Religion, or whatever people believe in, is an interesting thing because it requires people to believe what they’re told. Knowledge is control over the masses. There are many cases in which control is quite forceful but religion, it would seem, is not one of these cases. People want to believe in it; not strictly believe exactly what they’re told perhaps but there are elements in sermons and preaches that adhere to what we truly want to believe in. That there is something more to life.

Nicolas Worthing
A study on the condition of being human
 

X

December, 2E.1064; on an island in the Vimé lagoon
The mist hung in the air and shrouded the vision of the horse clip-clopping its way towards the end of the long forgotten road. The rider covered his face with his hand, trying to hide the stench of the lagoon from his nose. Although the mist covered it up well the lagoon itself was not far from the side of the road. The rider could in fact hear the mud on the side of the lagoon rising into little bubbles bursting from the heat which came from underneath the lagoon. That only made the smell worse.
In the distance, through the fog, the shadow of a large circular tower could be seen looming over the road. Its top floor had been destroyed over twenty years ago by catapult fire, when Castle Dour had once been in the grip of the immortal dynasties and attacked in the Franciscan rebellion. It signalled to Giorgio that Castle Dour was no more than a hundred metres further down the road. He didn’t even look at it as he passed by, too busy trying to make out the shapes of the village surrounding the castle further down the road.
He wasn’t going to the castle though, at least not directly. He had agreed to meet the burgrave in a tavern opposite the castle called The Ugly Duck. The tavern also acted as an inn, not that there were many people to stay there. In fact, if Giorgio had cared to look at the tower as he rode past he would have seen a sign welcoming him to town, and telling him just how few people lived here; forty-two, most of whom were the soldiers who had not yet deserted.
The Ugly Duck was, thus, one of the only buildings in the village. The others being the ruined castle itself, a more practical and still standing barracks and a trade house from where all the goods were brought in by boat. Giorgio wished he come have come by boat to the long forgotten holding but had been disappointed to find that only the military services were allowed. As such it had taken him two full days and a long hard night of riding to reach the holding since leaving Vimé. He was tired, and looked terrible.
Atop his sleek black horse, dressed in fine richly coloured clothes, he looked very out of place. He regretted his choice of clothing quite a lot now but he still wanted to look regal. In fact everything counted on him looking regal.
He was now able to see the tavern; no more than a lodge made out of pine of trees and a stone chimney. He made towards a hitching post and slid off his mount. He went to saddle bags and pulled out a bag of oats which he hastily attached to the horse’s muzzle. He also pulled out a scroll protected by metal casing which he strapped to the back of his belt and a heavy coin purse which he slung over his shoulder. He straightened his collar and his sleeves and opened the door to the tavern.
No more than four people were present. One, the innkeeper, looked up from where he had been sleeping, slumped over the bar. The other three were too busy playing a game of cards to care. He stepped inside and turned to the innkeeper.
“Give me a glass of wine. Red.”
“Don’t got no wine” came a slurred reply. Giorgio raised an eyebrow; the innkeeper had clearly been drinking on the job, not uncommon in such a profession but Giorgio expected him to hold his liquor a little better.
“Okay, what do you have?”
“Brandy” the innkeeper said after taking a good long time to look Giorgio up and down as if weighing him up. He looked as if he might fall to floor and be violently sick as he spoke but Giorgio bared through it.
“Give me a glass of your best then and be quick about it. I have business to attend.”
It took some time for the innkeeper to pour out the amber liquor into a cup and when he was done he had to hold himself back from drinking it himself. Eventually he slammed it down onto the bar. Immediately after that he did collapse, falling over backwards onto the stone floor. The three men engrossed in their card game still didn’t look up. As Giorgio picked up his drink he released the man was still awake.
“You that am… am… ambassador from the big city the captain was talking about?” he mumbled slowly. Giorgio nodded as if it wasn’t obvious enough anyway. “Captain’s got a room in the back … already there, says to go on through when you arrive.” And with that the innkeeper started snoring. Giorgio took a deep breath and moved down towards the back end of the bar where he found a corridor leading out back.
There was only door at the far end of the corridor. He knocked and waited. Somebody on the other side of the door walked over and opened it. A broad shouldered man in an imperial soldier’s tunic stood in front of Giorgio.
