Prologue

The Black Rose glided straight and true to the west, her heavy hull cutting through the waves with ease. Her timber frame lifted gently atop each crest through which she cleaved, raising her siren’s figurehead so that she might cast her glance across the darkened horizon.

The moon was bright and high in the sky, her light reflected upon the silvered seas through which they sailed. The wind blew softly from the east, catching in the Rose’s mighty sails, guiding her crew towards Nevora. Towards home.

Six such moons Teo had seen passing above his head since last he set foot upon the sands of Nevora. It had been a long, arduous journey, with each storm barely navigated, and each windless day sat burning under an unrelenting sun, telling their own tale upon the bruised and battered bodies of the crew of The Black Rose.

Teo was tired. Weary. At times, barely able to stand upon the soles of his blistered feet. Yes, it had been an arduous trip. But a successful one. They sailed now atop a cargo hold brimming with spices from the lands of Tyrr and Vareen – far to the east. Spices that would laden each man upon this ship with pockets full of silver. And they were almost home. A full day of sailing, perhaps two. And they would be home.

‘Carloto, how’s the view from the heavens?’ He heard Polli, the first mate, call out.

‘Black an’ barren,’ Carloto shouted from the crow’s nest, high above, ‘Nothin’ but sea an’ waves as far as the eye can see.’

‘As the Gods’ intended it,’ Polli replied, ‘We’re fast approaching Imperial waters, but we ain’t out of the woods just yet. Keep both eyes open, and if you see any vessels out there, scream as loud as Fredi did when that bream bit him on the arse.’

‘Aye sir!’

Teo joined the chorus of laughs and whistles which emanated from the crew, shaking his head as he worked a line of rigging around his calloused hands. He chewed absentmindedly upon his lip, as he weaved and knotted the ropes around his fingers, falling easily into the familiar routine with which he had passed the days these last six moons. His mind was as calm and clear as the seas below when he first heard it.

A word.

A whisper.

Coming from below.

Teo looked around, eyes darting across the deck, searching for the source of the word. No. No one on this ship knew that word. That name. The name that he had not gone by for many years. The name that he had left behind, long in the past.

Crusso.

Crusso.

He peered over the edge of the deck, searching the dark waters whence the whisper seemed to emanate. What was he searching for? The bobbing head of Mateo? Gabrielle? Who still even drew breath who knew that name? This was madness. Still, he stared into the blackness below, not daring to even draw breath.

Dark waters, black as tar. Nothing but the silvered moon caught in its wake. Nothing. Except – what was that? Just beneath the surface? A shadow, darker still than seas which surrounded it. A large shadow. Impossibly large. Almost as if-

‘Teo!’ A voice cried from behind, ‘Teo! If you ain’t too busy starin’ at the reflection of that ugly mug o’ yours, come give us a hand.’

Teo turned to see Felise standing portside by a stack of oars.

‘Give us a second, thought I might have seen-’ Teo began, but drew his words short as his eyes returned to the waters.

Gone was the shadow, seeping its form into the dark swells below. Yet Teo found himself staring still at the blackness of the waters which lay before him. The deep, endless blue of the ocean. Cold. Eternal. Calling out to him from the edge of the unending void. Beckoning him to-

‘Teo!’ Felise shouted once more, pulling him from his thoughts.

‘Yes. Yes,’ he said, dragging himself away from the waters with a shake of his head, ‘Give us a second.’

He finished securing his knot to the cleat before him, standing with a creak of his back as he made his way over to his shipmate.

‘Appreciate it, my friend,’ said Felise, ‘Ever since Filipo’s been out of action, I’ve had to cover ‘alf his bleedin’ duties. Not that Polli seems to care much. Said he’ll still have my knackers served for supper if I don’t get these ores stowed before shift change.’

‘Can’t come soon enough, if you ask me,’ Teo sighed, bending down to grasp a pair of oars in his hands, ‘Gods, I’m tired. This lack of sleep is killing me. One more night’s tossing and turning in that flea infested hammock. Just one more. Then I plan to sleep a week straight in a real bed.’

‘Won’t be no sleepin’ for me. First thing I do when we land is stumble me feet to the nearest brothel. Find whatever man, woman or beast is closest to me, and fuck ‘em till I’m cured of me sea legs.’

‘I’ll be headed straight home,’ Teo said with a laugh, ‘Gioni and I parted with such bitter words. Been gone six moons, and it’s been on my mind the entire journey.’

‘Don’t torture yourself, lad. These things always happen before a long voyage. Guarantee she’s done nothing but miss you since you’ve been gone.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Teo said, smiling sadly, ‘The things I-’

Crusso.

