central tower, what had anchored the powers while the Lord of Night wandered. That meant Erasmo had to be up there. His being there somehow chained the powers into place.

  “You’re here to kill him,” she said. “You said you cut him once. Why do you look just like him?”

  In the streets below, I saw no evidence of alarm. There were no rushing bands, no sounding gong. In fact, I didn’t see anyone.

  “You’ll never kill him,” she said.

  Should I run down the tower stairs? The wisest course would be to chain this woman back onto the altar.

  “If the spell is interrupted,” she said, “horrible things will happen. That’s what has the apprentices so worried.”

  “Should I sacrifice you then?” I asked. “Should I finish the spell?”

  She brushed back her golden hair. “Take me with you. We must flee this place.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m nobility just like you.” She rubbed my arm and pressed herself against me. “You’ll never regret saving me. I promise to make your life a living ecstasy. I’m very good at what I do.”

  That building over there, it was near the central tower. I saw a window, too, one lower down. I had to decide now what I was going to do. I had to get into the central tower fast. If I dashed down these stairs…the apprentices were ambitious want-to-be-sorcerers. Several of them would either peer out their doors or have other means of watching what went on. Word of my presence—what they thought was Erasmo’s presence here—had likely spread to everyone in the tower. I needed those wings more than ever.

  “Why do feel so cold?” she asked.

  I wrenched my arm loose and tore into my bag. In seconds, I wore the Darkling belt and cut my silk line in half. I assembled my crossbow, loaded a bolt and shot it into this brick windowsill. Then I attached the line to the bolt.

  “You can’t climb down that,” she said.

  I broke apart my crossbow.

  “Where did you buy that?” she asked. “I’ve never seen one you hook together.”

  I tied the other end of the line to the spindle on my belt. Then I cranked the handle fast and wound up the silk.

  “That’s ingenious,” she said. “But can it hold your weight?”

  I attached the bag to my belt and leaped onto the windowsill.

  “Wait!” she cried. “Take me with you.”

  I stared into her green eyes. Terror filled them. She was pale and trembled. I realized she had chattered endlessly because of her fear.

  I knew I should simply jump out. Then I wondered if she might race to the table and grab a knife. Maybe enraged that I’d left her, she would cut the line. I could kill her—the fastest course. Or I could chain her back onto the altar.

  “Please.” She held out her hands. “I can help you.”

  “How?”

  “I can show you things. Help you avoid making a mistake. Please, don’t leave me here. They’ll kill me. Torture me to find out what happened.”

  I didn’t know if the silk line would hold us both, although I expected it would.

  “Hold onto my neck,” I said. “If you slip, you’ll die.”

  She climbed onto the windowsill. I turned. She wrapped her arms around my neck. If I’d breathed, she probably would have choked me because she held so tightly. Then I stepped outside the window and began to unwind the spindle.

  -32-

  I cut the line. Above, the flames roared with greater fire than before. Heat billowed around us and a terrible feeling of expectancy filled the castle.

  Signor Orlando had brought Erasmo through to Perugia with a similar pattern as was presently laid between the towers. Now Erasmo brought something worse through to here. Orlando had burned candles. The smaller towers would burn souls, sacrifices such as the woman running beside me. It came to me then the priestess’ prophecy about the Trumpet of Blood. An angel had blown it on the dead Earth, what was now a dead Earth. Maybe Erasmo lacked the power to blow the trumpet. He was still human, not an angel and probably lacked an angel’s might. Maybe the flames, the powers flickering over the castle, lacked the power to sound the trumpet. What grim being could blow the Trumpet of Blood? The answer was one that took awesome magical strength to summon.

  Erasmo played with the very fabric of our Earth. He would slay millions, had already slain millions, in order to gain immeasurable might. If he was still human, still mortal, he already had the appetite of a god.

  “We must get inside,” the woman said. “It’s forbidden now for anyone to be out. It might anger the powers. We were told they could slay us with a glance.”

