A fine mist crawled across the valleys of Northern Italy in the heavy autumn air. Caesar trailed just behind Felix, bleating occasionally as if to scold Felix for his hurried pace.
Felix’s side throbbed where Ruprecht’s knife had bit deep into him, and though he had bound it with strips of linen, it was not healing right and wept blood at its edges.
Felix grimaced as the road turned upward, winding toward a wooded ridge that overlooked the river. He could smell them first. An intoxicating aroma of fresh herbs and what Felix assumed was rabbit meat.
Something was cooking and Felix was starving.
There, sitting leisurely by the bank, were lean, dirty figures silhouetted against the pale sunlight. Stew was the sole dish on their menu, and it boiled in a black pot over a simple fire.
They took notice of the witch hunter. The first man stepped forward, his youthful face streaked with dirt and a faint shadow of a beard. “Elifort,” he said, introducing himself with a bow that was more theatrical than genuine. “And these fine gentlemen are my companions.”
Felix regarded the group. They were rough men, their clothes tattered and patched, and their eyes carried a weight Felix recognized. There was something soldierly about their stance, the way their hands hovered near their belts, where knives or short swords waited. Mercenary veterans of the condottieri, no doubt—survivors of the endless Italian Wars.
Italy was a chessboard of blood. Venice, Milan, Florence, and Genoa had all grown rich in trade with the Levant, but had woefully undermanned armies of their own. So they contracted mercenaries who changed allegiances like exchanging currency, fighting for one city one day, and fighting against their own allies for a new city the next. And when the money stopped flowing, the innocent people of the countryside, their crops and animals, and even their daughters, became the spoils. Like a street dog laid low too long in the gutter, Italy was infested with these fleas.
“I see you’re without boots,” Elifort said, his gaze falling to Felix’s bare feet in their stirrups.
Felix grunted, his fingers tightening instinctively on the reins. “You’ve an eye for detail.”
Elifort laughed, a sound that seemed to put the others at ease. “You’ve luck, traveler. There’s a cobbler in the next village across the river. A day’s ride. We’d be glad for your company.”
Felix hesitated. His coins, thankfully still strapped to his belt, felt heavier at the thought of these men. Yet his boots were somewhere in the dungeons of Foligno, and his feet ached.
“We have stew cooking,” the man gestured. “If you’d like some.”
The smell of rabbit stew was intoxicating, aromatic and savory. Felix could not refuse.
“Aye,” Felix said.
Felix dismounted near their simple camp and Elifort offered Felix a bowl, his smile disarming.
“You’ve the look of a man who’s seen war,” he said, settling beside Felix. “Where have you fought?”
Felix sipped the stew, his gaze steady. “In many places. None worth naming.”
Felix greedily gulped down the rest of the stew. It tasted of lemon grass, turnips, and rabbit. He could feel the warmth in his belly, and for a moment, he let himself be content.
Elifort offered no further inquiry.
The day passed in measured silence, broken only by Caesar’s occasional grumble and the murmur of distant birds. As they travelled north, Felix watched his companions carefully, noting their movements and gestures. One older man, his grizzled beard streaked with gray, wore a patched leather cuirass—an odd piece for a simple traveler. Another polished a blade every time they rested, his eyes darting to Felix with faint curiosity.
When night fell, they camped beside a crumbling farmhouse. The men gathered wood for a fire, whispered among themselves.
The men huddled by the firelight and Felix laid out his bedroll beside an oak tree thirty paces away. In the crackling firelight, Felix noticed one of them strapping on armor—a breastplate dulled by years of use. Another sharpened his sword. They spoke in low voices, their words clipped and tense.
Caesar stood near Felix, chewing on tufts of grass, his yellow eyes flicking toward the group. The goat’s presence seemed to unsettle them. One of the men muttered about witches and devils, but Elifort waved him off.
Even with his wounds aching and the mercenaries with their calculating eyes on him, Felix fought exhaustion long enough, and he slept deeply that night. He gripped his smallsword behind his head, even as he slept. Caesar did not sleep, and kept watch. The men might kill a sleeping man, take whatever they could repurpose or sell, but they were not willing to face his demon. Caesar stared right back at them, its eyes like smouldering coals in the darkness. He stirred them all the way to their souls. They did not sleep well.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
Morning found them at the bridge, an ancient span of stone barely wide enough for a man on foot, let alone a horse. Felix dismounted, and went ahead. Beneath him, the river churned, its waves frothing and gnawing at the rocky banks.
Elifort gestured toward the far side. “The village lies just beyond.”
Felix’s hand rested on his sword hilt as he stepped onto the bridge. His new companions followed closely behind. The horses would follow after.
Halfway across, a shadow loomed at the far end. A man in full black armor stepped forward, emerging from the trees. He had a full helm and a German two-handed sword slung across his shoulder.
Black armor was a sure sign of a brigand. Armor rusts and needs constant attention. A knight will often march to war with a whole ensemble of people—squires, armorers, horse attendants. At any battle the army of servants watching on would outnumber the men on the field. But a knight in black armor, that was a poor man. With no squire to polish and maintain it, to keep it free of rust, it must be painted. And pitch from a fire was the cheapest form of paint. No black knight can be trusted.
