Farther back Orlando and thirty knights checked their horses. Despite the jungle, the knights wore plate armor and carried lances, swords and mauls. It told me they meant to fight in the open, which meant either the clearing or the causeway. Signor Orlando spoke to his knights. By his tone, he extorted them. Then he reached for a sword, the scabbard strapped to his saddle. Orlando drew a large sword that glowed in the dark. The knights stirred. Several cheered.
I shook my head in awe. I knew the tales, the poems and minstrel songs. That had to be the magic sword Durendal. The legends of mad Orlando told how he had sought Durendal and Angelica. Ah. I’d also overhead Erasmo in Perugia. He’d spoken about the sword and the woman as Orlando’s payment for service. So why had Erasmo already paid him with Durendal? Maybe it meant Erasmo was desperate. Perhaps he was hurt worse than anyone realized. Tonight it meant that Signor Orlando would be like a god of war. The legends of him and his sword-I had to warn da Canale. He had to warn Hawkwood.
I almost slipped away then, but I saw the Goat Man, the muscular satyr I’d fought before. He strode toward the tents and he wore a turban. I could only suppose the crossbow bolt was still lodged in his forehead. He must have wished that hidden.
At the sight of him, the many kinds of altered men grew tense. Some flapped their tentacles. Others bleated fearfully, while others gnashed fangs. They watched the Goat Man. What looked like apprentice sorcerers-they wore purple robes-hurried after him. Two lugged a heavy chest. One reverently carried an ivory case. That one opened the case and proffered it to the Goat Man.
I craned for a better look. So did many altered men. They grew restless, maybe nervous. The Goat Man raised his hated pipes.
Apprentice sorcerers opened the chest and wrestled out a large idol of the Cloaked Man. By its weight and the way firelight glimmered off it, it appeared to be a golden idol. Countless octo-men, satyrs and beastly men bowed to it. The human hounds barked softly or moaned in dread.
The apprentices staggered while they carried the idol into the largest tent. The Goat Man licked his lips. His grip tightened around his pipes. In a sudden, jerky move, he turned and lunged into the tent after the apprentices.
I waited. The altered men waited. Many shook with fear. I wondered how this helped them prepare to fight.
Eerie piping began. It was a horrible sound, like something from the depths of Hell. Shrieks erupted from within the tent, possibly from the apprentices. A reddish flash illuminated the leathery innards of the tent. The apprentice sorcerers were outlined against the tent wall. The bigger Goat Man danced an obscene jig as he played his pipes. He seemed to face the golden idol. Smoke drifted from the tent flaps and it reeked of brimstone.
Savage-eyed apprentices soon staggered out, their faces a mixture of horror and evil cruelty. They grabbed the nearest octo-men by their tentacles. The pitiful altered men moaned. Two snarled, and I thought they would wrap their rubbery limbs around the apprentices like octopi and squeeze them to death. Instead, the apprentices spoke sharply. The angry octo-men wilted. Each of the chosen meekly followed the apprentices into the tent.
The Goat Man, his hairy chest slick with sweat, bounded out of the tent and to the next one. There he repeated his performance. Apprentices had carted a Cloaked Man idol into each. Those apprentices dragged other hounds, goat-men and those with fangs for teeth into the tents.
The combined sounds were ghastly, and the feel of evil grew. Then I sensed a grim presence, and something like a dark cloud descended on each tent. The tents shook as if in a gale, flapping madly. Howls and shrieks erupted, the cries of lost souls. Soon, the gale-like flapping stopped. Every altered man outside the tents lay prostrate and trembling. Then a tent-flap opened. Octo-men staggered out. They seemed blind or stupefied and dripped with sweat. Limp apprentices staggered out after them. They hurried to piles of swords, spears and axes and shoved a weapon into each altered man’s grasp. Then the apprentices aimed the dazed creatures west toward the jungle.
A tent-flap moved again. The turbaned Goat Man emerged. He wore the evilest smile I’d ever seen.
Apprentices now ran to the trees and pulled back vines. They plunged into the jungle and the Goat Man began to play his pipes. The chosen altered men followed like automatons.
I’d seen enough. I raced through the jungle ahead of them. Fronds slapped me. Mist parted and roots vainly tried to trip me. I had to warn da Canale and his men about what was going to happen.
— 27-
The battle began with bestially howls as if from a cardinal’s torture chamber in Avignon. Then creatures bounded out of the forest. They had the form of the various altered men, some with sleek fur and others with mottled skin. They all bellowed, foamed at the mouth and charged the mantelets. They attacked in great bounding leaps. They came from three separate directions. Their speed was fantastic, the leaps incredible. One after another, altered men crashed against the mantelets. Others bounded over and into the protective circle. They hewed manically. Men screamed and died. I stabbed with my deathblade as da Canale shouted orders.
Wood flew in chunks from the mantelets. The various altered men fought with more than ferocious courage. Spit foamed from their fanged maws. They shrugged off terrible wounds. One octo-man yanked down a mantelet with a single tentacle. The other rubbery limb squirmed in the mud, hacked off by a knight. A wild-eyed spearman stabbed a goat-man in the belly. The creature shrieked and surged forward. The spear went deeper into his body and out the back. The crazed madman reached for the spearman. The spearman let go and turned to run. The goat-man stumbled after him. I stabbed the sobbing creature with the deathblade.
The selected altered men were berserk in the truest sense of the word. They were possessed as vile piping drove them to even greater acts of mayhem. Behind them followed the rest of the altered men, those that had watched what had gone on in the tents instead of being part of the sorcerous rite.
I glimpsed the Goat Man as he stood at the edge of the clearing. He danced and played. Sweat dripped from his chin and from his billy-goat beard. Apprentice sorcerers surrounded him, as did several big goat-men with battleaxes.
All around me, mantelets crashed to the ground. A sea of maniacal, altered faces stared with unholy bloodlust. The possessed hurled themselves upon us. The others followed, chanted and butchered the wounded.
“We must retreat!” a knight roared.
Another knight blew a trumpet. Several seconds later, a distant trumpet sounded.
“If that’s help,” I shouted into da Canale’s ear, “it will never reach us in time.”
A frenzied hound leaped at da Canale as he turned to answer me. No. I needed this particular mercenary. I leaped at the human beast, caught it in the air, slammed it down and shoved my deathblade into its snarling teeth.
We broke under the berserk attacks. Some men-at-arms simply ran in panic. Some bore ghastly wounds and remained in the shattered fort. Most of those fought until foaming creatures slaughtered them. Da Canale, a knot of knights, several crossbowmen and I bitterly fought as rearguard as others marched toward the wooden road. I turned often and ducked under wildly slashing weapons, to stab in return. Crossbowmen drilled their heavy bolts. Still, the altered men pulled us down one by one.
Through the mist, I glimpsed a purple-robed apprentice peer out of the jungle. He might have seen me, for he disappeared into the foliage. Moments later, jungle growth jerked there. Then a crocodile shot into sight. There were roars and hisses. Bigger reptilian monsters followed. They charged out of the swamp. It was a terrible sight. The armored crocodiles ran on stumpy legs. They ran with surprising speed.