  “Do you know where the feeding area is to for the sea monsters?”

  “That way,” she said, pointing.

  “Go there.”

  “Alone?” she asked.

  We stood in the shadows of a two-storey barracks. A road was nearby. If I squinted, I could see haze, haze that moved along the road. That was magical power. It pumped like blood between the towers. Did the powers above supply that?

  “Where does Erasmo keep his wife and children?” I asked.

  “They’re likely in the central tower with him,” she said. “Why, are you going to kill them, too?”

  “Wait here,” I said.

  I ran from her, and I crossed a road. It made my teeth ache. The woman followed. She screamed. It was a pitiful sound. She stood frozen in the road. I hesitated. Her skin began to shrivel. She seemed incapable of moving, although she implored me with her eyes. I dashed back, endured the awful ache, grabbed her hand and yanked her off the road.

  She gasped. Her hair was soaked. Perspiration caused the yellow robe to cling to her skin.

  I pulled her to another building. She collapsed against it. She panted, and she drew up her knees and hugged herself. She brushed back lank hair and gave me a brave smile.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “You must run to where they feed the sea monsters. I killed the guard there. It should be safe. I’ll take you with me before I leave. But you must stay where I know you’re safe.”

  “You’ll truly come back for me?” she asked in a small voice.

  “I swear, madam, as the former prince of Perugia.”

  She touched my arm. “My name is Ippolita Conti. And I meant what I said before. You’ll be very glad you saved me.”

  Then she heaved herself onto her feet, and ran for the sea monster’s building.

  I arose and headed for the building near the central tower.

  ***

  The altered men in this three-storey building huddled in terror. I found that out when I smashed through the front door. They whined and shrank back. One barked at his brethren. They rose half-heartedly and snatched their axes. I slew them, four in this room and three in the next. I took the stairs. On this pregnant night, other altered men behind other locked doors wisely remained where they were.

  I had the feeling there were other things than altered men in the central tower, the monstrosity that reached for the stars. Maybe the flame powers would inter
fere. Maybe Signor Orlando stood guard there.

  I flipped up a trapdoor and hurried across the roof to the edge nearest the tower. Orange, red and purple colors flickered upon me. The fiery cackles sounded like a storm. I thought then to hear shrieks. The noises came from the roads. Foolishly, I glanced at the nearest one. The haze had solidified into something more ghastly. They looked like ghosts, wraiths in agony. Many shrieked. Many twisted their faces into painful masks. They flew along the road, hundreds in the same direction. Some resisted to no avail.

  Were they yet more sacrifices to Erasmo’s ambitions? If I had left Ippolita Conti on the road, would her soul have joined the evil pilgrimage? Why could I withstand what had almost slain her?

  I hooked my skeletal crossbow together. I selected a bolt and tied the line to it. The tower loomed above. The crisscross of roads below might tax even my strength crossing each in turn. There was a window across from me, to the side and a little above. Just how good was a Darkling?

  My lips peeled back. It was hot, and the roar in my ears threatened my confidence. I knelt, sighted and squeezed the trigger. The bolt sped hard, and it drilled into the tower. Once it hit, the bolt popped out spines to anchor itself into place. I tugged. The line held…for now. I drilled my last bolt into the edge of my building. Then I unhooked the crossbow and stuffed it into my bag, hooked the bag to the belt and knelt once more. I tied the line to this bolt. I made it snug.

  I was the Darkling. I was the master assassin. I was insane, and I knew it. High up on the tower—impossibly high—Erasmo’s window blazed with light. Maybe he chanted even now. This was the final lap. With the roar of flames in my ears, I stepped onto the silken line. Then I began to tightrope-walk across.

  ***

  The riot of changing colors threatened to disorient me. That the roars of the giant flames began to transform into words almost shattered my concentration.

