“You must obey me,” she purred.
My arm felt heavy. I wanted to say yes. Then I heard a shout. It sounded as if from faraway.
“What is that?” she asked.
I remembered my plan and aimed her coin at the vileness below. I saw Lord Cencio, Signor Fangs for Teeth, urge his horse through the throng. He shouted at the Goat Man piping from upon the boulder.
I palmed the coin and looked down. Our eyes met.
“I ask that you restore me, my lady. Heal my eye. Give me my former speed.”
“I will,” she purred. “First bend the knee and vow me your soul.”
Part of me longed to do just that. But I whispered, “I am Gian Baglioni.”
She pouted, and she did it in a way that made me desire her above all things.
“The minions of Old Father Night will soon hunt me, my lady. Will you sacrifice me so easily? Or will you heal me and await the day I proclaim you as my goddess?”
“You cannot use me, my Darkling. Kneel. Obey and vow me your soul.”
I tore my gaze from hers and looked down. From upon his horse, Lord Cencio sat at the foot of the boulder. He shouted, and now the Goat Man listened.
The eerie piping stopped. The naked women collapsed as sweat poured from them. The lesser goat-men, the hounds and others looked to the boulder.
“The Darkling is near!” Lord Cencio shouted. “I feel him. We must stop this foolishness and hunt.”
“Do you hear?” I asked the Moon Lady.
She stared at me from out of the coin, and she shook her head.
With an effort of will, I folded my fingers over the coin, and I broke the contact.
“Which way?” the Goat Man asked.
Lord Cencio gazed into the darkness. He lacked a smile, and his eyes burned with insatiable hatred. “We must hunt,” he said.
It made me wonder if he’d lost some of his former power. As a dead man, maybe he was less than before.
The Goat Man rose to his imposing height. He bleated, “We seek the Darkling. So let us hunt.”
I pocketed the coin and slipped away. It had been worth the attempt. It had-
My nostrils flared. My left eye…I closed my right eye, but I still saw the grove in detail, a leaf at my boot. I felt greater strength and knew I had my former speed. I grinned, and I fled into the darkness. Erasmo’s minions thought they hunted me. But now I hunted them.
***
I reached the rutted road at the top of the weedy hill and ran down the other side. In the distance behind, I heard the bleat of angry goats.
My strategy was simple: separate the horde of altered men and kill them one at a time. I no longer heard the howl of hounds or Lord Cencio’s horn.
I crouched behind bushes and waited. I might have miscalculated. The moon sank into the horizon. I would soon have to look for a place to hide. There was less than an hour until-
A bleat alerted me. I eased back a branch. Goat-men filed from behind a dirt hill. I counted nine of them. They bore axes and ropes. They were naked, although their hindquarters were hairy. Each had an outrageously sized member.
I debated ambushing them here. I would keep one alive and question him. Yet I feared that others were near. The country was too open. I tried to see if any of them had a horn. Two carried heavy sacks. They spoke in voices too low for me to catch their words.
I eased away. It was too near dawn. I should have paid closer attention to that. I slunk away and then ran. I fairly flew across the ground. Then I stumbled upon a pond and a stratagem blossomed. I did not need to breathe; they did. I waded into the pond. Muck sucked at my boots. I obliterated most of the tracks and waded toward the middle. The water rose to my waist, chest and then over my head. A catfish nosed near to investigate. I poked him. He fled in a flash of fins.
It was a good-sized pond, once likely kept for fish, ducks and cattle. The plague must have murdered the owners. The surface loomed thirty feet above my head. I crouched low and waited. I was sure the goat-men fled daylight like me and would correspondently feel compelled to catch me while it was still night.
Soon the water stirred. I squinted and thought to spy hoofs at the edge of the pond. I waited at the bottom, with a tight grin. Goat-men peered into the murky gloom. Then splashes heralded their entry. Several floundered toward me. Kicking hoofed feet little helped. They used their arms and hands.
I sprang, grabbed a sinewy arm and plunged my blade into his chest. His mouth opened and bubbles billowed upward. Four died deep in the pond. I waded up, slew two more in the shallows and chased down the seventh. The last two bleated horror and dashed faster than I could believe possible.
Dawn was minutes away. I hurried back for the pond and splashed past half-sunken corpses. Then the glimmer of sunlight made the water gleam and harsh rays slanted down like spears. I tried to remain alert as I weighted the dead with stones. The sun remorselessly gained ascendance, however, and I slumped and lost awareness.
***
The following night, I arose like a wary sea serpent and found bloody, trampled reeds.
I faded into rugged terrain. Rabbits, squirrels, even a fox, leaped in surprise as I squelched by in my waterlogged boots. Half the night passed. My garments dried out. I heard shouts then, the clangor of battle and mad piping. A horse neighed.
I broke into a sprint.
It was a hilly area, with low bushes and clumps of trees. I’d used the local road, a rutted track as before. I ran along it so my cloak flapped.
The piping was different. Last night thoughts of lust had nearly consumed me. Now fear mingled with bloodlust. Creatures bleated rage and I heard war cries and men’s shouts. The intensity of sword-strokes, of clashing steel, increased. Wood thumped, which likely meant shields absorbed otherwise debilitating cuts. I rounded a bend and jumped over a boulder. Bright light illuminated the darkness. Glass shattered. Men shouted urgent commands. The piping became crazed.
I slid behind a bush and peered at a desperate fight. Mailed men-at-arms stood in a knot, many back-to-back. They held dented shields and notched swords. Those in the middle raised torches and lanterns. One soldier wound a crossbow. Fear contorted every one of their faces. Around them in a swarming circle, savage goat-men clutched double-bladed axes. They darted in, swung and then nimbly jumped back. Beyond them strutted the muscular Goat Man. He blew his pipes and sweat slicked his hair. He had a vile grin and his eyes swirled with power.
It was a chaotic fight, and chunk by chunk, the goat-men hewed apart the terrified soldiers’ shields.
A campfire and cloaks on the ground told the story. The goat-men must have surprised the soldiers-mercenaries, I decided. Ah! Their armor gleamed. These were White Company soldiers, Englishmen.
The crossbowman slapped a bolt into his weapon, raised it and fired. The huge Goat Man ducked the bolt, and his thick fingers moved upon his vile pipes. Three goat-men leaped at the crossbowman. Men-at-arms converged. One hacked and cut a goat-man. A different goat-man loped off the man’s sword-hand. Then the three altered men jumped out of range of enemy weapons. The crossbowman, meanwhile, hurriedly rewound his weapon.
Four goat-men lay dead or dying in the glade. Three of them wore bolts in their bloody chests. Twice that many mercenaries were dead or clutched at their wounds. The mayhem of shouts, screams and savage bleats, the clash of steel, the thump of wood, the battle was brutal. The goat-men had the numbers and greater fury. The White Company mercenaries had armor and training, but the evil music meant their doom.
I had vowed to champion humanity, and I wanted to whittle down the odds. The Goat Man switched to a screeching tune. It must have been a signal. By now, some of the human shields were mere shards of wood. The mercenaries looked haggard. The mark of death was on their faces.