image [https://cdn.midjourney.com/42a7be48-a003-4aac-ae1f-ff141015c02f/0_1.png]
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New Reality: 23 February 1525, Northern Italy.
The February morning was cold, wet, and unpleasant, yet Ardent felt just a slight shiver despite being dressed in a light attire. He credited this fact to his new powers. His horse neighed, asking for attention, the condottiere had forgotten to feed him the usual treat.
"Sorry, Dragon." He patted the black steed's neck, and the animal snorted back. "I'll give you something nice when we get back."
They exited the hunting park the French army had transformed into their base and headed toward the main enemy encampment, to the east. Francis had sent a prior parley delegation to announce the main parley delegation would follow, just in case some idiotic arquebusier would take a shot at them.
Salvatore wasn't a good rider, Ardent noticed. He trailed behind, barely maintaining a semblance of equilibrium on his mount. This was surprising, considering how long the man had lived, and that at that time, no faster way of moving over land existed.
"Say, Salvatore… What's in for you?" he asked abruptly. "Why did you bother changing history?"
There was no answer, for a good while. "Err… the usual, kid. There is some time in life when you start to think about helping your fellow human beings…"
Ardent snorted. "I've heard the 'for the greater good' bullshit too many times. What about giving me the truth for a change?"
"To be honest, I was an adrenaline junkie… and one thing led to another," Salvatore scratched the back of his head grimacing sheepishly. "But it's also true that a new reality, one with the System, enhances everyone's quality of life. That said, getting there is difficult."
"Let me guess? History is a bitch?"
"Exactly. Very hard to change. If you'd shot Hitler—"
"Who?"
"A mad tyrant from the future. I was saying, that if you shoot him, but another tyrant takes his place and does the same thing, the main reality will put itself back together, and the ones who tried to change it will be destroyed in the process. I took a big risk here, kid… We'll chat later, we're almost there."
A group of riders, heavy cavalry, came to meet them, an escort. Ten minutes later, after Ardent surrendered his sword and daggers, they were led into a large tent, more austere than the French King's one, made to hold meetings, not for living. A lonely brazier produced more smoke than true heat.
The Inspect Ardent threw around displayed tags over everyone's heads. Names and titles, only he and Salvatore had a class.
"State your business, and be brief," one of the men said with a hoarse voice. Fernando d'Ávalos was the name displayed on his tag when Ardent Inspected around. Marquis of Pescara, the title, in small letters underneath. The one who had devised the plan for the Spanish victory in the main history line. A day in the future, and a universe apart.
"I have a chest tied to the back of my horse. Would your Grace be kind enough to order your men to bring it inside?" Salvatore said.
The marquis raised a brow at first, nodding at one of the four men at arms that stood guard in the tent. "Inspect it first," he added.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The guard exited at a brisk pace, only to rush back ten seconds later, panting, his eyes almost jumping out of his head, both from the surprise and the weight of the chest he let go on the ground a yard from the entrance. "It's g-gold…" he stuttered, opening the lid, letting countless shining coins be seen, then taking back his guarding position.
"Ten thousand ducats," Salvatore stated. "It's an offer of peace for His Majesty King Charles. Please hear us out," he rushed to say, as the Spaniard's hand was moving toward the sword.
"You think you can bribe us?" another man asked at the same time. His tag said: Charles de Lannoy. A Flemish noble, Ardent remembered from… wookiepodolia? He didn't remember well the strange database's name.
"The quarrel between France and Spain is purposeless," the young condottiere spoke, trying to sound convincing. "There are bigger fish to fry. The Turk will try to take Hungary, next year, and Vienna will follow. They must be stopped. The King of France proposes this:
"Our army will retreat to Milan, then leave Italy. Your army will go to Naples. The North is to be free of both our and your influence, they'll manage themselves. The south is yours. Like the Noyon treaty, but better for you. The gold is a token of our good faith. Here are some letters from our king to yours, reinforcing our words with His Majesty's signature," Ardent threw a bundle of missives on the table.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Salvatore asked in a soft voice.
"Ah, yes," Ardent slapped his forehead. "We know about your plan, breaching the park wall and all. If you still attack, the retribution will be swift and final. I think this covers it. We bid you farewell, gentleman."
He bowed, not deeply, just enough to allow the men in the tent to make up their minds. A wave of hand from d'Ávalos signaled the guards to let them go. They exited the tent, followed by the Spanish soldiers, who took sentinel positions on the sides of the tent, while the envoys went their way.
It was a neatly organized encampment, albeit the signs of disease and lack of food started to show. Some soldiers were lying around, apathetic, others had tired eyes and their cheeks' skin showed the bones underneath. In truth, the Spaniards' victory from the mainline history was a last Hail Mary.
Desperate men are the most dangerous, Ardent thought, spurring his stead.
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A minute after the three emissaries left, d'Ávalos crossed his arms and let himself fall on his chair. "What do you make of this?"
"They must be as tired as we are," Lannoy said. "But if they leave, we can ambush them on the road."
"The landsknechts won't take the peace, whatever we do, and neither Bourbon," d'Ávalos's cousin said. "And this gold allows us to pay the mercenaries. I say to go for the kill, then His Majesty can sort it out about the Turks. If the information is true."
"It is," Lannoy nodded. "France has courted the pagans for a few years now. I wonder why they changed their minds and want to stop, not bed them."
Closing his eyes, the commander took his forehead into his right palm, massaging it. "So be it. We go on with the attack, but instead of breaching their encampment, we—"
"Some people can't take a hint, can they?" a voice said.
"Who's there?" d'Ávalos jumped to his feet, unsheathing his sword.
"It's me, deary. Your treasure."
The voice belonged to the chest. From the top of the half-open lid, two snailish eye stalks emerged, and from the bottom, four stumpy legs. All of a sudden, a long tongue erupted out, arching in the air. D'Ávalos's cousin hissed from the neck, his slit throat spewing blood and air like a fountain, then collapsed. In the same motion, the tongue grabbed Lannoy, pulling him closer. The lid snapped down, cutting his head clean. After a few sickly chewing and sucking noises, the skull, cleaned of every trace of meat, was spat outside.
"Sorcery," d'Ávalos mumbled, crossing himself, then trying to step back, only to trip and fall. And then, the chest approached, with a weird, tortured walking, akin to the midgets the Spanish king kept as buffoons, and wrapped its tongue around the marquis' neck. He hit the monster's tongue with his dagger, but the weapon broke, doing no damage.
"My master let you live, and you insult his generosity with treachery?" The inhuman voice said with an echo that no natural being could produce.
"Lord, have mercy," D'Ávalos closed his eyes, praying, his members too feeble to fight back.
The tension holding his throat relaxed a notch. "My master asks: do you wish to live? Nod if so… Good," The tongue retreated, but not before leaving a disgusting lick on the man's cheek. "My master orders are this: Retreat or die. Take the letters to Charles. Say the two idiots killed each other. Any army of yours north of Rome after the end of March will be destroyed. It's our only warning."
Albeit the chest's voice had no accent, its color was so spooky that D'Ávalos shivered. Under his eyes, the trunk became invisible, starting with the tongue and finishing with the short legs. The tent's fabric moved for a second, and then there was only silence. The man's hand moved up, trying to cross himself again, but he fainted before completing the gesture.