Crusso.

‘What was that?’ Breathed Teo.

‘What? What was what?’

Teo spun in circles, searching for the source of the whisper which met his ears. He glanced over the deck into the sea once again, feeling the hairs on his arms stand on end. His eyes landed upon something shifting beneath the waves. A long, dark tendril, writhing just beneath the surface.

An instant wave of nausea ran from stomach to mouth, assailing his senses with fear. He wanted, more than anything, to turn from the waters. To run and hide from whatever it was that he had glimpsed. But something rooted his feet firmly in place, pulling him towards the depths. Something which called to him.

Beckoning him towards the blackness below.

A sudden, piercing cackle made Teo turn from the lure of the deep. He looked down to see Felise, sat upon the floor, staring at his hands, as bouts of hysterical laughter escaped from his mouth. Teo looked down to his own hands, staring at the oar which he grasped between his fingers.

Teo then felt the most curious of urges. Similar to the feeling he often got, stood atop the crow’s nest, looking down upon the deck. Feeling the sudden compulsion to jump. Only this time, Teo felt the overwhelming desire to take the oar in his hand, and use it to split his friend’s head open.

Felise looked up at him, eyes awash with tears as maniacal laughter burst from his lips.

Crusso.

Crusso.

He heard his name now being sung from the waves. A deep, sonorous song. A choir of voices, which made his heart ache with their divine rapture.

Teo lifted the oar high above his head. Feeling his soul swell with elation.

With all his strength, he brought the shaft down upon his friend’s face. The blade of the oar embedded itself deep into his flesh, between eye and cheekbone. Felise’s laughter rang high above the crashing of the waves. Teo pulled his arms back, wrenching the oar free from Felise’s face, as deep, dark blood seeped from his wound.

Teo raised the shaft again, bringing it down once more, connecting close to the first wound. This strike buried deeper still than the first. Teo watched as Felise’s face sank around the blade of the oar, his eye and mouth contorting grotesquely around the perforation. Felise begun then to choke upon his laughter, as blood gushed down his throat, filling his lungs with thick salinity.

One more strike halted his laughter once and for all.

Teo then looked up at the scene around him. Everywhere his eyes turned, he saw only blood. Bedlam. The crew of the Black Rose had descended upon each other. Stabbing and slashing with whatever weapons they had accrued. Tearing into flesh with teeth and nail.

It was glorious to behold.

Bodies surged towards each other, clashing in bloodied forays. These frenzied melees would last until none remained who still drew breath. Occasionally one man would emerge from the pile of bodies, before surging forth to join another.

Teo joined the fray, joyous and jubilant as he helped bludgeon his shipmates to death, till the oar in his hands had turned to splinters.

Before long, only Teo and Polli, the giant of a man from the shores of Partogea, remained upon their own two feet. Their eyes met, each staring at the smiling faces before them, full of an enrapture that so mirrored their own.

Teo walked forward, slipping momentarily upon the sticky pool of blood that had coalesced upon the deck. He noticed the long dagger Polli held in his right hand; its bloodied blade turned black by the light of the moon.

Together they met at the centre of the deck. Teo received the sharp end of the dagger in his side without resistance, noting how easily the blade slipped into his vital organs. His hands sought Polli’s face, clamping down around his mouth and the sockets of his eyes.

Teo’s teeth found quick purchase around the giant’s neck. As he forced the man’s head back upon itself, he felt the soft, sinewy flesh split between his teeth, whilst the muscles of his jaw strained with the effort. Warm, salty blood began to seep into his mouth as he pulled away, tearing a mass of flesh from the man’s throat.

Teo felt Polli’s legs give out beneath him, and as the giant fell, he descended upon him, moving his mouth to his face, biting his soft eyes out from their sockets before clamping his teeth onto his nose; gnawing the appendage till only a bloodied stump remained.

He felt the dagger digging uncomfortably into his side as he bent over. Hands sticky with blood, he pulled the blade free from his body, before plunging it deep into Polli’s chest, feeling the impact of the blow reverberating in his elbow.

Wrenching the dagger free, he raised his arm high above his head, bringing the edge down again, and again, and again, till little flesh remained, and the giant’s rib cage lay gleaming in the light of the moon.

Chapter One

With Eyes Open

The pain in his temples was a violent pain. A screeching howl into an empty abyss. He was a shapeless being; drifting, surging into nowhere and everywhere. Overcome by the unbearable, shifting dimensions of darkness, he opened his eyes.

Dante had never been this hungover.