“Ambassador Farradan” he said, considerably more lively than the barman Giorgio had encountered. Giorgio nodded and was promptly invited inside. To say the room was sparsely furnished would be an understatement, with only the table and two chairs visible. The room smelled of manure, which made Giorgio uneasy. Regardless, he pushed his chest out and stepped inside.
“Captain Monferrat, I trust you are in good health after our previous correspondence?” Giorgio asked, trying to sound as official as possible. “If it is at all possible I would like to get down to my business here without delay.” He brushed a badge emblazoned on his thick leather riding coat and sat down, taking care to detach the metal casing from his belt first.
The captain, or at least the man who seemed to be the captain looked on as Giorgio undid the buttons of his coat and let it drop down over the back of his chair. The captain, who was wearing a cloak over the top of his tunic, undid it and followed suit, sitting down opposite Giorgio. Giorgio could now see three bronze chevrons on each of the soldiers’ shoulders.
Giorgio unscrewed one of the two ends from the metal casing and withdrew the scroll hidden inside. He deftly took a ring off from his fourth finger and presented it to the captain along with the scroll. The scroll was sealed in wax and stamped with a signet, the same signet that could be seen upon the ring. Once Giorgio was sure the captain had seen the ring, thus proving legitimacy of who he was he placed it back on his finger and waited.
It had not been easy to acquire this ring. The ring officially belonged to one of the five Pentarchs of the Free Church of the Seven, the religious faith followed by the empire of Vimé. The Pentarch had not given Giorgio the ring freely as he had hoped. For two years Giorgio had schemed night and day to achieve this ring, costing him quite a bit of money, and then waited another six months for the church to calm down before he could even think of using it in his plans. It had been a long sixteen years of planning to get here today.
The captain drew a knife from his belt and broke the scrolls’ seal, then he unravelled the parchment and began to read. At first he read out loud in a quiet, stuttering, voice  and then later, when the scroll became tougher to read he stopped speaking out loud and concentrated on each word.
Giorgio knew the letter off by heart but braced himself to be peppered with questions about its content by the captain so reminded himself of its content.
The Free Church of the Seven believed in the seven aspects of humanity: the Warrior, the Hunter, the Builder, the Lover, the Priestess, the Crone and the Other. Preaching that a great and powerful force was granted to he who would adhere to the code of any of the seven the church had gained many followers in recent years. The church also preached that for those who would sin against an aspect of the seven terrible evil would befall them. Thus the church speaks also of seven powerful demons unleashed upon the world in its darkest and most impious days. The Dragon, the Chimera, the Basilisk, the Cockatrice, the Wyvern, the Kraken and the Rakktavija. These were the first heralds of plague, war, famine and death, their simple existence a warning for people and a reminder to turn to the light. The church had the power to conscript any prisoners held within the realm to create entire armies dedicated to eradicating these foul abominations wherever they may rear their ugly head. That was the law of the faith. Even political prisoners were allowed to be released from the darkest dungeons. If they died in combat against the demon they fought it would be viewed as a redemption of their crimes and in victory they would be enlisted into the army of the faith as a chief hunter of one of the seven demons.
Giorgio had, of course, completely fabricated the document that the captain was now reading, from the signet ring to the forged signatures of the five Pentarchs at its foot. In his document a wyvern had been spotted in the hinterlands around Semer, in the south of the empire. Castle Dour had never supplied conscripts to the church before, leading the document to state that until recently the church did not believe the castle held any prisoners. But now, upon finding a prisoner who used to be a captain of the Impera brigade under Victor Francisco’s rule the church was willing to use the rite of conscription.
Giorgio had conceived the document in private, ensuring that the five Pentarchs were none the wiser that there was a prisoner in Castle Dour, by finding the paperwork which had Gimignano put away and burning it. Therefore the crime which Gimignano had been accused off – terrible and horrific, had been forgotten. None now remembered the man accused of the emperors murder, and it was time for him to walk free.
It took the captain a full five minutes to get through the scroll. He put it back down upon the table and drew his own piece of parchment from a bag which lay at his feet which, up until now, Giorgio had not yet noticed. He also pulled out a quill and inkwell from the bag.
“Ambassador Farradan” the captain began. “I have here the papers for the prisoners release into the church’s custody on your behalf. The just need our signatures. But there is one thing however which complicates this matter.”
