Tilea, IC 2342. A story-campaign in the making.

Prologue

The Heavies
Early Spring, IC 2342
Campogrotta, Northern Tilea

“Is anyone coming?” asked little Franci, employing the loudest whisper he dared.

“Can’t see no one,” came Paulo’s similarly loud, yet supposedly hushed, reply.

Although not entirely satisfied by his friend’s answer, due to the fact that Paulo had a habit of not getting things quite right, Franci went back to the task in hand. He had counted three piglets, all asleep lying by their grunting mother. There were probably several more hidden in the shadows, but he wanted only one. A lone missing piglet, he hoped, would not even be noticed. The merchant family who owned the yard were rich and surely above such small incidents? This yard was not even their main yard, merely one amongst several clusters of houses surrounding their palazzo. Inside they had a proper courtyard, with statues and a fountain instead of pigpens.

Tiptoeing in silence – easy enough for a barefoot boy – Franci began his approach. Behind him Paulo squatted silently in the gateway to the yard, the only sound being the creaking of an unlit lantern hanging by a rusted hook outside. Paulo had set it swaying it when he extinguished it moments before, but he would rather have the slight sound than the light it previously cast on the gateway. This close to dawn a dulled lantern was by itself no strange thing, for few candles lasted all night.



Franci now stopped right before the pigpen’s doorway and scrutinised the slumbering creatures to ascertain which would be the easiest to snatch. He’d like to take the fattest or the silliest looking one, for such would make for more fun in the game, but the current situation called for taking the one easiest to extract. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he thought, especially when dawn’s light was only minutes away when no doubt the first of the merchant’s servants would start to emerge from the doors all around. Besides, the guard dog he had befriended with the gift of a dead cony was busy licking its lips and might well decide to announce with a bark that it wanted more.

Suddenly Paulo’s strained voice hissed across the yard: “A light! I can see light.”

Franci glanced up and saw only the dark sky of a cloudy night. Then it occurred to him that his friend did not mean the first rays of the sun.

“What light? Where?” he snapped.

The pigs grunted, the dog whimpered.

“Down there,” said Paulo unhelpfully.

Franki turned to see if his friend was pointing. As he was not, he was forced to ask again, “Where?”

“The corner, around the corner.”

Paulo frowned. “How can you see it if it’s around the corner.”

“No, it’s coming around the corner. Listen.”

“How can I listen for a ...?” began Franci in exasperation, but then fell silent, deciding that whether or not his friend was making any sense, he ought to do what was asked. After all, the Wizard-Lord Niccolo hanged folk for pinching less than a piglet, so caution was his watchword right now.

Almost immediately, he heard it: heavy boot-steps, probably iron-shod, pounding the hard dirt of the alley to the side of the yard. Not Wizard-Lord Niccolo’s men, but worse – his brutes!

Realising his friend was still squatting at the threshold of the gate, Franki hissed: “Get back, Paulo!”

“Just want to get a little look-see at them,” Paulo answered, strangely calm.

Franki felt frozen, caught fast in a sickening moment, unable to take his eyes off Paulo’s shadowy form silhouetted in the gateway, unable to move his limbs.



Then, suddenly, Paulo ducked back inside the yard, the motion somehow releasing Franki. Forgetting all about piglets, he hurled himself over to the wall his friend was now hidden behind. When he arrived, Paulo winked.

“Best place here,” he whispered, “‘cos they can’t see us even if they look through the gate while they pass.”

But the worst place ever, thought Franki, if it is this yard was the one the brutes were heading for. Being caught outside after curfew was bad enough. Being caught in a yard you had no right to be in was much worse. Worst of all was being caught by Wizard-Lord Niccolo’s brutes. The tyrant of Campogrotta had an entire regiment of mercenary ogres and through them he held the sort of sway over the city that even his wicked father and infamous grandfather would have thought impressive. No-one grumbled audible grievances against Niccolo Bentiglovio as they had done against the previous tyrants.

