Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods) by Vaughn Heppner Page B

invisible gambler and a priestess of the Moon. Lorelei had claimed to be immortal. Here were normal people. They wore holiday finery, although a feeling of fear pervaded among them. Many glanced at a group of men and women who stood apart in the shadows.
    Maybe those were Erasmo’s people. Those others wore cloth of gold garments and stood among velvet banners. They had silk jackets and fur capes. Yet their heavy faces, their facial scars and brutish mien spoke of peasants. A priest stood with them. He had his hands tied behind his back, and by his purpled face had taken a beating.
    That seemed wrong. Yes, there was a feeling of wrongness here. Despite the holiday finery, the people were tense and kept glancing at the other group.
    A bearded fat man detached himself from the shadowed group and approached the dancers. He sauntered like a knight, dressed like a prince in tight hose and yet had the features of a town butcher. He raised meaty hands as one who held authority. When the dancers noticed that, they left the fire and flocked around him. They had sweaty faces and many breathed heavily. I debated climbing my boulder as they circled him. They blocked my view.
    My coin seemed to grow heavier then. But the Moon Lady’s warning only increased my desire to stay.
    The butcher spoke. At least, I presumed he did. He had a strangely high voice, although the villagers listened raptly.
    He said, “The clergy tell us they know why we die. They say we’re wicked. They say if we pray in the churches, if we give them extra florins they’ll beg the saints to help us. We’ve prayed. We’ve paid, and yet people die like sheep among raving wolves. The saints are deaf. The priests are liars and death stalks us unmercifully. We’ve all lost kin. We’ve all fled doomed villages, or many of us have. I’ve seen death everywhere. I’ve seen it in Milan. It rages in France.”
    The butcher worked himself into a passion. I’d seen his type before in taverns: the drunkards who bellowed before they rose up to fight. Dogs had to growl and bark first. His words entranced the people and more than one glanced at the bound priest. Did they mean to hang the poor fellow?
    Maybe my curiosity dulled my caution. Maybe I’d grown weary of the Moon Lady’s nagging. Maybe it was because they were ordinary folk. His speech and their dance were extraordinary. I wanted to know more, even told myself I needed knowledge of this so-called changed world if I were to outwit Erasmo.
    I left the boulder and strode to the back of the crowd. I sidled next to a man who stood apart from others. He wore elaborate leather boots that reached his mid-thighs. He had a long face and a wide-brimmed hat with a crow’s feather. The hat and boots declared him a noble. The crow’s feather seemed strange. It should have been an ostrich feather.
    I nodded as he glanced at me. “Who is he?” I whispered.
    The noble stared at me too long. Maybe this had been a mistake. Could people sense my difference?
    “Are you new here?” He whispered hoarsely and without moving his lips.
    “…I fled my village,” I said.
    He nodded as if understanding, although his lips twitched, perhaps in mockery.
    I realized my garments and cloak were well tailored. I’d foolishly picked a peasant persona. “I noticed the fire,” I said. “I’m hungry.”
    “They’ll be food afterward. First the flagellants must help expedite our sins.”
    “The speaker is a…flagellant?” I asked.
    “You’ve never heard of them?” The noble seemed more amused by the moment.
    I shook my head.
    He adjusted the brim of his hat, leaned closer. “The priests are powerless against the plague. Or so the flagellant says. If it is sins that have caused this—”
    “The Great Mortality?” I asked.
    “The Black Death,” he whispered. “That’s what we call it. Prayers are no good, so the flagellants practice harsher methods.”
    The noble’s lips had remained motionless throughout his whisperings. It