“Speak of it then” Giorgio replied. He had been expecting this.
“The prisoner you are here to collect is a political prisoner yes and you have the right to take him. However, he is an immortal. He is of house Della Arno, one of the most prestigious houses before the Franciscan revolt. Therefore the imperial senate have the right to demand his head. This precedent has been in motion longer than yours. If I allow the prisoner to leave with you the senate may yet demand my head in his place.”
“The church is well aware of this difficulty” Giorgio interrupted him. “And please, may I ensure you that your safety is paramount in these discussions. If your head is on the block so too is mine as are the heads of the five Pentarchs who as you can see have demanded this conscription. For this safety we offer you two hundred golden ducats.” Giorgio reached for the pouch of coins on his belt and flung it onto the table. The captain looked at Giorgio uneasily for a long time. Eventually he nodded his head at the bribe and signed his name on the release papers. He handed the parchment over to Giorgio who signed his own name underneath.
“It is a shock” Giorgio said “to find an immortal who is still alive within the empire. You could have given him up to the senate for just as much money any time within the last sixteen years.”
“Aye, I could’ve. But then I’d have had to share that money with everyone else here.” Giorgio looked up, his face breaking out into a wry smile. “Also, we’ve gotten to liking this here immortal. He tells good stories and keeps us awake at night with goodness knows how many tales of old.”
The captain stood up and motioned for Giorgio to follow him. He led the way out of the inn, where the bartender stared glumly and Giorgio and towards the castle.
Walking into the square courtyard he looked down towards the tiled floor. The fog rose up to his ankles. There was something supernatural about the fog here. He had heard some bad stories about Castle Dour’s past. About the immortal house which had used the holding for unspeakable deeds. Some stories said they used to crush people to death here, others claimed that they buried them alive in the marshes. Whatever else they said all the stories claimed that the blood of those who had died here was used in dark rituals to cover the castle in eternal fog, a camouflage from people wanting to avenge the dead.
He was grateful when the captain pushed open a side door to the castle. Presumably once a servants entrance the gate now led to a barracks. The captain led the way through two rooms of barracks before coming out into an old library. Immediately Giorgio noticed that where the walls looked dirty and cobwebbed the bookshelves were pristine and the books lined up alphabetically by name of author and the genre of book they were. Some of the books he noticed were incredibly tough reads, debating philosophical quandaries argued about for hundreds of years.
By now the captain had walked right the way through the library to a small barred iron door in one corner which Giorgio could see from the steps within led to one of the still standing castle towers. The captain stopped at the bottom of the tower and took a small key hanging from a nail which had been driven into the wall at a horrible angle.
“Is the prisoners cell above us, in the tower?” he asked. The captain nodded. “Then I thank you for your help captain Monferrat. I should be fine to retrieve him from here.” The captain looked at Giorgio in slight shock.
“You don’t want me up there? He won’t hurt you anyway but I thought you’d want a guard with you at the very least.”
“No. Thank you for the offer captain but I can take it from here. I won’t be needing an escort for the road back to Rialto either. It may be surprise you but please, don’t be alarmed. I can handle myself though, as you said, he won’t harm me.”
“Okay, if you erm, need anything else, I’ll be in the tavern.” And with that Giorgio was left standing alone to climb up the tower by himself. He took a deep breath and began the ascent.
When he reached the top of the tower he was met by another jail door. He looked inside the circular room. A bed and another bookshelf were up against the circular wall on one side of the room and on the opposing side there was a door which he assumed must lead out onto the privy. Lying on the bed was Gimignano.
Giorgio couldn’t see his face because it was covered by a book that he was reading but he looked more robust than he could remember: skinnier but more muscly. His clothes looked okay. He was wearing a green and blue cross-checkered tunic and brown laced leather pants. Giorgio began to feel his heart beat faster. He hadn’t seen Gimignano for sixteen years. What was he going to say to him now after so long and after so much had happened?
He rapped the iron key against the bars of the jail door, creating a reverberating ringing throughout the room. “Yes?” Gimignano said, continuing to read. Giorgio rapped the key against the bars again. This time Gimignano put the book down and noticed him.
“Hello Gimignano.” Gimignano blinked, then pinched himself, rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. Giorgio couldn’t see it when he was reading but Gimignano had let his hair grow right down to his shoulders and had grown quite the beard: big and bushy. For a moment Giorgio was quite jealous of Gimignano’s beard and then he realised that if he ever grew one he’d never get any business in banking again.
