After many miles the hills began to separate in front of them and Felix descended into a lush expanse of emerald-green fields.
Tugging gently on the reins, guiding his horse down a tight irrigation ditch. He leaned forward in the saddle, brushing a hand over the foliage. The resinous sap clung to his fingertips, sticky and pungent. The tall plants swayed with the faint breeze, their slender stalks crowned by seven-pointed leaves glistening with dew. Some bore delicate yellow flowers that had a musky, aromatic quality that was at times overpowering.
Upon reaching the end of the field, a modest farmhouse and several outbuildings appeared. They had white walls and were topped with bright red clay shingles that blazed in the midday sun. Having traveled from Egypt to Edinburgh, Felix knew no more charming a place than the Italian countryside. What a waste, he thought, that it knew nothing but war in its long history. But even a diamond must first be dug from the dirt.
A man appeared from the farmhouse. He was tall, ducking his head to manage his way through the doorway, with long blond hair and a fair beard. He was wrapped in a tawny shirt that hung loosely from his heavy, muscled form. He was a head or two larger than Felix, who was already uncommonly tall himself. His eyes fell on Felix, widening in recognition.
“DeWintwer!” he called.
Felix grinned and spurred his horse forward, bringing it to a halt just before the man. Swinging down from the saddle, he hit the ground in a cloud of dust and embraced the giant, his arms barely reaching around him.
“Tabor! It is good to see you, friend.” Felix relinquished the hug and looked up at Tabor, who was smiling with a toothy grin. “It’s been too long.”
“Honestly,” began Tabor, his voice deep and booming, “I was certain that you had been killed.”
Felix smirked, brushing dust from his travel-worn coat. “Many have tried. I remain disappointingly alive.”
“And I see that you’ve brought a guest.” Tabor looked down to Caesar, the goat’s mouth filled with green leaves from the field, chewing them side to side.
“Aye,” Felix replied. “He insisted on coming along. I’m beginning to think it’s more stubborn than I am.”
Tabor let out a roar of laughter. “Then he’s perfect company. Come, tell me—what brings you to Umbria?”
“I could ask you the same. Why aren’t you fighting in Lombardy? You’re a Lombard, are you not?”
Tabor let out a deep chuckle. “I am Norman, firstly, and Lombard second, and I have lost my taste for warfare. And besides, whose side would I take? I care little for the Visconti in Milan or the Venetians. The Visconti believe they’re exacting the will of a giant serpent. They speak of it in private. They feed it children in a demonic ritual, I’ve heard.”
“A devilish child-devouring serpent, you say? Truly alarming, if true. And what of Venice?”
“Venetians are no better. Slavers. Those men and women they sell in their markets look more like me than these olive-skinned Latins, especially the sharp-eyed Sardinians.” Tabor looked Felix up and down. “Say, what manner are you, DeWinter?”
“I don’t know for certain. My lineage is a wave that has crashed across the mutable borders of this plagued continent. English, French, Dutch—it hardly matters. I am assuredly a product of conquering barbarians and the women they ravaged.”
Tabor grimaced. “Is that what you think of barbarians? Do you think low of the Normans and the Lombards? It was not long ago my people conquered much of Italy. Twice. And stole your Pope.”
“Aye. I wish you had kept him.”
“You speak blasphemy, but it’s why I like you, DeWinter. Quite the contradiction. A holy warrior so full of contempt for that which is holy.”
Flex tossed up his arms. “God is good, it is men who are failable.”
“Spoken like a true sinner,” Tabor chuckled. “It’s the Venetians that have failed. They’ve lost their fleet. Can you believe it?” Tabor let out another boisterous laugh. “A city built on water, losing their ships! They say a hundred galleys, either captured or sunk to the bottom of the Po.”
“They should not have engaged in the river. War galleys need open water to maneuver,” replied Felix. He knew the Poe River well, he had crossed it a hundred times. It split northern Italy in half through the middle and was a direct route from Venice to Milan on the other side of the peninsula.
“Aye, that’s true,” said Tabor, nodding, a thick finger rubbing his chin. “But they keep expanding. They call it their terraferma. And while we fight amongst ourselves, sapping our strength, the Turks continue to consolidate. Soon, there will be nothing to stop them.” Tabor’s look hardened, his mind roaming somewhere distant. And then, coming back to his senses, his eyes sparkled and he snapped his meaty fingers. “What we need is wine.”
Felix had no time to protest before he was stolen away into the farmhouse. It was odd for Felix to see Tabor this way—bright and beaming. They had campaigned together across three continents, faced innumerable odds, and always managed to come out with their heads still attached. To Felix, Tabor was a man who looked underdressed when not covered in the splatter of blood. Armed with his axe, he was a frenzied berserker, an ulfwerener, a blood-drunk madman who delivered withering fear into whole regiments of men. Those who dared step forward were split in half by his axe, nape to neck. But the quiet life of a farmer seemed to suit him, and he had earned his peace.
The interior of the farmhouse was a far cry from the lavishness of Rome’s palaces, but it was comfortable and filled with the familiar scent of leather and forge. Tabor gestured toward a table laden with blank pages.
“Come, sit. I’ve taken up bookmaking, and I’m growing hemp for paper,” Tabor said, his pride evident. “The Church even pays me for thirty percent of the yield. Quite profitable, I must say.”
Felix raised an eyebrow. “Paper for their manuscripts?”
“Not quite,” Tabor replied with a sly grin. “Just the plant oil. Curious, isn’t it? The Church has its reasons, though I’ve never quite understood them myself.”
Felix took interest in a set of white brigandine armor in the corner. Tabor took notice.
“Do you like it?”
“What is it made of?”
“These wonderful plants can make more than paper.”
“Surely you wouldn’t wear paper armor.”
“It’s strong! Hemp cordage is among the toughest there is. I have woven it with steel beneath. It’s soft as silk, drapes like linen, and is as snug as fleece. It is the armor of Alexander the Great during his conquest of Persia.”
“I think you’ve been around your herb too long, my friend.”
“Ha! You’ll see,” boomed Tabor, retrieving a bottle of wine and two wooden mugs from a shelf behind him.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Felix let his hand slide to the leather holster at his waist. “I also have something to show you.”
Felix retrieved the pistol from its satchel and gently dropped it on the table. “A trophy of sorts.”
Tabor locked eyes on the weapon from above his wine cup. After a hearty gulp he said, “I’ve never seen its make.”
Tabor gingerly lifted the device with his free hand, and inspected the round mechanism fixed to the handle.
“I liberated it from an armory in Bohemia. They had collected the very best clockmakers in Germania to create it.”
Tabor furrowed his brow. “Then there are more of these?”
“This was a first attempt, I believe. A gift for one-eyed general Jan Zizka before he went fully blind. If my mission was successful, there will not be. The Church is set on stopping the advancement of these firearms.”
“I was there at the Battle of Deutschbrod. Gunwagons tearing through heavily armored Teutonic knights like we were wearing butter. It was a massacre, and we barely survived by fleeing over a half-frozen river. My mercenary company vowed to never fight again. It is God’s justice that Jan Zizka died of old age, undefeated.” Tabor shivered and inspected the pistol again. “And what of these clockmakers? Can they make more?”
“Their tongues were cut out. They will not share its making.”
Tabor flexed and eyebrow. “You did this?”
“No, they were cut out before. A sorcerer engineer called Ruprecht Von Trest is the true maker. He had kidnapped the clockmakers and cut out their tongues to keep his secrets. I was able to free them, and in exchange, they will not make his weapons again.”
Tabors eyes widened. “The man you speak of, this sorcerer engineer, he is here. In Foligno.”
Felix reached for the gun and stuffed it back into the satchel on his waist. “Here?”
“The Castilian of Foligno is arming himself and his army with these new weapons.”
Felix shook his head. “Why arm himself with foreign weapons? Umbria is within the Papacy’s protection.”
“Foligno plans to leave the Papal States and ally with the Venetians. They are in open rebellion. That would, of course, put a Venetian dagger at Rome’s throat.”
“This is a cursed age.”
“The world has changed,” said Tabor gruffly. “The Teutonic knights are losing to gunwagons in the east, and the French are losing to canons in the west. An armored lancer no longer rules the battlefield. Whatever age we exist in, we are at its end.”
“The English still prefer the bow.”
“An English bowman takes a lifetime to train.” Tabor pointed a thick finger at the weapon now covered on Felix’s belt. “That takes but a day.”
Before Felix could reply, a distant commotion reached them—hoofbeats and shouts. Felix’s hand instinctively moved to his smallsword, but Tabor grabbed his arm
Felix and Tabor exited into the evening air, and were met with twenty men in the colors of Foligno surrounding the farmstead, their horses stamping and snorting in the fading sunlight. The man in front had gaunt, hollowed cheeks adorned with a jet black curling mustache.
“I am Baldassarr Cellini, Marshal of Foligno. And you,” he pointed, “must be Felix DeWinter. We were told you were traveling with a goat.” His eyes shot to Caesar.
Renzo, Felix thought. The backstabber. In his quest for favor he had sold out Felix to their shared enemy. Felix undid his belt and handed it to Tabor, and held out his hands showing that he was unarmed. Tabor accepted the belt, fixed with Felix’s sword and pistol, and moved it behind his back.
“Do we have business?” asked Felix.
“We are wary of Vatican spies, and we must bring you back to the fortress of Foligno for questioning.”