“Going somewhere, friend?” the brigand called out, his voice echoed from his helm like tumbling stones thrown down a well.
Felix’s stomach knotted. Behind him, Elifort and the others spread out, blocking his retreat. His exits were cut off. He did not know if he could swim in the hemp armor, and he was not willing to part from his horse.
“Hand over the coin and your armor,” Elifort said, his earlier charm curdling into menace. “And we’ll take the demon goat too. It will make our next stew.”
Felix drew his smallsword, the blade flashing like a shard of starlight. His fist tightened behind the single silver knuckle bow on the hilt.
The armored brigand laughed, stepping forward with a heavy, deliberate gait, taking up the full width of the narrow bridge. “Your sword’s too small! You mean to pierce my heart with that?”
Felix did not reply, and instead, attacked. Felix wasn’t aiming for his heart—not yet. His oversized sword was too slow to counter, and in a fluid thrust, Felix’s smallsword struck the breastplate near the shoulder and the keen blade slid up the steel plates and into the small gap of exposed armpit where it made purchase, its sharp point slipping through the chainmail and into flesh.
The man stiffened and made a mighty grumble. He tried to lift his free arm to deflect Felix as best he could, to bat him away with his heavy spiked gauntlet, but the arm was limp.
Felix pushed himself into the man until their chests met. Twisting the small sword in his hand, he forced the handle forward like a lever, letting the man’s own rib cage act as a fulcrum, and sent the blade tearing through his insides. Felix could feel the blade probing within the man’s chest, searching. Then he found it. And severed his heart from within.
The armored man stood for a moment. But not on his own power. Felix stepped backward, and the man’s lifeless shell, devoid of spirit, slid down Felix and collapsed with a rattling, metallic thud onto the stones of the bridge.
Turning and moving towards the next man, Felix readied himself, and held his sword straight out in front of him. The wound at his side stung. It had reopened in the brief scuffle. He could feel the hot blood pool at his side.
They had sought to trap him on this narrow bridge, but in truth, they had trapped themselves. They would have to face him one on one and had lost the ability to bring their numbers to bear—the one advantage they had. Elifort realized his error, but the men behind, afraid to take on Caesar who bowed its head at the other end of the bridge and ready to charge, trapped him in place.
Felix DeWinter would make short work of them. Pitty, he thought. They made such good stew.
The bridge was silent save for the river’s roar and the metallic rasp of Felix’s blade being wiped clean. Felix walked over to the black knight and sat down, leaning back he lifted up his bare foot and compared it to the sole of the dead man’s boot. It would do.
After donning the boots and crossing the bridge, Felix mounted his horse. Caesar bleated in approval, and the two continued northward, avoiding the town.
By the time they reached the borderlands, Felix’s wound had festered, the edges puckered and red. The air grew colder as the terrain shifted to jagged cliffs and dense forests.
Much like the Holy Roman Empire, these lands were a discordant spattering of tiny kingdoms, neither Italian, Swiss, nor German, but a mixture of all three. Nestled high in the mountainous, they were inaccessible to a large army, and not worth the effort to siege for any tactical significance. So they were allowed to rule their small domains with impunity.
Along the road, Felix came upon a pony. It snorted nervously, its reins tangled in the underbrush. Beside it, obscured among the tall grass, Felix noticed a child laying crumpled on the roadside. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
“Help me,” the boy whispered weakly, his face pale. “Please.”
Felix dismounted, his expression grim. “What happened?”
“I fell,” the boy said. “My name is Ollie. Are you a knight?”
“No,” Felix replied.
“Are you a priest?”
“In some ways, yes.”
“So you are devout?”
“I wish to believe that I am.”
The boy’s voice grew urgent. “We need a holy man. My lord—he is possessed by a demon.”
Felix frowned. “Madness, perhaps.”
“No,” Ollie insisted. “It is a demon. He rages and howls, his eyes black as the bottom of a well. We had sent for aid but none came. I was to find a priest but fell from my pony. None will help us. Please, will you?”
Felix glanced toward the horizon, where the jagged silhouette of a castle rose against the sky. Then back to the boy. He was blond, and no older than twelve, with dirty fingernails and a courtly tunic. He had done his best to represent his lord’s court as a faithful page, even if not highborn himself. He radiated a sincerity that Felix had not seen for weeks.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“Schloss Reichter,” the boy said. “My lord is Siegfried Von Reichter.”
Felix looked to Caesar, who gave its signature low, guttural bleat of disapproval. Perhaps one demon was enough.
Felix ignored it. He had taken an oath to help the weak, to champion those who were in need. He was compelled to help the boy. Or, at the very least, deliver him home.
“Very well,” Felix said, hoisting the boy onto his horse, wincing from the wound on his side as he did. “Let us see what afflicts your lord.”
Tying the reins of the pony to his, he led the boy back to his castle among the mountains. Demons be damned.