“Giorgio” Gimignano eventually stammered out and stood up. “Wh… what are you doing here?” Giorgio showed him the key and then proceeded to unlock the jail door. He handed Gimignano a copy of the release papers.
“Why I’m here to get you out of this mess. Oh, all of that nonsense on there is forged but it’s done the job – you’re a free man. Every record of your trial has been wiped from existence. Now come on and let’s go.”
Gimignano stood still for over half a minute in contemplation, in complete shock Giorgio noticed a tear well up in his eye though it did not fall down his face. Something suddenly came over Gimignano and he turned serious.
“Giorgio, the books here at castle Dour. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve learned about the immortals and our noble houses. Castle Dour was used as a bastion of knowledge for the old empire. Every recorded event from every immortal house before the Franciscan revolt is stored within the books here. If I leave here then the armed forces will have custody over that knowledge. From what I’ve read in the last sixteen years I say they should not have that knowledge. We must take it with us.”
“Gimignano, we can’t take a library’s worth of knowledge on the back of one horse.”
“Then buy the aid of the armed forces here. I’ve seen they have carriages here. Buy a carriage and buy the library from them. This knowledge is too important to let it get away. You have the money to do it.” Giorgio took a deep breath and nodded.
“Gather anything you might want to take with you right now. I’ll arrange to ship the library to my quarters in Rialto.” Giorgio sped down the stairs to see the captain again. He had a spring in his step. It was good to have Gimignano back.
*
December, 2E.1064; in the grand city of Mourn, dynastic holding of the house of Mourn.
The sun had already set when a small thin man wandered into The Crossed Keys tavern. Situated in the southern district of the city, very close to the outer wall, it was well known to residents enjoying a good reputation.
He wore a doublet of the deepest black, held together by two thick leather straps across his front and a purple cloak, cut short so that it only reached as far as his midriff even though it was draped across his arm.
At this time the crowds gathered in the tavern were considerable but they made way for him as he pushed through towards the bar where a stool waited for him. A stool always waited for him here.
In the kitchen the three serving girls noticed his arrival. The huddled together between themselves, a cheeky grin on their faces. One girl turned and smiled at the man, he smiled back. The man’s face was long and gaunt but when he smiled it seemed to light up the room, his blue eyes twinkling.
The girl who had smiled picked up a tray from the side of the kitchen and placed on it a steaming plate of rich venison, all sorts of crisp roasted vegetables, buttery mashed potatoes and the thickest gravy imaginable. This was topped off with half a loaf of fresh bread and a bottle of red wine. The man was expected. When she served him he caught hold of her hand. His grip was firm, but soft; his hands supple he drew her gaze.
“Have you thought about my offer?” he whispered in her ear as he dragged her closer. She nodded; at that moment the innkeeper called her back into the kitchen and shut the door. The man turned away but couldn’t escape the innkeepers gaze.
“You never know when to quit do you Tancredi? Four of my girls you’ve slept with in the last month and you’re not slowing down. Were I in their position I’d be more careful.”
“I must be doing something right then” the man, who was apparently called Tancredi replied. The innkeeper shot him a venomous look, the man knew he had wronged him. “I admit that was crude of me. I humbly apologise.”
“For all my warnings about you I won’t stop them making their own choices. Now eat up.” Tancredi dropped his head a little to acknowledge thanks to the innkeeper for accepting his apology. Were this any other inn or any other landlord he would have been thrown in the dungeon by now, Tancredi was grateful for what he had although sometimes he did not show it.
That is not to say that The Crossed Keys had a particularly seedy reputation. Quite the opposite in fact, but Tancredi was renowned for his boyishly good looks all across the city. He had not yet fallen foul of the authorities for his adultery; either by the husbands of the women he knew or by the guards who were paid by the husbands to find out who their wives were also lying with. This was, to Tancredi, both a huge boon and a terrible threat. He knew one day it would all be over, but not yet. And for as long as it wasn’t over yet … why stop?
An hour later the crowd was beginning to disperse. Those who had come for only a meal were obliged to leave after their meal so others had the chance to eat too. The later the night got the more you saw the tavern’s most revered patrons, who would come not for its food drink but for entertainment. There was all sorts of entertainment here: musicians, gamblers, dancers, private dancers and … the list went on.
Tancredi was watching a troupe of violinists from Galamar as he finished the last of his wine and stood up to leave. He left several silver crowns for the innkeeper next to his plate and wandered out into the night air. He didn’t bother looking around but headed straight down a small alleyway which ran along the back of the inn towards a small staff garden. Jumping over the gate he walked up to the back entrance of the kitchen door and knocked on it three times. Then he waited a few seconds before knocking twice more. He stepped back and waited.
After a moment the door swung open from the inside to reveal the serving girl he had been speaking with earlier that night.
“It is a cool night milady, would you like a walk upon the city walls?” the young women smiled, puffing out her cheeks.
“How, milord, do you suggest we reach said walls. I have seen the guards massing on the city wall all day. Will you reveal to me you are secretly a general of good King Thyssen’s forces?”
“A little mystery is good milady, but if you wish to learn my secrets then please, walk with me” she smiled again. Tancredi knew her mind was already made up long before he had arrived tonight. She stepped out into the garden and closed the door behind herself. Tancredi took her left hand and kissed it softly. Before leading her by her hand out of the garden and away from the inn.
He hadn’t noticed it earlier but as he walked past Tancredi saw a large sheet of parchment nailed to the wall outside the entrance to the tavern. It was a proclamation from the city guard. It read as follows:

Cockatrice Sighted!
The blasphemous beast has been sighted in the southern fields of our city! Our gracious King, Thyssen Mourn, has sworn to grant a knighthood to the person who may bring him the head of the monster! In addition, by Royal decree, the lives of the prisoners of the crown are forfeit to this danger! Until the monster lies dead this city is not safe! All labourers are to report to the armoury, torches will be given out and any crop which the beast poisons with its foul being must be purged by fire!  

Tancredi stuck to the alleyways, meandering his way towards to the city wall which toward above them some twenty metres into the sky. The walked slowly, enjoying the cool breeze that Tancredi had promised. Eventually they arrived at a large seemingly run-down tower with a thick wooden door. A small postern led through the wall a small walk further down.
The door opened easily; no key was needed and Tancredi didn’t have to force the door open, just push it. He stepped in first and then invited his companion inside. The interior looked like a messy guards watchtower, cobwebs lining the surface of the floor and the ceiling. Numerous smashed barrels lined the walls, stacked upon each other. The only other piece of furniture was a door in the ceiling leading to the floor above. A wooden ladder was built in the wall leading up to it.
“This is what they call the ruined tower, if you would believe it” Tancredi said, fumbling in a pouch on his belt for something which turned out to be an iron key. He walked up to the trapdoor and opened it, leading the way upstairs. The look on the girls face when he turned around said it all.
The so called ‘ruined tower’ was not ruined at all. The first floor of the tower was lavish. Where the tower should have led out onto the wall it was bricked up. Regal tapestries adorned three of the four walls and, instead of a wall overlooking the fields below was a beautifully constructed marble balcony carefully hidden by the façade of a wrecked wall. A marble table with an intricate glass carafe and numerous glasses was laid out in the centre of the room as if it were used for formal gatherings.
Tancredi closed the trapdoor behind the girl before stepping over to her.
“Well?” he asked. “How do you like it here? This place is not what you were expecting I imagine.” She laughed out loud and drew him to her. He kissed her and the night began to turn into a euphoric blur in his memory.
*
When Tancredi woke up it was with the sudden urgency that something bad had happened or was about to happen. He blinked and looked up at the ceiling. He looked around. The sun had already risen and he was alone. A shame he thought, he would have liked some company for the day.
It was at the moment that he decided to get dressed when he suddenly heard voices coming from down below. Panic struck him like it had never done so before. He’d never heard voices from below before. His first instinct was to lock the trapdoor. The moment after he realised that whoever was below him probably had a key as well. Scooping up his clothes he tried to dress as fast as could possibly could but he was too slow.
Tancredi ran towards the balcony. On nothing but adrenaline he skittered up marble pillars holding the floor upright and, just as the trapdoor burst open, pulled himself up above the room. From here he stood up above the balcony but was still too low to climb up to the battlements, not that he could anyway – the guards would surely see him and throw him in jail for trespassing. He was, in effect, trapped. He could only do one thing: sit down on the roof above the balcony and look out over the south fields. And then he saw it.
Upon seeing the cockatrice Tancredi immediately lay down on the roof of the balcony trying to hide from plain view. He hoped the monster hadn’t seen him and he wished he hadn’t seen the monster.
The Cockatrice was a hideous, deformed and perverted monster a little taller than the size of a full grown man. It looked a little like a chicken at first but it could not be. No chicken was hideous like this was.
Its face looked burnt, as if it had been held against a roaring fire, searing its skin, and survived the torment. It two wings were scaled like a lizards and a single row of jet black feathers shot out from its wing bones. Each wing had four long and sharp curved claws at the ends of them. It’s breast was large, puffed out further than Tancredi could have thought possible, making its muscular lizard-scaled legs look miniscule behind its torso. But the most scary thing was its tail. The Cockatrice had a long, smooth tail which flicked this way and that as Tancredi stared at it. It reminded him of a rats tail but much more putrid, as if ten thousand diseases sat on that tail. And he could smell the plague on it all the way from the top of the balcony.
At this moment in time the monster was feeding on a cow it had killed. It’s beak crunched and gnawed at the dead animal, snapping what resistance the cows bones gave with ease. Tancredi was reminded by this that he had not had breakfast yet. He began to feel slightly sick.
“Hideous beast” someone said already directly below him. “I curse its creation. It’s unnatural I tell you.”
“Hear, hear” came a second voice. “You speak the truth Lord Ostin. I am grateful that you invite me to your tower so that I may witness its execution first hand.”
“I thank you for your kind words your grace and hope that this undesirable affair will be over soon.”
Tancredi suddenly realised who it was in the tower beneath him: Lord Ostin, the arch-chancellor of the city and Thyssen Mourn, King of the realm himself. He tried to take deep breaths, breathing as slowly and as quietly as he could hoping that none below could hear him. He himself could hear that there was one more man below him, who had not said anything as yet: Lord Ostin’s squire perhaps?
“My Lord Ostin!” someone suddenly shouted from right the very bottom of the tower. “The city guard have mustered the prisoners by the postern. At your command they will engage the monster.”
“Very good. Have them sent in now, and bring the arbalesters up onto the battlements. We may kill the beast from their fire if all else fails.” A creaking suddenly emerged from further down the wall. Tancredi watched as prisoners taken from the dungeons were pushed out into the field from within the city by guards: fodder for the beast to kill. From above him Tancredi could hear soldiers moving into position to shoot the cockatrice from on high.
“Ser Mikken” Ostin turned to the third and final person in the room. “Pour some wine for myself and the King. The fight is about to begin.”
It seemed the King had brought his own wine to witness the fight. Tancredi resigned himself to a full day of fearing himself caught trespassing. As Ser Mikken was pouring out the wine into two glasses the monster looked up, noticing the scared looking men creeping towards it sheepishly. More prey. It seemed the prisoners were being let through only a few at a time, so as to make it entertainment for the nobles. The cockatrice roared. It clearly had powerful throat muscles, the loud Caw-Caw sound it emanated stopped the prisoners right in their tracks.
The Cockatrice turned to face them and, as it did so, the whole bloody affair began.
Two men stood against the monster, shoulders together. The Cockatrice stalked forwards slowly, snapping its beak together menacing as it did so. Of the two prisoners one stood rooted in place in complete fear of his fate while the second found only the courage to edge backwards slowly.
The Cockatrice suddenly shot forward in one exceptionally fast motion. Using its legs to kick itself off the ground it flapped its wings and launched its head forwards with immense power. Tancredi was in shock and fear at the level which the monster could open its jaw  and then snap it shut. It snapped shut against the head of the scared man who stood rooted in place as his head was ripped off from the eyes upwards. A fountain of blood erupted from the remains of the poor soul who dropped to the floor. The second man turned and fled shouting in fear, waving his arms erratically. The beast was on him instantly.
Launching itself at its second victim the monster plunged its claws deep in the man’s back and used its weight to push him into the dirt where a crushing bite of its jaws into the man’s back was enough to kill again.
“Such power can only come from its blasphemous origins your grace. The man who created this beast as penance for his sins must be a wicked person indeed” Lord Ostin said out loud.
