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 seemed 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.
“He’s destroying our world,” I said.
A tight smile stretched those battles-scarred lips. He poured himself more wine.
I eased onto my toes and then settled back onto my heels. Could my deathblade pierce his armor? Was it enchanted? Maybe I could walk away, assemble my blowpipe and pepper his face with poisoned darts. I should have already assembled it.
“You’re a persistent bugger,” he said.
“I almost had him on the dead Earth. You walked away from the cave, remember?”
“Killing him there would have been bad for all of us,” he said.
“It would have saved our Earth.”
Orlando shook his head. “The Earth is finished like an old whore. The other Lords of Night all have plans. Erasmo just happens to be the first to try his.”
“Why do you protect him?” I asked.
He patted Durendal, and for a moment, something else appeared on his face. Maybe it was a lost memory of honor.
“How does blowing the trumpet help you find Angelica?” I asked.
He tilted his head as if he found me strange. The all-red eyes became unsettling. I saw his ruthlessness. He killed like other men ate food.