  I’d always possessed wonderful balance. It had helped my swordplay and while thundering with a couched lance. I’d seen before in my days as prince trained acrobats and jugglers. Their more daring tricks had delighted and amazed me. I’d never walked across a tightrope before. I would never have thought to try as a prince. It was the last time in Perugia, while slithering across the rotted roofs that I’d learned about this particular Darkling ability. My balance was better than good. It had become fantastic.

  The silken line quivered. It swayed because I hadn’t tightened it enough. I raised my arms to either side. I shifted, bent my knees and bit my lower lip. Through it all, I advanced one foot ahead of the other.

  The ghostly road-lines seethed with movement below. It was a caldron, a raging river of souls. The powers above thundered words. Some of the words seemed addressed at me. Others seemed aimed at the open window high above. The words were in an alien language, maybe one that demons spoke to each other. I expected a flame hand to come and scoop me up. I cringed at the thought of fire licking down from the sky and shriveling me into a blackened corpse.

  The heat became unbearable. Greasy droplets oozed from my skin. It wasn’t normal sweat. It felt like an oven. My boot slipped—

  I balanced on one leg. The line quivered. I swayed. My inhuman strength helped. I set down my other boot, slid it ahead and continued as before. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. I yearned to sink my blade into Erasmo della Rovere.

  Soon the window loomed near. The shutters were closed. They looked locked. It wasn’t Erasmo’s high window near the top of this colossal tower, but one of several dotted throughout the tower’s length. A sill afforded less than a foot of ledge, about two feet long. Wet pigeon guano stained it. The terrible heat had kept it soft, maybe semi-liquefied it. Unfortunately, my bolt had drilled to the side and a little below the window.

  I refused to shake my head, refused to worry. I put one foot ahead of the next. The line’s sway had lessened now. It had almost stopped quivering.

  I don’t know what I expected. Maybe the window to open and three goat-men packed in a bunch to fire crossbows bolts into me. The bolts would sprout from my chest and I would plunge down into the river of screaming souls. Yes, I heard them now. It was a terrible sound. There was also a mulching sound, like great knives slicing and dicing spirits. Shrieks came from there. I refused to glance down. I concentrated on the window.

  Flame words boomed. They were questions. I foolishly looked up. One purple flame glared at me. He bent lower, and a flame arm appeared at his side. He began to reach for me.

  I had no more time. I ran five times on the rope. It bounced at each step. I have no idea how I kept my balance. Then I leaped as the line gave me extra fling. I sailed toward the ledge. The flame hand kept descending. My fingers touched the guano-wet ledge. Slipped! Luckily, I yet flew upward. My shoulder brushed the locked shutters. I shot my hand through it like an uppercut. Wood splintered. My hand grabbed the inner bar. I flopped against the guano-stained ledge. The flame hand roared in its downward passage. Heat blazed against me. I grabbed the bar, and with my other hand smashed more wood. Then I yanked myself within the tower. Outside the flame hand slapped against bricks.

  Altered men howled within the large room. It appeared to be a guardroom with tables, dice and cards. Strange, beastly men wore steel breastplates and held pikes. Many had crossbows. The clothes on my back burst into flame. My moon-cloak smoldered. It was worse for the altered men. They didn’t have my Darkling flesh. Their hair singed and curled. Some caught fire. All of them screamed and howled in misery. Crossbow strings parted. Flesh burned and stank like pork.

  I ran. I dashed into the throng of them. Altered men bounced from me and tumbled onto the floor. Tables burst into flame. I smashed through their ranks and charged for the open door. Behind me, a gigantic flame-finger entered the window. It wriggled, and everything in the room roared with fire. That cut off the altered men’s screams, the howls and shrieks. A dark cloud of stink billowed after me.

  I bounded up stairs. I outraced the licking flames and I ripped burning clothes off me. The back of my legs and back were agony, although the moon-cloak and boots had protected me so that I was still alive.

  Time. I had no time left. I had to reach Erasmo now. The Tower of the East, this central tower, was bigger than any construct I’d ever seen. Even with my greater strength, I could not simply run up the spiral length of stairs. It would exhaust my moon-given energies. Therefore, I slowed to a brisk pace. I examined my burns.

  In places, the back of my thighs had blistered. None of the skin had blackened or charred. It was like a terrible sunburn. It hurt, but I could still move. I still had my strength. I would have to endure. I’d been a knight before I ever became a prince.

  The stairs went round and round. They were of stone. I thought about Ippolita Conti. I thought about Ofelia, the priestess and Anaximander. I recalled my sweet Francesca shouting for her daddy. Carlo da Canale fought with White Company mercenaries. He was a brave man caught in a horrible world. That world would become much worse if Erasmo’s summoning blew the Trumpet of Blood.

  The three lycanthropes had entered our Earth in empty Velluti. Did the last lycanthrope wait above for me? Did Erasmo use him as a guard? What about Signor Orlando Furioso? The black knight had his magic sword Durendal. Poets said that Durendal could slice through any armor. My Darkling skin was harder than normal skin, but it wasn’t tougher than steel plate. I hoped the lycanthrope was outside fighting Hawkwood. Even more, I hoped Signor Orlando thought it beneath his dignity, as Charlemagne’s formerly greatest knight, to stand guard to a wicked conjurer.

  I checked my weapons. I had the deathblade, and an extra knife taken off an octo-man. I had several howlers and a sectioned blowpipe with poisoned darts. My skeletal crossbow was out of bolts. It was too bad I couldn’t have picked up extra bolts in the guardroom.

  Maybe I’d better be satisfied that I was still alive.

  Where had Erasmo found the flame powers? Did it please Old Father Night if the flame powers were from elsewhere? It see
med to me that Old Ones would hate new competitors for men’s fear. I wondered then if Old Father Night wanted Erasmo to blow the Trumpet of Blood.

  My lips drew back. How much did I have to understand? Erasmo had lured me to Avernus. Everything went back to that. He would now pay with his life, and I would finally see Laura, Francesca and Astorre.

  I paused, and I looked upward. The stairs went forever. There would be others waiting. It wouldn’t be that easy to kill my childhood friend.

  I resumed the brisk pace. Stair after stair, stone after stone, I ascended upward. Did Erasmo know I was coming? The flame powers would probably tell him. Would Erasmo care? Yes, he would care. The cuts on his flesh would throb with memory. I hoped he knew it was me. I hoped his flesh crawled with fear, with terror. I hope the old wound in his foot hurt.

  “Erasmo!” I shouted. “I’m almost there. I’ll gut you this time! I’ll stab you in the heart. There’s no escaping my vengeance, you traitor!”

  -33-

  I would not be able to duplicate the knife-trick I’d used against the chief of the lycanthropes. Signor Orlando wore armor, with a steel gorget around his neck.

  I’d climbed far, almost all the way. From outside the tower came roaring sounds and peals of thunder. The walls trembled. The floor shifted with a grind of stones. Signor Orlando sat beside a table. Behind him were ornate double doors. On either side of our room were barred shutters. They rattled at every thunderous crash.

  The black knight rested his armored elbow on the table. He held a goblet and sipped wine. A flagon was open, the cork beside it. His black helm lay on the table beside iron gauntlets. Near them lay his sheathed sword, the famed Durendal.

  “So you defeated the dog,” he said in his deep voice.

  He had white skin, the whitest I’d ever seen. The eyes were all red, although there was a hint of darker red pupils. He had high cheekbones and black hair. Once, women might have found him handsome. He had too many scars now, a battlefield on his face. It wasn’t quite brutality I saw there. Long ago, he had been the world’s greatest knight. Maybe he had fought too long, killed too many foes. The stamp of the killer permeated him. I wondered if even the Darkling could defeat the black knight, Orlando Furioso. Was he mad? He did not seem crazy.