“And instead of searching for this sinner you decide to execute others who crimes, I wager, range from stealing a loaf of bread to beating one’s wife. They weren’t criminals out there, they were victims” Tancredi thought to himself.
The iron postern creaked open again. This time three men were visibly forced out into the field from within the city. The guard forcing them out held a whip and knout beating them towards the beast. He looked more like a slave-driver than a guard.
This time the Cockatrice slew three prisoners. The first easily dispatched as the beast slashed its sharp claws across his face forcing the man onto his knees clutching his bleeding face. Continuing its devastating move forwards the cockatrice slammed its body into the second victim of this wave, who hit the third prisoner and both collapsed to the floor. The monster easily stepped over the two scared bodies and finished them off.
“Five corpses in such quick time Lord Ostin. Maybe we should just call the arbalesters and be done with it?”
“And leave these criminals standing my King? Both the Cockatrice and these men deserve to die. At least wait until the opportune time.”
“I suppose you are right Ostin. Ser Mikken, more wine please.”
For a third time the iron gate creaked open and the slave-driver pushed three more people out into the field to die. The Cockatrice was now much closer to the postern than it had been at the start of the battle. But it was closer to the tower than the postern. Tancredi could look down over the balcony and see the red fish eyes of the fiend staring back at him less than two dozen metres away. And the cockatrice was about to close that distance down drastically.
The cockatrice leapt up in the air again and launched itself at the balcony with all the force it could muster. The beast shattered the balcony with its force. The marble balcony fell to the floor and shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. Up on the roof above the balcony Tancredi held on for dear life.
King Thyssen was not so lucky. He had been standing on the balcony when it had been smashed and had fallen down onto the field of battle below. The cockatrice hovered in mid-air for a split second where the balcony had been and then made to swoop down up the King ending his life.
The King would have died then and there had it not been for Ser Mikken, busy pouring wine at the time of the Cockatrice’s attack he was safe from its assault. He charged into the overgrown bird and tumbled to the floor with it, wrestling the beast as best he could. At first Tancredi thought Ser Mikken stupid then he realised Ser Mikken was a knight, and what does a knight not do for his king?
The Cockatrice threw Ser Mikken of itself in a fury and rolled onto its front to stand up. Ser Mikken rolled over a few times before he too stood up, his armour was scratched and muddied. Thyssen, who had already stood up now stood scared himself but, from somewhere he found his voice.
“Arbalesters. I am your King, fire at will! Kill this beast!”
“Belay that!” Ser Mikken roared, he had a deep voice. His sword had come out of its sheath during the scuffle and was now halfway between himself and the Cockatrice. He had to reach it first.
“You are too close to the Cockatrice your Grace, a killing bolt may strike you instead of its intended target.”
The Cockatrice suddenly launched itself towards Ser Mikken, raising itself off the ground for an aerial attack at the first foe it had fought today. Ser Mikken dived underneath the outstretched claws of the beast, rolled, and sprang forwards, collecting his sword and pulling it up to his centre, turning to face the monster again, ready to do battle.
The Cockatrice flew a complete semi-circle in mid-air and locked its vision in on Ser Mikken once again. Come close to him its raised its claws and then dived for him in dramatic fashion.
Ser Mikken stepped to his left, moving out of the way of the oncoming monster and, raising his sword up high, brought it slashing down against the elongated neck of the beast as it thrust its jaws forward to snap at where Ser Mikken’s head had just been. The sword cut clean through the beasts neck, tearing it off from the body and killing it in one fell strike.
As the now lifeless body of the cockatrice slumped to the floor from mid-air it rolled over on the ground, the head rolled right up to the King, who vomited upon it reaching him.
The three prisoners who had been forced to fighting this wave looked at each other and found the strength to attack the guard who was their slave-driver. They had him surrounded and then the high pitched whistle crossbow fire kicked in, the screams of three people dying horrifically hit the ears of everyone in the vicinity. Tancredi hid himself completely from sight fearing that the King would look back to the balcony and see him.
The King did turn and look towards the balcony where Lord Ostrin stood dumbfounded at what he had just witnessed. Ser Mikken offered the King a hand to his feet, which was gratefully accepted and the King addressed the city guard.