Franki was too young to remember the old lords, but he was wise enough to see that people had found a novel depth to their fear; that life was harder than before. For an afternoon game of chase with a piglet in the market square the worse one might expect was that an ogre would eat the pig. But put on a poppet play making fun of the Bentiglovio family and it might be you that gets eaten by the ogres.

“They’ve gone past,” said Paulo, still exhibiting no apparent sign of fear.

Franki exhaled. He had been unwittingly holding his breath, as the sound of the real Ogre’s boots merged with the nightmarish images of imaginary, brutish teeth tearing human flesh. He looked at his friend.

“You got an agreement with Fortuna tonight, Paulo?” he asked. “Because if not, I don’t see how you’re so calm.”

Paulo smiled innocently, as if he did not quite understand what Franki was saying.

“Let’s go see what they’re up to,” he suggested. And before Franki could grab him to stop him, he was out the gate and creeping down the street.

“No, let’s not,” Franki found himself saying, even though his friend was already gone.

For a moment he just sat there, then he saw the dog was back up on its feet, directing a mean stare his way. “Then again …” he said, letting the words trail off, and ran off after Paulo.

Twice he caught glimpses of his friend just at the point he turned this way or that - just enough to stay on his track. He caught up with him only when Paulo slowed to a halt behind some large casks standing at the side of Spello Square, probably discarded when Niccolo’s brutes had taken their fill of the wine. The first hint of sunlight was beginning to colour the sky behind them, picking out the lighter stone of the line of statues before the opposite wall.

The boys did not notice such subtleties, however, for there was something more horribly fascinating to watch in the centre of the square.

“They found someone,” said Franki needlessly. “A boy, not much older than me.”

Paulo’s eyes widened, though it seemed to Franki an expression more to do with sudden understanding than fear.

“That could have been us,” Paulo said.

Franki nodded his head slowly. “Thank the gods it wasn’t.”

The brutes, each one sporting a spiked helm fitted so tightly they looked like they had been hammered on, had formed a circle, their naked steel blades longer than a full grown man.



It was a ridiculous sight, akin to a pride of lions hunting a mouse. The ogres did not speak, instead issuing guttural snorts and guffaws, as if they found the situation amusing. One of the brutes suddenly shouted “Boo!” Then as the others broke into growled laughter, he clutched his enormous sword with both hands and took a step forwards.

“I ain’t watching,” announced Franki, tugging at his friend’s tunic. “C’mon, let’s go now.”

Paulo stood up slowly, nodding. “Aye,” he said, and turned to join Franki’s flight from the square.

“D’you know that lad’s name?” Franki asked as they ran through the shadows.

“Never seen him before. Why?”

“I’d have liked to put his name in my prayer to Morr.”

A Holy War
Early Spring, IC 2342
Remas, Tilea



“It is almost time, your holiness,” came Father Mariano’s gentle voice from the doorway.

Frederigo did not turn to look at the man, nor did he reply, distracted as he was by the fact he could delay the decision no longer.

Should he meet the emissary?

It was not, perhaps should not be, an easy decision. If he chose not to, a potentially great opportunity might slip through his fingers, but if he did and it became known he had done so, he risked utter ruin. No man entered lightly into any sort of alliance with a ratto uomo.

He could end this right now. It would be the easy thing to do, perhaps the safest course of action. He trusted Father Mariano, his principal servant and adviser, implicitly, so if he took the matter no further then knowledge of this and the emissary’s previous communications could remain secret. Unless, that is, the emissary chose to reveal it?

Glancing at the door, he saw Father Mariano standing silently, his clasped hands emerging from the copious sleeves of his grey cassock, his vermillion zucchetto cap seeming to be lined with the close curls of his almost white hair. Having done what he had been asked to do, the old priest seemed content, as ever, to await further instructions. His presence was reassuring. Frederigo allowed that feeling to calm his mind a little and clear some room for simple, rational thought.



He glanced once more at the parchment. The strangely worded writing was extraordinarily neat, in a hand the like of which he had never witnessed any man or woman employ. Perhaps, he thought, clawed fingers necessitate an unusual calligraphy? The ink was of a dark green hue – a colour unusual enough that he had been careful so far not to touch the markings, rather to hold it only by the blank spaces at the margins. In such matters, he knew from countless tales of assassinations, one cannot be too careful. Yet the message did seem to be writ in exactly the same hand as the missive of three years ago, which had proved not only safe to handle, but vital to his safety.

“This is for the eyes of the magnificent great Ordini, over-lord ruler of the Man Church of Death, from he who warned saved you before. You know I can write speak the truth. This here now is also true. My last warning kept you safe alive, but here soon, if when you meet me, I can will offer much much more. It will be to your my benefit, for we share the same enemies, which should must make us necessary allies. Meet me at the at the place your servant was given this, exactly one day from the time it was given, and you shall hear know the truth.”

The emissary was well informed, for the place mentioned was beside the route of Frederigo’s regular weekly perambulation. If it were not the case that the emissary had saved him from a previous assassination attempt, he would have been concerned that such a creature knew his movements so well, and in fact could meet so easily with his servant there. Yet the spot was the perfect place for a secret meeting, a place of shadows within his own palazzo precincts which did not require any suspicious alteration of his usual movements.

He inhaled deeply and asked, “The guards, are they well chosen?”

“Both are honourable, obedient to the church and devout followers of Morr,” answered Father Mariano. “They will say nothing if commanded so to do.”

Frederigo raised his eyes. “Then give them the command and we shall go.”

A minute later and the little party was making its way down the hallway towards the door to the palazzo gardens.



Frederigo knew he must go about his walk in his usual manner, step by step. Thus if any spies noted his passing, they would see only what he always did at this hour upon this day of the week: nothing remarkable, nothing new. As for when he came upon the proposed meeting place, he would have to assume that the emissary would see to it that there were no unwanted witnesses. The archlector had a feeling that such a creature was probably much better experienced at ensuring secrecy and privacy than any amongst his own court.

He supposed that other men might well be apprehensive concerning such an encounter, but now he had decided it must be done, his petty worries sloughed away. He did not consider whether the guards could really be trusted, both to protect him should it prove necessary and to keep silent concerning what was said. Father Mariano had vouched for them and that was all he needed to know. They would be the best his guard had to offer, and should they prove a disappointment, Father Mariano would no doubt see to it that they were suitably ‘corrected’; silenced if necessary. Nor did he allow fears concerning what might be said by the emissary to assail him. After all the risks he had taken to get where he was now - ruler of the Church of Morr, the richest, most powerful and respected church in Tilea - tonight’s encounter was seemed no more dangerous than so many others.

The spot chosen by the emissary was beside the ruins of an ancient, tumbledown Temple, said to have been torn apart during legendary wars against the demonic servants of ruinous powers. The site was considered sacred, even though scholars and priests could not agree exactly which particular god the temple was dedicated too. It had acquired the name of Tempio Dimenticato, and decades ago a low wall had been placed about it to mark out its hallowed, if unclear, precinct. Its uncertain origins meant that it had never been demolished for fear of angering an ancient deity, nor – for just the same reason - had it been re-dedicated to one of the current gods of the realm.

As soon as the temple came into view, Frederigo could see signs of occupation – two half-shuttered lanterns beckoned, like eyes, clearly meant as a signal. As the party approached closer, both lights were suddenly hidden, their work done, and a hunched, robed figure strode confidently over the ancient steps, staff in hand and with an long snout protruding from its crooked hood.



The two guards hurried to take position either side of the creature, one holding his viciously serrated sword at his front in readiness to cut very cruelly should he be commanded to do so. The archlector felt his stomach tighten at the sight of that which he had come to treat with. There was no denying this anxiety, for here was the fanged, furry face of something very definitely outside of his understanding, a meeting very much heretical to the church’s professed practices.

The emissary’s snarling hiss of a voice did not make things seem any less strange.

“Greetings, yes, yes, greetings most willingly given,” he began. “Words I have for you, important, crucial. Words you must hear know. But …” The emissary glanced at two soldiers and the priest, “… words for you and you alone. Yes?”



Frederigo, his mouth dry, nodded, “As you wish.”

Gesturing with his hand, he signalled that the two of them might proceed alone – a sign meant not only for the emissary but also to reassure the guards that it was indeed his wish to do so. Then, side-by-side, he and the emissary made their way around the ruins to the far side, there to talk where they could not be heard.

A sealed letter delivered to the Castel Santangleo

This to His Eminence Frederigo Ordini, ArchLector of Morr, Lord of Remas
Written on the fourteenth day of Spring, IC 2342

Concerning Father Sagrannalo of the city of Trantio

I have willingly followed your instructions to the best of my abilities. None could have suspected that I served as your eyes and ears, for I was but one man amongst many, in a crowd containing a good number of foreigners. Nor was I the only one scribbling down Father Sagrannalo’s words.

I shall begin with the man himself. He is an impressive orator, but that much is evident from the fact that his fame has spread throughout the length and breadth of Tilea. The multitude hangs upon his every word, indeed great sighs and gasps greet his pronouncements. The great concourse of citizens believe him, even though he has done nothing extraordinary to compel them to do so. They seem to take it for granted that he converses with gods. The nature of the tricks he deploys to keep his audience in thrall is a subtle art, and I confess I find it impossible fully to fathom. The people of Trantio certainly do not think themselves gullible nor simple, in truth they have all the refinements that education and wealth provide, yet they seem not to doubt the veracity of any part of Sagrannalo’s utterances. They express their admiration openly, shed tears at his warnings and admonitions, and finally make solemn promises to mend their ways.

There are some - outside the temple - who complain about him, but only when in their cups and in the company of their most trusted friends. And yes, one may find men in Trantio who denounce him openly, but all such seem to be rogues or foolish, witless fellows who care not for their own safety or reputation, or have no honour left to maintain. The better sort have nothing at all bad to say of him, although what proportion do so out of fear of the consequences and what do so out of genuine acceptance of his vision I know not. I am a stranger here, and thus cannot easily gain access to whispered confidences.

Sagrannalo is but a small man, black haired with an ugly face sporting fleshy lips and a misshapen nose, yet his eyes flash with the liveliness of the inward spirit which drives him on. His fasting has made him gaunt and it is said that beneath his humble, grey, woollen cassock his body is criss-crossed with the scars of his self-scourging. For his sermon he wore a simple Morrite chasuble of vermilion, unadorned with lace or braiding, with nothing more than a cord of hemp about his neck upon which hung a simple wooden prayer rod.



Now to his sermon, in terms of its content and how each specific part was received. He began by praising Trantio’s actions in revolting against the Medizi and reforming their ancient Republic. This suited well the mood of the people.

“I say to you, and in saying I speak with the words of the gods, that as there is no one god raised above all others, then there is no one man greater than all the rest. As it is in heaven, where each god is master of his own office, so it ought to be here in the world below. The Church of Morr recognises that men look to the great god of death with more fear than the other gods. This is so because he rules us in the afterlife - death is his dominion. It is only right and proper that we mortals show him all due respect with offerings and prayers, for he will become upon our departure from life our lord for all time. But that is then and this is now, and here, in this place at this time, we are alive and must bow to every god, give each one their due. And while we recognise the dominion of each - Shallya’s healing, Myrmidia’s war, Mercopio’s money and Verena’s truth – we thus serve no one single god, but whichever god rules over our current cares and concerns, hopes and desires.”

So he first tells them what they already know to be true, even if it might mean they fail to favour Morr above all gods as is right and proper for men to do. But then he makes his real point, which is political and not religious.

“There is no tyrant in heaven. Nor should we allow one here in the world below. We rid ourselves of the Medizi despot and so Trantio took a step closer to a heavenly state. Our city is ruled by the people, every elected officer having authority over his allotted sphere. If the burden is too much for one man, understandable in that we are all mere mortals, then a committee is fashioned to govern this concern and that venture. Even this makes us like unto the gods, for a committee’s conjoined minds approach somewhat closer to the great wisdom of the immortals.”

Hearing his praise, the crowd feel very pleased with themselves. They have done well and it has been recognised by a great man. Thus he sets them momentarily at their ease, so that when the warning comes it is made more fearful by the sudden change in mood.

“But we have taken only one small step closer to heaven. The journey is far from complete. There are still a great many things in Trantio that are wicked, foolish and wrong in the eyes of Morr. Great will be the suffering he metes out to all among us who revel in such a sinful life: to burn for all eternity, to scream endlessly. I see here before me many, and I do mean many, doomed to such torment if they do not mend their ways. My eyes reveal that which you cannot see: the flickering sparks of sin already sufficiently hot to light the flames of hell; the smouldering embers of your base desires all too easily fanned by Morr’s righteous wind into a raging fire so hot your spiritual skins roast and blister until eyeballs burst, guts boil and the very marrow drips from your bones.”

Now he has sown great terrors amongst the crowd, that they might all the better listen to his lesson concerning their sins. His eyes dance about the multitude in such a clever manner that all come to believe he looked directly at them. And though it were only a momentary glance, they shiver at the shock of it and believe their true souls have been revealed.

As for the nature of their wickedness, he wastes no time in explaining.

“The Medizi adorned their homes with works of art, vainglorious statues, gold and silver vanities of every kind. Yet did any one of them take such things with them to Morr’s realm when they died? Did they prettify the afterlife with paintings and tapestries, gilded glasses and silver lace? Such things are the trappings of greed in the here and now, proof of puerile pride, ludicrous luxury and vile vanity. Such things are not worthy of the good citizens of our great Republic, nor are they goodly in the eyes of Morr. Clever Mercopio rules over wealth and all things gained by trade and industry, good management and careful investment, yet even he has no truck with base gluttony and vainglorious opulence. To hoard gaudy treasures is to deny mortality, to defy Morr. You cannot take it with you! Such fine works are fitting for temple and shrine, to give praise to the gods, but not for hearth and home, for palazzo and castle, to glorify yourselves. Do you love mammon more than Morr? Do you think to shun mortality and become one of the undead? Will you sink so low as adorn your rotting corpse with jewels and silken cloth, and dwell where and when you do not belong, like the foul fops of cursed Sylvania or the gold bedecked, walking carcasses who rule the burning deserts of the South?”

His voice, thin and reedy as ever, has nevertheless become fierce. Cries erupt from the congregation as all declare that they want no such things. Then he quietens them, draws them in once more, by suddenly speaking gently.

“Our good merchants bring us prosperity, that we may all be fed and clothed, and thrive in our professions and callings. But the Medizi and their kind brought only division between nobleman and commoner, taking ever more for themselves to pay for cruel diversions and greedy pleasures. While their private houses were turned into gold, the downtrodden labourers in the fields wanted for bread; while they feasted on exotic fowl and were entertained by dancing elves, the city dwellers were made little better than chattel slaves, and lay shivering and diseased by ill-fuelled hearths. And yet they ruled. How so? How did we allow them to do so? Because they distracted us with dissolute carnivals and palio races, they ensured that the streets were home to legions of women of ill repute, and they fashioned spectacles that both glorified themselves and dazed the masses.

“Well I tell you this - and it is the voice of Morr that speaks through me – we will not go the way of the Medizi. Let Trantio be an example to all of Tilea, to every prince and prelate. Repent, oh Trantio, while there is still time. Clothe yourselves in humility, cleanse and purify yourselves, that your souls be not damned.”

Now there are cries of “Yes” and “Let it be!” There is hope amongst them again.

“Oh Tilea! Morr’s wrath is upon thee. All the adversities which rain upon thee are for thy sins. Repent before the sword is once more bloodied, before the foul servants of wicked gods do yet again rise up against us. I have seen Morr’s axe in the dark sky above. I have foreseen the tempests and plagues, wars and bloodshed, the famines, floods and fires that will soon visit us if we do not mend our ways. Wisdom, power, force – none will prevail if we are not made good in the eyes of Morr.”

“Will mighty Myrmidia lift her mailed hand to help us if we are drunkenly dancing amongst fancy fountains instead of drilling in the fields?”

“Will Shallya look to heal us of the plagues of war-time if we are fingering dainties upon a silver platter instead of giving all we can charitably to the poor?”

“Will Mercopio gift us all the rewards of thrifty enterprise if we sit at gaming tables with cards and dice in hand?”

“Will Verena grant us fair justice if we are busy in bedchambers dabbing scent upon our bodies and adorning ourselves with silken damasks and velvet cloaks?”

And now he shouts, carrying the entire crowd with him.

“Out with feathered fancies and filigreed fangles. Into the pit with gaudy portraits and jewelled baubles. Burn all lascivious books. Demolish all the prettified porticoes. Tear down the tapestries with their wanton images …”

In this vane he went on and on: smash this, break that, trample the other into the dirt. And the crowd appeared to love him for it, as if he were a physician applying a marvellous medicine to relieve their suffering.

I report things as I find them presently to be, yet wish to inform you further. So it is I will tarry here and discover how much sway Sagrannalo has over the city outside the church, perhaps outside the city. I yearn to know whether he speaks against other priests, or, Morr forbid, against you yourself. It is rumoured that he does, as you know, but I would hear it from his own mouth so that there can be no doubt concerning his betrayal.

I remain your loyal and obedient servant,

Jacopo Michellozzi

Upon the Walls
Early Spring, IC 2342
Miragliano, Tilea



“I hate him,” the young Duke Marsilio announced, not for the first time. “I know you must be tired of hearing it, Little Gella, but there are no others I can tell. He has what I should have, wields all my powers, commands all those who should bow to me. I have my title and nothing more, yet I am now full grown. It should all be mine.”

Gellafno fixed a look of concern upon his face, knowing it was enough to hide his true emotion concerning the commencement of another of Marsilio’s whining bouts. The young duke was not the kind of man to notice the subtle difference between feigned and real concern, nor even to consider the possibility that his halfling servant was not truly his friend. In Marsilio’s mind halflings were little people, like children were little people, and from that physical similarity alone he seemed to assume (like so many people do) that they were childlike in their honesty and straightforwardness.

“It is not right,” agreed the halfling. “You have suffered many ignominies, and yet …” Here he paused, not merely for dramatic effect but to ensure the young duke was listening. “… I think you are too noble to complain publicly.”

“I am too noble, yes,” said Marsilio, the pride evident in his tone. “It is in my blood. Lord Francesco might be my uncle and bear the name of Sforta, but I was made by both my parents, and I think my mother added even more nobility to that which was gifted me by my father.”

The halfling skipped a step as if surprised, gesturing to make it appear he was impressed by Marsilio’s insight. “You see such things so clearly, your grace. It is further proof – if indeed any were needed – of the truth in what you say.”

Not that this was what Gellafno was really thinking. The duke was an arrogant simpleton who had failed even to fathom the truth that his mother was little better than a whore.

“I am so glad to have you, Gella, the one friend who has not abandoned me. The rest have been scared away by my uncle, every one of them fickle and cowardly. Yet here you are, the smallest of them all, yet the bravest.”

Gellafno almost burst out laughing at this, and had work hard to conceal the fact. The young duke, as ever, knew not the half of it. Oh yes, some few friends were indeed clever enough to escape the consequences of befriending Marsilio. Most, however, had paid dearly for their nascent support. The merest whiff of rebellion, the tiniest sign that they might side with the young duke against Lord Francesco, was enough to have them whisked away to oblivion – the sort from which they would never return.