“Very well,” said Felix. He leaned in to Tabor. “Watch over Caesar,” he said softly. “And do not eat him.”
Tabor did not laugh this time. He seemed to have much distrust for these men, and his face was a mask of concern.
Felix was forced to walk. It was a humiliation, but Felix held his head high. They would not break him so easily.
Foligno was a beautiful city, admittedly. It had the old trappings, like most Italian cities, of towering aqueducts suspended on arched pillars that supplied fresh water to its people. The common folk walked down its streets under a fading sun going about their business, unaware of the war that was coming for them.
They arrived at the seat of power, a modern fortress at the center of the city, the Palazzo Trinci. It was a marriage of the old Roman style and gothic architecture. A labyrinth of arcaded passages and high walls with small slits for windows, preserving much of the old structure it was erected on top of.
The men dismounted and ushered Felix into a great hall. Golden light spilled from candelabras, reflecting off frescoed ceilings that depicted constellations as though the Trinci family believed themselves anointed by the stars. Rhea Sivlia, the mother of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, was pictured falling in love with Mars. A veneration of their lost history, and fall from greatness, was something all Italians shared.
At a golden throne sat a pampered man wearing a great red robe flanked by magistrates and clergy. His hair was perfectly quaffed and soaked in oils to give it the shine of royalty. This was the Castillan of Foligno.
Baldassarr Cellini, the marshal who had escorted Felix, stepped forward and bent low to Corrado’s ear. His whispered words drew a dark scowl from the Castilian.
“A spy?” Corrado’s voice rose, heavy with indignation. His sharp gaze turned to Felix. “And the Church sends its hound into my den.”
He rose from his seat, his robe pooling on the floor like spilled blood. “I am Corrado the Third Trinci, Castilian of Foligno, lord of Palazzo Trinci. We are not aligned, DeWinter. Speak—why are you here?”
Felix kept his tone even. “I was visiting a friend. I had no intention to linger.”
“And your mission?”
“I am tasked by the Holy See to travel to Normandy.”
“Normandy is a long way, witch hunter. What is it the cardinals call you? The Canis Dei?”
“They do.”
“And what brings you sniffing around here, hound?”
“I have no business here. I am merely passing through.”
Corrado’s sneer deepened. “I have declared my independence from Rome. And yet, here you are—their pet assassin. Do you mean to kill me, hound?”
“That depends,” Felix replied, his voice flat. “Have you sinned?”
Gasps rippled through the court. Corrado’s face darkened, his fist tightening around the jeweled hilt of his ceremonial dagger. “You dare?” Corrado sneered.
Felix stepped forward, his boots echoing in the silent hall. “I know of you, Corrado. You and your brothers went hunting, and only you returned. How fortunate that your elder siblings met such tragic ends, leaving you sole heir to this city.”
Corrado’s composure cracked as he stormed toward Felix. “We were betrayed by Pietro di Rasiglia, the castellan of Nocera Umbra. He murdered them, and I took my revenge. I marched my army into his city and I took it. He threw his children and then his wife from his tower rather than submit, before leaping himself. I am without sin.”
“Then I have no purpose here. I will leave.”
“No, dog. You will certainly not be leaving,” Corrado’s voice thundered. He raised a hand and the men surrounding Felix grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to his knees. “Fetch the torturer! We will pry your secrets from you, Canis Dei.”
Baldassarr Cellini cleared his throat delicately. “The torturer is out today, his wife had a baby this morning.”
Corrado blinked, momentarily disarmed. “Oh. Well... send him a wine from me. What pairs best with a birth? Perhaps a pinot?”
Felix, even on his knees, smirked faintly. “A Sardinian cannonau would be more fitting.”
Corrado cocked his head, the faintest trace of amusement breaking through his irritation. “A fine suggestion, DeWinter. Now someone fetch the backup torturer!”
Baldassarr hesitated. “It is his birthday, my lord. He has taken the day off.”
The Castilian’s face went purple with anger and he stomped his foot. “Will no one torture this man?”
“I’ll do it,” came a voice.
A man in a dark cloak emerged from behind the throne, his voice tinged with a thick Bohemian accent. “They call you the Hound of God in Italy,” the man said, his lips curling into a razor-thin sneer. “But in Germania, you are known as The Hexenjager.”
The man pulled back his hood. He was slim, but tall, with a flattened nose and greasy black hair slicked back on his head like tar. “I am Ruprecht of Trest, and I believe you stole something of mine.”
Corrado’s laugh rang out. “Ah! The engineer works more than steel, it seems,” said Corrado. “With his canons we will see our great city finally free of the Church.”
“It is a great honor to serve you. And for this man,” he said looking to Felix with the hunger of a slavering wolf, “I have questions of my own…”