Sunlight was seeping through the cracks in his shutters, settling on the dark wooden floors where they shimmered and rippled; dappled by the shadows of the olive trees standing watch in his garden like ancient sentinels. Immovable. Rooted firmly to the ground by myriad tiny anchors. Tethered to the very core of the Earth.

Not like Dante. Dante was a seedling in a hurricane. Dante was a feather in a storm.

Dante was going to be sick.

He reached out for his bed pan and released a torrent of impossibly dark, viscous red liquid – some of which at least made its way into the receptacle. Thick and vile, the acidity burnt from stomach to mouth. His eyes watered as he choked up one final mouthful of what he could only guess was the last remnants of his soul.

He was sure the wine had tasted much better last night.

Dante dropped the pan to the floor and sat up, breathing deep the cool morning air, softly scented by the blue irises which made their home beneath his bedroom window.

He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his throbbing temples, closing his eyes in a futile act of defiance against the deafening screech of the cicadas who – it seemed – had decided on being particularly obnoxious this morning.

Ordinarily, Dante delighted in the soft murmuring of his insectile neighbours; their mournful song, rising and falling like the ebbing flow of the sea, was often a source of great comfort as he lay awake in the early hours, eyes closed, sleep eluding him.

He felt a deep companionship and affection for the tiny males as they bellowed their heart’s desires into the summer skies. Serenading the valleys below with a chorus of solitary love songs, each sadder and sweeter than the last. Dante would often silently add his voice to theirs.

This morning, however, they only gave him a headache.       

The light on the floor continued its dazzling display, transfixing Dante’s gaze with its enchanting dance. He wondered what time it must be for the Sun to send such brazen messengers into his otherwise dark, peaceful room. It must be almost noon. In a few hours he would have to fight. And, perhaps, kill.      

*

Dante stumbled his feet towards the copper basin nestled in the corner of his room. Looking up, he caught the reflection of his gaunt, tired face staring at him from the ornate mirror hanging upon the wall.

His high, prominent cheekbones were blemished by a painful looking bruise he did not recall acquiring last night; colouring his clean-shaven face with a tinge of purple. His aquiline nose, large and pronounced, was also a little red, but no worse for wear.

He sighed with relief, for aside from his deep, dark green eyes, it was Dante’s most formidable weapon in his carnal pursuits. He could often be found lamenting on the size of his ‘unsightly snout’ in a shameless ruse of false modesty, garnering sympathetic coos from the sweet young girls at court who were quite taken by this humble display of self-effacement.

In reality, it was Dante’s favourite feature, he thought it bold and heroic – the nose of a stoic, dignified gentleman, who sat astride the saddle of humanity, the reins of fate itself casually resting in his grasp.

Dark circles hung under his tired eyes – the usual, endearingly playful glint, muted by the previous night’s excess. Dante felt unnerved as he looked upon a set of cold, unfeeling orbs glaring back at him from the looking glass. He felt uncomfortable sharing this intimacy with his own reflection.

This part of himself was meant only for the eyes of the dead.

Dante took a deep breath and submerged his head into the basin. The water rushed to embrace him like a worried lover, enveloping his head with cold hands running their tender fingers through his long, black hair. He opened his eyes and stared into the void. His mind was clear and, for a moment, he thought of nothing.

He felt his sense of self slowly slip away into the abyss. Felt himself offering his pains and his worries, his fears and his desires to the nothingness which lay ahead and behind, and before and after. He felt good here. He felt the pure bliss of simply being. He felt at peace.

He felt like he was drowning.

Dante breathed deep once more as he pulled his face from the basin. He took into his hand a soft cotton towel, which felt like sandpaper as he dabbed the tender areas on his face.

He rinsed his mouth with water and cleaned his teeth, before chewing on liquorice root in an attempt to cleanse his palette of the foul taste in his mouth. A taste, which he imagined, was not dissimilar to the one found after tenderly syphoning a rotten cabbage through a pig’s anus.

He spat the bittersweet root into the basin, giving himself one last contemptuous glance before he left the room.

*

Dante was greeted by the thunderous sounds of a large household in the midst of pre-lunch preparations. He heard Bernard, the cook, bellowing orders like a captain under siege from the kitchens below, whilst plates clattered and crystalware sung in clear, reverberating tones.

Clemence, the major-domo, was harassing the maids with sharp barbs of criticism – honed to a razor’s edge by his perfectly refined elocution – as they scuttered by like frightened ermine.

He heard his sister laughing gaily from downstairs, undoubtedly being frantically pursued by one of her many handmaidens, attempting to enshroud her in some elaborate gown with too many buttons and too many ribbons.

Dante held tight to the well-worn oak handrail as he descended the sweeping staircase, holding fast against the precariousness of his own wayward feet. His mother was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps – the ice in her cold, blue eyes burning more fiercely than the winds of winter.

Although they were to expect no visitors today, Elena Vi Marcano was dressed in flawless, formal livery. She wore an elaborate dress of rich, purple velvet; each fasting and clasp adorned with miniature didactic engravings retelling the fabled exploits of the Gods.

Her dark blonde hair was braided and pinned in an imposing weave, as was fashionable for ladies of a certain age in the Nevorian Court. Her face, she had powdered and accentuated with a touch of rouge – quite unnecessary at this moment, for her cheeks were flushed with anger at the sight of her firstborn child.

‘Here he comes,’ said Elena Vi Marcano, throatily rolling her R’s and elongating her S’s with a serpentine hiss, characteristic of a southern Imrean accent, ‘Bruises on his face. Wine on his breath. Reeking like some cheap docklands whorehouse. And meant to duel with honour for the family, when he can barely stand upon his own two feet.’

‘Good morning, Mother,’ Dante let the words slip out lazily, barely stifling a yawn, ‘Well I must have drunk a few more glasses than I thought, if I wake to find myself a Cirevilli.’

His face dropped suddenly, panic flooding his eyes. He reached down to the waist of his trousers, frantically pulling up his tunic, thrusting his hands beneath his undergarments.

‘No, no, no! It must be true! My cock is so tiny, my shrivelled member so miniscule, I can barely muster enough skin to pinch it between my fingers! Mother! What have I done?!’

‘A son from my own noble blood, and such a deviant. Such filth from his tongue,’ Elena spat, curling her lip in disgust, ‘You know as well as I, Dante, that the honour of the Vi Marcanos is tied inseparably with that of the Cirevillis on this day. When you act as their First, you duel for their cause, but with the name of Vi Marcano upon your breast.’

‘Their cause?’ Dante sneered, ‘Some half-wit son from a house barely worth mentioning getting one of Timo Cirevilli’s playthings pregnant is hardly a cause, dear mother.’

‘It is a matter of honour, Dante,’ Elena said, sternly, ‘One of the founding pillars upon which this great city is built.’

‘Oh, honour, is it? Tell me, Mother, was it honour, then, that led Timo’s dog, Brusco Maltesta, to that young girl’s house? Was it honour that guided his blade across her neck, and plunged his dagger deep into her belly, splitting the seed before it could bear its fruit? And was it honour that convinced Timo to lay the body of this girl at Nicolai Constance’s door, so that he might wake to find the blood of his lover staining the step of his ancestral home? And is it honour now, that dictates that I draw my sword against this boy, because he dare challenge the Cirevillis over this slight? Really, I had no idea that honour had such a ruthless side to her. I think I might have fallen in love.’

‘How very droll you are, Dante,’ Elena sighed wearily, ‘So quick with that tongue of yours, as you so shrewdly dissect the politics of court. Though you would be wiser still to save some of those clever words for the Gods. If I were you, I would pray to whoever still listens that your hand is half as swift as your wit.’

‘Believe me mother, there is little on this earth that interests me less than politics. I care not a whim for this girl, nor for this Constance boy. Our swords will meet, and soon after, my pockets will be filled. All is else is meaningless.’

‘And thus, my son, you will ever remain a fool,’ she said with a shake of her head, ‘Nicolai Constance is from an old family, with a strong line. He is a decorated soldier of the Third Legion, who is said to have distinguished himself during numerous campaigns against the Zweilanders in the North. And if you face him in the state you are in now, it might well be you for whom the bells ring today.’

She gave her son a withering look.

‘Your father wants to see you in his study,’ Elena said, dismissively, ‘Perhaps you might try sobering up on your way.’

*

The dark corridor which ran its course towards his father’s study was long and old. Its beams and slats were gnarled and knotted like the paralytic fists of an ancient farmhand; darkened by the hands of time so that they appeared ever in perpetual shadow. The smell was musty and deep – like old parchment gone to tatters, or muddy boots lying dormant in some forgotten chest, filling its space with scents of the earth.

On either side of the corridor, portraits of eminent Vi Marcano figures hung upon the walls, placed in order of age. Each time Dante walked the length of the hallway, it felt almost as if he journeyed back through time. Backdrops depicting the landscapes of Nevora became ever more dull and murky, as colours faded upon the canvas – till even the noble features of his ancestors were darkened like silhouettes; as faded and featureless as their lasting memories upon this world.

At the end of the corridor lay a dark, oaken slab of a door; one of the oldest features of the estate, traced back to the times of Heroes and Gods. A swift, dull knock upon its surface was answered by an indecipherable grunt from the gruff voice which lay behind it.

‘Good morning, father.’ Dante offered dutifully, as he entered the room.

Alonzo Vi Marcano was seated upon his customary blue leather chair behind a large desk; partially obscured by a neat stack of ledgers which lay dauntingly before him. His large, wrinkled hands were tightly gripping a piece of parchment, knuckles turning white from the exertion.

Alonzo Vi Marcano had always held onto parchment this way, as if afraid at any moment some malevolent, invisible force would rip it from his hands, spilling his sordid secrets on the ground for all to see and for all to judge.

‘Sit.’ his father said, not looking up from the letter in his hand.

Dante fell heavily upon the soft leather of the chair facing his father, before leaning forward to pour himself a glass of water from the crystal decanter which sat upon the surface of his desk, whilst his father read on in silence.

Alonzo Vi Marcano was a large man. In his youth he had been an impressive and intimidating character, with thick, dark hair and an imperiously bushy moustache, accompanied by formidable, broad shoulders and a large barrel chest.

In his maturity, muscle had turned soft with fat, his moustache had begun to droop along with the authority it once had held, and his large shoulders now sagged under the interminable weight of age and time. Yet still, he could command the stillness of a room with but a whisper.

‘Ill tidings?’ Dante probed, for courtesy’s sake rather than curiosity’s.  

‘Not ill. More…’ He searched for the word, silently testing it out upon his lips before letting it languidly pour out, ‘Unfortunate.’

Dante’s father conveyed his words in measured tones, weathered by a grim, and rather menacing, rasp. He spoke in a low, soft voice which demanded complete silence from its audience – a powerful weapon which the patron of the Vi Marcanos wielded with impressive finesse and subtlety in his pursuits as one of the wealthiest and most powerful Lord State Merchants of Nevora.   

‘We can discuss the matter later,’ Alonzo said, folding the parchment in half before placing it gently upon the table. He raised his head to Dante with a weary, reproachful look, ‘They say this Nicolai Constance can fight.’

‘So I hear.’ Dante replied, taking a large sip from his goblet.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Like I got kicked in the head by a mule,’ Dante scoffed, ‘Who then decided to use it as a chamber pot.’

‘Mercy of the Gods, Dante,’ Alonzo said, two fingers pressing against his lips, ‘You may fight for the Cirevillis, but you still represent the family on this day.’

‘I know, Father. Mother gave me this same heartfelt speech not a few moments ago.’

‘So, when you show up, looking like this, like some peasant’s breakfast, you do shame to the Vi Marcano name. Not only this, you shame the holy, Gods-ordained tradition of The Duel itself. The very practice that separates the righteous peoples of Nevora from the barbarians braying at our gates, who live, and die, like animals.’

‘Father, I only had a couple of drinks. Then a couple more. And now they all swim merrily in my bedpan. You have nothing to fear.’

‘Dante, you are half as clever as you think you are, and twice as stupid as you fear,’ Alonzo said, shaking his head, before fixing his son with the same green eyes that Dante would see staring back at him from the mirror, ‘You will win?’

Dante looked into his father’s orbs, picturing in their dark reflection the glint of five thousand gold denarys, which he would receive for winning his duel. Thinking, too, about the further, unspoken, thousand gold pieces which the Cirevilli’s would discreetly add to the total, in the event that his opponent did not walk away from their encounter with his life.

‘I will do what must be done,’ Dante replied, a cold smile crawling its way across his lips.

‘Good. Now, if-’

Alonzo’s words were cut short by three sharp taps upon the door.

‘Enter.’ His father beckoned, turning his eyes to the portal before him.

Dante turned to see a tall man with tightly cropped hair, garbed in dark, practical leather, enter the room, before standing at rigid attention, hands clasped tightly behind the base of his spine.

‘Ah, Diego,’ said Alonzo.

‘Good morning, My Lord,’ Diego said with a swift salute – customary to the life-long habits of an ex-imperial man.

‘Sit, man, sit,’ Alonzo growled impatiently, waving his hand towards the chair beside Dante.

Diego nodded stiffly, before stepping into the room.

‘Diego,’ said Dante, reaching to shake the man’s hand.

‘My Lord,’ replied Diego, returning Dante’s greeting.

‘How’s the leg?’ Dante asked, noting the wince on the man’s face as he claimed his seat.

‘Stiff as a plank, tight as a mule’s arse,’ he sighed, ‘Healing though. Thank the Gods. Better each day.’

‘Good man.’

Diego Lorensa had been the Captain of the Vi Marcano Guard for well over a decade. He had been a young man when Alonzo had recruited him straight from the Thirteenth Infantry. Tall and strong, with a gaunt face which seemed to possess features entirely too large for their confines. He was the perfect embodiment of what the Nevorians called ‘Stucco’ – one who is both ugly and handsome at the same time.

An Imperial man, through and through, he had brought the discipline and expertise of the legion into the Vi Marcano Guard, turning them into one of the most formidable forces in Nevora. He was a well-respected and feared man, and one of the few people in this world that Dante did not actively root against.

‘Diego,’ Alonzo said, shuffling through the stack of papers before him, ‘What can we do for you?’

‘The Black Rose, My Lord,’ Diego replied, ‘I’ve sent my men to ask around the city, as ordered. We reached out to our usual contacts in the docklands, as well as trusted sources in the Pugliasa and Soficato. But as of yet, we haven’t heard so much as a whisper.’

‘The Black Rose?’ Asked Dante.

‘Merchant’s ship,’ explained Diego, ‘Trades in spices from the East. Tyrr and Vareen mostly. Been in your employ for nearly four years now. Reliable sorts. So, we thought. Though two moons ago, they go missing. With a full cargo of spices, paid for with Vi Marcano gold.’

‘And a lot of it,’ Alonzo said with a sigh, rubbing at his tired eyes, ‘Mr. Talbot’s company has served us well in the past. It is why I have been so forgiving with this delay. But his time is up.’

With a practiced flourish, Alonzo Vi Marcano swept a piece of parchment before him, turning his quill to scratch hastily upon its surface.

‘I want you to go and have a word with Mr. Talbot. He should be at his offices in the docklands,’ Alonzo said, brandishing his signature fiercely across the bottom of the parchment like the slash of a rapier, ‘Find out what in the name of the Gods is going on with our ship. And if he seems at all reticent or unhelpful in any way,’ he added, folding the parchment in half, before handing it to Diego, ‘Give him this.’

‘Certainly, My Lord.’ Diego said, taking the missive.

‘And Diego,’ Alonzo added, his eyes turning towards Dante, ‘Take Dante with you.’

‘What?’ asked Dante, confusion and dread intermingling in his voice, ‘But father, I have a duel this afternoon. I have-’

‘Plenty of time,’ His father said, turning to look pointedly at the bruises upon Dante’s face, ‘To stay out of trouble. You have much to learn about merchantry, Dante. And Diego has much to teach you. This is not a request; it is an order. Keep your eyes open, and your mouth shut. I will want a full report by day’s end.’

*

The sun was blaring in the late morning heat, the air thick with the scent of summer flowers, as Dante waited beneath a nearby pergola, finding shelter amongst the vines, heavy with dark, purple grapes.

He plucked a particularly succulent looking berry and placed it upon his tongue, rolling it around his mouth, letting the astringency of the skin dry his tongue before biting down slowly on the grape, allowing the juices to fill his mouth with a violent burst of flavour.

He spat the seeds to the ground as Diego rounded the corner of the villa, with two horses leading an unassuming and rather rickety looking cart.

‘Interesting choice of transportation,’ Dante said, scratching the large chestnut closest to him upon the flank, ‘Is this another one of father’s punishments for me? To have Dante Vi Marcano seen traipsing around town upon a privy on wheels?’

‘No,’ replied Diego with an impish grin, ‘This was my idea. Take this, too. And put it on,’ he added, throwing Dante a dirty, brown hooded cloak.

‘My dear Diego,’ Dante said, catching the cloth, ‘What foul disservice did I ever do to you to warrant this retribution? Let me know so I might remedy it immediately.’

‘Your father wants you to observe, to see how this is done on the ground,’ he said with a gruff laugh, ‘You won’t be able to see that as a Lord. As Dante Vi Marcano. But you will able to as Geral. My very quiet footman, who rides on an old cart, and wears a cloak that smells vaguely like horse shit.’

‘You’ll rue the day, Diego,’ said Dante, with a sigh, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders.

‘Maybe this will make some amends, My Lord,’ Diego scoffed, throwing Dante a hunk of warm bread, followed closely by a small wedge of cheese, ‘Looks like you might need it.’

‘Ah, you beautiful man,’ Dante said, between lifesaving mouthfuls of food, as he climbed aboard the cart, ‘Your death shall be swift and merciful.’

‘Thank you, My Lord. Very benevolent of you.’

‘Yes, yes. Any time, Diego. Any time,’ he said, stifling a yawn, as he lifted the hood of his cloak over his eyes, ‘Wake me up when we get there. Or if you are feeling truly humane – don’t.’

*

‘My Lord.’

‘My Lord.’

A disembodied voice rang through the ether. Reaching through the kaleidoscope of colours and shapes, which surged through the infinite expanse of darkness. Calling out with rapturous urgency. My Lord. My Lord.

‘My Lord.’

‘My Lord!’

Dante awoke with a start, raising his head from Diego’s shoulder – upon which he seemed to have fallen asleep – as he wiped a line of drool from his gaping mouth.

‘I’m up,’ Dante said with a groan, pausing a moment to mentally confirm that was truly the case, ‘I’m up.’

‘We are here, My Lord.’ Diego said, glancing up at the tall building before them.

‘My Lord? You must have me mistaken for someone else, Sir,’ Dante said, breathing deep the salty air of the docklands into his lungs, ‘For it is I, Geral; horse-shit smelling, barrack-dwelling footman, ready to provide swift servitude for your every beck and call.’

With a heavy step, Dante dismounted the carriage, feeling the soft leather of his boots kiss the sandy roads which surged their way all throughout the District Navertus.

The sound of gulls and crashing waves swept towards him upon the saline wind, brought forth from the turquoise blue waters before his eyes. Large galleons, flying bright flags, heralding vessels from all across the Telarrian Empire and beyond, loomed ahead; their busy decks bustling with sailors, adding their own loud voices to the soundscape which assaulted Dante’s senses.

He felt the beginnings of another headache begin to form behind his eyes. But this one was light. A novice in the vast schema of hangovers. It seemed that bread, cheese, and a quick, slightly awkward nap, upon the trusty shoulders of an old soldier had done wonders to ease his plight.

Still, he’d have much preferred to have been at home, curing his ailment with a cup of nettle tea and a proper breakfast, rather than running around the docklands, chasing some vile little peasants who may have absconded with a few handfuls of gold.

He had kept his tone light and affable with Diego, out of respect for the man, but his patience was running thin with this whole foolish endeavour.

‘Very convincing performance, young Geral. Though in there, try keep the monologues to a minimum. Don’t want Mr. Talbot pondering why I employ soldiers who speak with the tongues of imperial courtiers. Also,’ he added, handing Dante a wide brimmed hat, ‘Put this on, and wear it low. He probably won’t be paying you much mind with the words I have for him. But, wear it just in case.’

Dante placed the hat firmly upon his head, shifting it back and forth momentarily, till it sat at a rakish angle which obscured his features.

‘After you, sir.’ He said with a weary sigh.

Diego took the stairs leading up to the building before them two at a time. Dante followed slowly behind, glancing up to see a three storied building of classic Palaroman architecture; a large stonework exterior comprised of two-dozen perfectly arched windows, adorned with lattices of green ivy. The sign above the blue painted door read “Mr. Talbut & Sons. Shipping Co.”

Diego gave three loud knocks upon the door with the back of his fist, and waited.

A muffled shuffling of feet rumbled their way from behind the closed door, followed closely by a muted voice; high-pitched and hostile.

‘Go away,’ the voice uttered, ‘We’re closed for the day.’

‘We have business with Mr. Talbut,’ said Diego in response, ‘Open the door.’

‘Mr. Talbut is not in. And we’re closed. Just like I said. Come back tomorrow.’

‘We have word for Mr. Talbut,’ Diego reiterated, before a slight pause, ‘From Lord Alonzo Vi Marcano.’

A marked silence fell between the pair. Dante could almost hear the vibrations of fear emanating from behind the closed door, followed by a panicked utterance. A curse? Perhaps even a prayer.

‘But of course,’ the voice from behind the door warbled, accompanied by the anxious clinking of a set of keys, ‘C-come in.’

The door swung open to reveal a slight man in his mid-thirties, with a heavy mop of blonde hair balancing precariously atop his scalp.

‘J-Jacob Talbut,’ he stuttered with a bow, ‘My father is Mr. Talbut. Please, follow-follow me.’

The young man turned hastily upon his heel and led Dante and Diego down a brightly lit corridor. Every so often the man would turn to give the pair of them a simpering smile that looked remarkably painful as it tore its way across his face.

Before long, they arrived at a light blue door, elaborately embellished with polished rivets of iron. Jacob Talbut gave two swift knocks upon the door, before failing horrendously at instilling a lightness in his voice.

‘Emissaries from Lord Alonzo Vi Marcano,’ he squeaked, ‘To see you, father.’

His words were followed by an audible hiss and a hasty, muted shuffling of papers, before a voice rang out.

‘Just a moment-’ the man began.

But his words were cut short, as Diego pushed open the door, and strode into the room.

‘Ahh,’ said Mr. Talbut, as Dante followed Diego into his office, ‘Mr. Lorensa! How delightful to see you. Absolutely delightful. How have you been? Well, I trust? Everything g-going swimmingly?’

‘Guard the door,’ Diego said quietly to Dante, before walking forward to take a seat upon a green velvet chair before Mr. Talbut’s desk.

Dante closed the door on the young Jacob Talbut’s face – who looked at once panic-stricken and altogether relieved to be left out of the forthcoming discussion – before turning his attention to the room before him.

It appeared that Mr. Talbut & Sons shipping company had done rather well for themselves over the years, judging by the utterly garish furnishings that bedecked their owner’s sizeable offices. Mr. Talbut, himself, looked no less out of place in this little shrine of vulgarity, bedecked in an ostentatiously frilled shirt, and silk trousers, framed by delicate blue velvet slippers which would be the envy of any flatulent dandy this side of Imrea.

This is why it was a mistake to give commoners money. They made the world such an ugly little place.

‘T-tea, Mr. Lorensa? Perhaps some brandy?’ Mr. Talbut said, standing half-way from his seat before changing his mind, and reclaiming it, ‘Perhaps some water for your companion, I’m sorry sir, I did not catch your name?’

‘Geral doesn’t drink.’ Diego grumbled.

‘D-doesn’t drink?’

‘Doesn’t talk much either. Best you turn your attention to me, Mr. Talbut.’

‘Yes,’ Mr. Talbut said, plastering a large smile over a face slick with sweat, ‘Yes, of course. Of course. Well, Mr. Lorensa, how may I assist you on this fine day?’

‘We’re here about The Black Rose.’

‘Yes. Yes. I thought you might be. I assure you, Mr. Lorensa, we are taking all available measures to locate the vessel. The reputation of Mr. Talbut & Sons relies wholeheartedly on our prompt delivery of goods. This delay is as concerning to us as it is Lord Vi Marcano. We have-’

‘That’s funny,’ Diego cut in, ‘I was under the impression that the cargo aboard that ship, amounting to nearly two hundred thousand denarys, belonged to the Vi Marcano family. Not Mr. Talbut & Sons shipping co.’

‘Well yes, of course, but-’

‘Well then, perhaps its disappearance could be discerned as slightly more concerning for Lord Vi Marcano, don’t you think?’

‘Ah yes, of course. Of course, but-‘

‘However, the reality is, Mr. Talbut. That this disappearance, should be of greater concern to you. Perhaps, the greatest. For if The Black Rose is not located. The liability of each grain of spice aboard that ship falls to you. And, barring complete reimbursement of every gold coin which could have been potentially made by Lord Vi Marcano owing to this transaction, the retribution, both economic and elsewise, upon yourself and your business, would be catastrophic.’

‘Sir,’ Mr. Talbut spluttered, ‘You can’t surely expect us to pay for any potential profit? That is unheard of. Impossible! The costs of such reimbursement could be nigh infinite!’

‘Indeed, they could. But allow me to alleviate some of your fears, Mr. Talbut. For I am here to find The Black Rose. And its crew. To ensure that Lord Vi Marcano’s displeasure with you is somewhat placated. And to avoid the ugliness that would follow suit otherwise. Which is why, Mr. Talbut, I trust that you will assist us in every conceivable way to help locate the vessel.’

‘O-of course. Anything you need, Mr. Lorensa. Anything at all!’

‘Wonderful. Then let us start with a few questions regarding the crew,’ Diego began, opening a ledger from the pouch at his side, before flipping through its pages, ‘The captain. A Mr. Vassali?’

‘Patrique. Yes. Patrique Vassali.’

‘A reliable sort, this Patrique? Could he have, perhaps, been taken by the allure of such a valuable cargo? Absconded with the ship and its contents?’

‘No. No, sir,’ Mr. Talbut said emphatically, ‘Patrique has been with us for over a decade. Has most of his wealth tide up with the business. The payoff would not be nearly great enough for him to sacrifice what he has invested with us.’

‘I see,’ said Diego, thumbing through his notes, ‘And the First Mate? Polli Umgonto. A Partogean, I see? By all accounts, a fearsome man. