Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods)
Page 26
“Please,” Erasmo sobbed.
“I release you back to wherever you came,” I shouted. “Begone.”
“No!” Erasmo screamed, “no, no, anything but that. Don’t let him take me.”
“Now we shall see who orders whom, my little sorcerer,” the demon said. He made an imperious gesture, lifted Erasmo and walked through a hazy portion of air. The air closed. The demon, and Erasmo della Rovere, were gone.
***
My shoulders sagged. He was gone. Erasmo was gone from this world. He went to whatever Hell the thing he’d summoned had came from. I knew the legends of demons and sorcerers and what happened to sorcerers who improperly summoned them. The lines of protection, the magical pattern, kept the sorcerer safe from demonic retribution. To break the pattern or step out of it while the demon remained always spelled a horrible doom.
What was a demon but a fallen angel? Erasmo had needed an angel to blow the Trumpet of Blood. What did he care the status of said angel? The power was the thing.
Erasmo was gone. And he had sent Laura and Francesca to another place with Anaximander.
The tower swayed. Stones groaned.
What had Ippolita Conti told me? Ah. Once Erasmo died, the Tower of the East would fall apart. That was part of my last minute inspiration. To see and feel Erasmo die in my arms, oh, I’d yearned for that. Yet to achieve that meant I would’ve had to die with him. Could I survive the tower’s destruction? I had not believed so.
The Tower of the East had stood when Erasmo had crossed to the doomed Earth before. Surely the tower would stand now as the demon took him elsewhere. Demons were demonic, masters of torture. I did not think the demon would simply snuff out Erasmo’s life. That meant the tower would stand, maybe long enough for me to make my escape.
I stumbled to the trumpet. What should I do with it? If someone blew it…a third of the world’s green grasses would burn up.
I picked up the trumpet. It was heavy, and it gave my arm a strange sensation. For a moment, I had the insane desire to set my lips to it and attempt to blow. I smothered the desire. I put the trumpet in my bag. Then I hurried to an open edge and slid my legs over. It was time to flee before the tower came crashing down. It was time to get Ippolita Conti.
***
I waded deep into the Adriatic Sea. I’d trudged for nights. Each day I’d stopped. It was cold down here in the depths. I hated it. Moonbeams struggled to reach this far.
I stopped. I had no idea where exactly I stood. What I mean is that I doubted I could ever retrace my steps to this exact spot again. I scooped mud. I scooped a long time. Then I opened my bag and took out the dread Trumpet of Blood. I set it in the hole and for a long time shoved the mud back. I buried the terrible trumpet in some nameless spot in the Adriatic Sea.
I thought of something to say. Rather, I thought of some grand thought to think. Nothing came. I turned ninety degrees and began to walk toward the east shore of Italy.
I’d killed Erasmo della Rovere, or I had as good as killed him. I’d taken Ippolita Conti to Carlo da Canale for safety.
I walked underwater through a forest of seaweeds. I would find where Anaximander had taken my wife and daughter. I find that place and then I would go there and rescue them. I knew that I would do this thing, for I was once the prince of Perugia, Gian Baglioni, and I was the Darkling.
The End
If you enjoyed Assassin of the Damned, you might also enjoy another Dark Gods novel: The Dragon Horn. Read on for an exciting excerpt.
Prologue
“Grovel,” growled the witch.
The silver-haired knight did, abjectly. Behind him in the darkness voices tittered.
“Enough,” she said.
The knight lay still, exhausted.
“You failed me.” The witch spoke in a whisper because long ago a Hunnish arrow had pierced her throat.
“Let me repair this failure,” said the knight.
In the darkness, the evil titters changed to hisses. One zealous servant, his face hidden by a veil, stepped into the candlelight and kicked the knight in the ribs.
“No,” the witch told him.
Hands reached out of the darkness and dragged the cringing servant back into the smothering womb of shadows. Fists struck flesh. Soon, the meaty thuds stilled the man’s dismal cries.
“Feed him to the wolves,” the witch said.
The knight thought she meant him. Then he heard servitors drag the man from the chamber. The knight’s stomach unclenched. Soon he was alone with the old witch.
“I see that you are still too arrogant,” she whispered.
“Forgive me, O Wretched.”
“Your words lack meaning.”
Although the knight feared for his soul, he envied the Wretched her power.
“Yet….” she whispered. “You are cunning, and your form is pleasing to my eye.”
As he lay before her, the knight grinned secretly. Surely she meant to let him live, to use him once more.
“After centuries of searching, my spies believe they have discovered the crypt of the Lord of Bats.”
“...it is his resting place?”
“That is my hope, yes. But our Lord was clever. He might have left an ancient blood-drinker as guard or perhaps the gaunt of an Old One.”
The knight calculated swiftly. He had heard tales of the blood-drinkers. Yet he feared a gaunt more.
“Would you redeem yourself?” she asked.
He hesitated, wondering if she meant to sacrifice him on the altar of her ambitions. Then he realized that she would try. His opportunity would come in her trying.
“Yes, O Wretched,” he said.
“Then you must go to the crypt.”
“I will do it.”
“Yes, you most certainly will do it. Perun and his men will join you. You will go to Great Moravia and speak with the fool there who calls himself king. Only then will you approach the crypt. Fear not, I will teach you how to trick a gaunt. You already know what is needed to defeat a blood-drinker.”
The knight’s eyes gleamed. This was the chance he had waited years for.
“Arise, worm, and approach me.”
The silver-haired knight arose, his flesh crawling. As the candle flickered brighter, he saw a misshapen lump of flesh on an obsidian throne. Then he left the light and stepped into the darkness to embrace her.