The Goat Man lifted his horned head star-ward and seemed to play his tunes to them. The lesser goat-men tensed, ready to spring upon the mercenaries. This time, I did not think the altered men would leap back, but rush in like wolves for the final kill.
I drew my deathblade. I rose up and charged the muscular Goat Man.
— 23-
Battle is a strange beast. It is a thing of muscle, sinew, nerves and courage. The greatest element of a fight is winning.
It is also important to remember that a primordial monster lives in most men. To hack, hurt your foe and remain sound is one of the headiest feelings possible. Men do not fight to test themselves, although a soldier is tested. Men do not normally fight in a hopeless battle, although many are caught in hopeless situations. The soldier fights to see his foe turn tail and run. Then a savage animal is born as the howling bloodlust takes over. The terror of steel swung in your face, the grim thought of watching your arm loped off, turns into blazing relief when your foe runs away. That relief is transformed into rage at him who just threatened you. The rage becomes joy unspeakable. The physical need to hack your sword into his back, to watch him topple, it is a bestial thing and makes for murderous victories.
It also means that in fights between groups the rear is always the most vulnerable spot. A group of soldiers cannot march on a foe if his backside is exposed to enemy attack. The soldier must turn and protect himself. It is a basic instinct. That is why the mercenaries had clumped into a group, gone back to back.
I shouted at the goat-men. I charged out of the dark. I raced at their backs. That stole much of their forward momentum against the mercenaries. That stoppage caused others on the far side of the doomed circle to hesitate.
The second most vulnerable spot against a group of soldiers is their mind. Anything that surprises can cause confusion, hesitation and then panic.
I bellowed the Perugian war cry. Several goat-men saw me at once. They saw me race down the slope. I saw their gaze dart past me. For the obvious conclusion, for them, was that a lone man does not charge a soon-to-be victorious company of altered creatures. That would be insanely unmilitary. Seeing me, they expected others. Their question would be ‘how many others rushed them?’
Even though the Goat Man played his maddening pipes, his charges looked longer than they should have.
I hurled a rock with my left hand. The Goat Man nimbly ducked it. He was amazingly quick. He aimed his pipes at me and blasted a sickening tune.
Fear shivered through me like a spear in the guts, maddening panic. However, the purpose of a knight’s long training was to gird his soul with relentless courage. As Roger of Hoveden had once written: ‘He who has seen his blood flowing, who has felt his teeth cracking under an opponent’s blow, who has lain on the ground with his enemy over him, and still has not lost his courage, he who has been thrown to the ground time after time, only the more staunchly to stand up again-he may go into battle with high hopes. For virtue grows when it is irritated, but a soul that gives in to fear has only fleeting glory.’
My years of training as squire and knight now clamped down upon this wretched fear. And maybe being the Darkling gave me added courage. I flashed my deathblade, snarled and advanced at a trot.
The huge Goat Man lowered his pipes in astonishment. It was then I noticed a strong, musky odor. He reeked of it.
“Look at me, mortal,” he said. “Gaze into my eyes.”
I looked. His eyes seemed like pinwheels, swirling numbness into my mind. I shook my head, and my left hand touched my belt where my coin lay hidden. Greater fear entered me. This was no mere altered man. The Goat Man seemed ancient. Pan, I realized, or the Old One from eons past. He was the one men poorly remembered, making fanciful legends of Pan that were much too lighthearted.
“Are you a mortal man?” he bleated.
His goat-men held back, confused. The mercenaries waited, exhausted, watching us. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the crossbowman fit a bolt into his weapon.
The Goat Man’s eyebrows rose toward the two obscene horns that sprouted from his forehead. “You serve the Moon Bitch,” he said. “You’re the one the Lord of Night wants?”
“Are you his servant?” I sneered.
“You shall linger long and painfully for that remark.”
“Mulciber forged this,” I said, showing him the deathblade. “You’d do well to fear it.”
I think I saw fear in his strange eyes. I also heard a crossbow release. The Goat Man turned, but too late-or maybe just in time. The stubby iron bolt pierced his forehead to become a third and feathered horn. It staggered him, and the herd of goat-men groaned in dismay.
The leader did not collapse, however. He gave a fierce cry, and he leaped at me. He was fast, and he lowered his head like a charging beast. He tried to rake me with his horns. I twisted and slashed. I heard a horrified bleat and felt my blade cut skin. Then the Goat Man was past me. He moved in great bounding leaps, full of vigorous life. He fled. If the bolt had entered his brain, it lacked killing power. Or maybe Old Ones were dreadfully hard to kill.
The remaining goat-men cried out in misery. They lost their courage and glanced about like frightened animals.
The White Company mercenaries surely sensed this. They were among the fiercest killers known. Their captain, a big man with a snarled red beard, bellowed a war cry, and he led the charge. Despite their nearly useless shields, notched swords and battered armor, the mercenaries began to slaughter the goat-men, who finally broke and ran pell-mell.
I decided to kill more of them before their leader recovered and re-gathered his herd. So I followed the altered men into the darkness, stabbing as I ran.
***
An hour later, I retuned to the mercenary camp. Men shouted. Lanterns lifted, and the crossbowman raised his weapon.
“I’m a friend!” I said.
They crouched tensely around campfires. The toughest arose with spear or sword. Many lay on bloody cloaks, some dead, some coughing out their last. Only a handful appeared to be in any condition to fight. One of those was a big man about my size. He had a red beard and wore iron gauntlets. I recognized him as the captain Ofelia had once hired. His leveled sword gleamed, which meant he must have already wiped it down and filed out the worst nicks.
“It’s him,” the big man said. “Lower your crossbow.”
I strode out of the darkness. I’m not sure what they saw. They gave me wary looks. As the lanterns and firelight washed over me, many glanced at each other. Faces tightened. Some looked frightened.
“That was a brave stand,” I said. My voice made some mercenaries flinch.
The leader peered at me closely. He bit his lip. Then he made a show of sheathing his sword. He strode out and held out his hand.
“I’m Carlo da Canale of Pisa, signor.” His English accent was thick.
I nodded, and decided it would be unwise to tell him my real name.
“I’m Paolo Orsini,” I said. He had been my marshal, my second in command while I was prince of Perugia.
Da Canale cocked an eyebrow. “You look familiar to me, signor. Have we met before?”
“It’s possible,” I said, “although I think I would remember a fighting man like you.”
Da Canale grinned within his bushy beard. “Make way,” he said. “Give our savior room.”
Men scooted aside. I sat on a log and rubbed my hands over the flames as if for warmth.
“We have water, signor,” Da Canale said.
I glanced at a nearby bowl, towel and bar of soap. “Thank you,” I said. I scrubbed my face, hands and washed my hair. The crossbowman handed me a comb.
“It’s a gift,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, and I ran it through my hair.
“You’re human after all,” Da Canale told me.
Several men-at-arms laughed uneasily.