“Ostrin, you bastard! This infernal tower of yours almost killed me! Guards, seize the arch-chancellor immediately.!” In the room below Tancredi all seemed quiet at first then the uniform sound of marching troops grew louder and Lord Ostrin was taken away. Ser Mikken looked into King Thyssen’s eyes, there was something in them he had never expected to see from Thyssen before: cold hatred.
“Ser Mikken, the prisoners were tasked with saving this city from this beast. They failed. For that I sentence them to die. Those who sinned created the Cockatrice with their blasphemy. I name you the Lord of a new military unit with full powers hunting down these sinners so the monsters may never be born: I cacciatori di mostro.”
*
Gimignano stood at the balcony overlooking the young boys who Giorgio had paid to carry the books from the boat to his home. From Castle Dour they had rode back to Vimé and caught a ship direct to Rialto. It had been no more than a two day journey and though he had caught a sea breeze on the boat there was no maritime smell quite like Rialto anywhere else in the world. He breathed it in deep, surrendering his senses to the overwhelming feeling coursing through his body at the thought of being home again after so long, after so many years.
Giorgio was in the next room, laying out a map of the world on a large oak table. After some time Giorgio called Gimignano over to him. Upon turning he saw not only a map but what looked like a cluttered mess on the table.
“That’s not the world as I remember it” Gimignano stated.
“Of course it’s not. After the death of Victor Francisco the feudal lords of the new continent held a council between themselves, in which they declared independence from the empire. The imperial regency council … accepted. Now we have over a dozen new realms across the sea. Kingdoms, Grand Duchies, Merchant Republics. And the empire has no claim on any of these lands.”
“And are these new realms themselves … stable?”
“For now, yes. Although tensions are beginning to rise between the merchant republics, who are lending the southern lords money, and the northerners, who they are not. People in newfound power always rock the boat however – we will see what happens in the future.”
“It all seems a bit convenient doesn’t it? The emperor dies, an entire continent declares independence and now there’s no way to know what they’re scheming over. Not that I would want to know.”
“Well, you’ve hit the nail on the head it seems” Giorgio clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “But I think this was going on before the emperor’s death.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Firstly, the new world is a place where anyone can become lost in. In the last ten years it’s feared all manner of criminals and degenerates have fled across the Burning Sea to escape imperial justice. Even before the Emperors murder I know for a fact a great number of immortals fled as far as they could. And now they’re untouchable.”
“This going where I think you’re going with this Giorgio?”
“Yes. I’m certain Manuss Ofelia and his conspiracy fled there as well.”
Something stirred within Gimignano at hearing that name. A flash of white hot anger and then the burning sensation of his guts being wrenched out. And then fear, unquenchable fear. Before Gimignano had rushed headlong into the pain inflicted upon him by Manuss’ conspiracy, never imagining what he was getting into. Manuss had played him for a fool, and he could do it again if he wanted to. It was worth the risk.
“I’m in. If there’s a chance to find the truth again, I’m in.”
“But here’s the rub. Shortly after the assassination the ship Manuss sailed out of Vimé in was spotted in Ballon. A day later the ship was reported destroyed off the coast of Léo, though the wreckage itself was never confirmed. There has been no trace of Manuss Ofelia or any other immortal we once knew, despite my donations to the numerous world banks.”
“However, there are reports of immortals in similar cases to ours.” As Giorgio spoke he reached down to one side and picked up two pawns from a chess set. He dropped one pawn on top of the Kingdom of Brokka. “In Brokka for instance, the Baroness Ysabel Colucci of Tarle, of the once revered House Colucci, was once accused of assassinating King Elsweyn’s daughter. An utterly ridiculous accusation if I say so myself. She was imprisoned until last year when released on condition that her nephew, and heir, take her place. The investigation is ongoing to this day.” He dropped the second pawn onto the republic of Vox.
“And in Vox the numerous donations I have sent to the merchant banks have all been swallowed up. Upon investigation I was given the message “House de Busca appreciates your donation for the betterment of it’s people. Except House de Busca was entirely wiped out a dozen years ago. I sent someone to investigate – I never heard anything until a month ago when he sent a message telling me he was in grave danger of being assassinated and he was running to Mourn. Are you seeing another coincidence Gimignano? Threats and assassinations. We can’t stay in Rialto I’m afraid. We’re getting the first vessel to Mourn.”
“And if it’s a trap?” Gimignano asked.
“Pray that it isn’t.”