“I would make a much better ruler than my uncle,” continued Marsilio, now in the mood to vent his frustrations in full. “He is so cruel, and the people hate him for it. You see, they know he’s not their rightful lord. It is not for him to send traitors to rot in the dungeons, or to wrack those who plot against him. It should be me. My father ruled with an iron grip, and the people expect me to do so after him, not my uncle. I would not let anyone into my court who did not either love me or fear me, yet I have been told that my uncle conspires with the foul denizens of the western swamps. That sort despise all men, they are base and wicked with no nobility and are not worthy of alliance with my Miragliano.”

If only you knew the half of it, thought Gellafno. “What have you been told, your grace?”

“My uncle is desperate and foolish, when I would not be so. He stoops so low. What must people think of him? Are there not engineers and smiths clever enough in our own city without turning to the likes of rat-men?”

“What exactly is your uncle accused of?” asked the halfling, hiding his exasperation at the duke’s half answer.

Marsilio stopped walking for a moment and looked into his friend’s eyes. “You sound like you don’t believe me.”

“Not that, your grace. Not that at all,” said Gellafno, chuckling as if it were obviously not so. “Rather, I wonder what depths your uncle has descended to.”

The young duke smiled, apparently happy to hear Gellafno talk of his uncle that way.

“Then I shall tell you,” he announced. “I was told my uncle spends his afternoons touring the ordnance foundry and the old workshops beside it, inspecting the engines there. And not just the guns, but those monstrous, metal things taken from the foe in the old wars, those left behind when they scurried away with their tails between their legs. You know the ones I mean – they reek of brimstone and glow green in the dark no doubt still carrying some wicked enchantment upon them. I think he means to make them work again, to put them to use in wars I should be waging. I myself heard him say that he wanted uncle Gianpolo to come to Miragliano, not to waste time playing alchemist in Udolpho. Do you see, Little Gella?”

“Erm, he wants his brother Gianpolo to repair the engines?”

“Yes, and if uncle Gianpolo won’t leave his laboratories, then uncle Francesco will ask the rat-men to do it. That’s what I was told, see? He said they would know how to make them work.”

Now it was the halfling’s turn to stop. He made a point of looking all around as if to ensure no-one could hear them. “You are right to worry, your grace. None of this bodes well, for your uncle could tarnish the noble reputation of this city, and that would reflect on you, its rightful ruler. But,” here he craned up close to the young duke, closing the gap between his mouth and Marsilio’s ear, “can you trust him who told you this? Can you really?”

“Oh I can trust Romolo. He has worked in the foundry for years, and he has shown me the guns on many an occasion, and he is honest, I am sure. He has no reason to lie, for I have never promised him anything, so he gains nothing by telling me. He’s about the only person left who ever really talks to me – besides you, of course. Despite his not asking, I think, when I am come into my own at last I shall reward him. He might be foundry master, or if it is to his liking perhaps he shall serve in my artillery train.”

…

One hour later

“So what has my idiot nephew got to say for himself this time?” asked Lord Francesco.

Having already thought through the consequences of admitting he knew that Lord Francesco had spoken of dealings with the ratto uomo, Gellafno was quick to answer.

“My lord, some fool in the foundry has been paying homage to his grace, asking what rewards he might get if he were to tell the duke things that he could use against you.”

“What things?”

“I know not, my lord” lied the halfling. “He wanted promises from the duke before he spoke, but they were disturbed before such could be given and the matter concluded.”

Lord Francesco pondered silently for a moment. Perhaps, thought Gellafno, he was trying to remember what had exactly he might have said in the foundry.

Shaking his head, Francesco finally spoke. “It does not matter. Whatever he has to say, he won’t get to say it.” He set his gaze upon the halfling, obviously waiting.

“Oh,” blurted Gellafno. Almost stumbling over his words, as if he had not time to take a breath, he said, “Romolo, my lord. He’s called Romolo.”

Scouts
Spring, IC 2342
North-east of Urbimo, Northern Tilea

“Well, there doesn’t look to be too many soldiers, at least,” said Salviati, his hand shielding his eyes from the reddening rays of the evening sun. “Plenty of workmen by that old tower, but I count no more than half a dozen soldiers.”

He was being careful not to be spotted, his legs bent so that he was not full height, peering around some foliage. The clearing that separated him and Salviati from the enemy was broad enough to ensure they were not easily seen, especially as they were also concealed in a copse of trees.



Salviati grunted a mere acknowledgement that he had heard, neither a yes nor a no, thought a moment longer, then spoke. “I bet they could summon plenty of soldiers quick enough if they wanted. Why go to the effort to build the earthworks if they ain’t going to defend them?”

“I suppose so,” agreed Agnolo. “But Urbimo is hard pressed elsewhere, maybe they haven’t got the soldiers to spare?”

“They would find them, and they would have time to do so. This bridge ain’t that far from the city – can’t be much more than a mile. We got this close because there are only two of us, and both sneaky by nature. We got past three scouting parties to get this close. No army could here without the alarm being raised.”

Agnolo lowered his hand and nodded. “Which would mean time enough for soldiers to be brought.”

Agnolo watched the labourers clustered around the foot of the tumbledown tower by the bridge. They must have been busy for some time, for it was growing colder yet some were still stripped to their waist. What exactly they were doing with their picks and hammers was unclear - breaking up the ruined masonry piles for some reason, perhaps to repair the bridge? Or preparing to add a layer of stone to the earth defences?



Salviati had been looking elsewhere, and now broke the short silence. “That’s some beast of a machine, eh?”

Agnolo nodded. “Nasty! Northern design – I saw one similar in Remas once, though I don’t think anyone was ever brave enough to actually fire it.”

“I reckon they intend to use it alright. It’s well sited. Anyone attacking the bridge would feel its sting. Mind you, if they could take that one blast and keep going, I reckon they'd overwhelm it long before it was reloaded. I count three barrels, and I ‘d lay money on them all shooting at once, like a ribou … ribadoque … ribawd ...”

“Ribaudequin,” said Agnolo, frowning. “But it’s not one of those. You count three barrels because you can see three barrels. If it is what I think it is, then it has another three or maybe even six, hidden by the earth of the rampart.”

“Why?” asked Salviati, perplexed. “If the earth is in the way then they can’t shoot them.”

“They can. They can turn the barrels – fire three, wind them around, fire another three, and so on. If they know what they’re doing, and brave enough to do it, then anyone in this clearing gets stung, as you so poetically put it, not once, but time and time again.”



“Oh,” said Salviati. “Then maybe they don’t need more soldiers?”

“Maybe,” agreed Agnolo. “If …”

He was cut off by his friend shushing him. “Listen.”

From beyond the river came the sound of a drum, perhaps on the little road approaching the bridge.

“Ironic that,” said Agnolo, then turned to follow Salviati who was moving off towards the upwardly sloping ground to their right, obviously intending to find a better vantage point. The river cut through these hills, narrowing and gaining force as it descended. The enemy had patrols on both sides of the water, so the two scouts stuck to the shadows of the line of trees.

A little while later they were lying down on the moss strewn rocks of a high ledge to spy upon the river crossing from above. There was indeed a drummer, but only a handful of soldiers, handgunners by the look of them.



“They look Estalian to you?” asked Salviati.

“That they do,” answered Agnolo. “Probably from the same company that served Piero during his tyranny. I guess they didn’t sail for home, just got as far as the coast.”

“Ain’t exactly an army down there. And that camp’s tiny, five tents is all.”

“I don’t think they came from that camp. We heard that drum when we were down by the road, but they’re only now arriving at the bridge. There must be more tents beyond those trees.”

Salviati strained to look through the trees. “Can’t see. You think we should try to take a look?”

“No,” came Agnolo’s emphatic reply. “We can’t risk crossing the river in daylight, maybe not at all considering how fast that water’s flowing. And if we wait ‘til it’s really dark, we’ll be too long getting back. General Vancelli said to be back before midnight.”

They took one last look …



… then crawled back from the ridge.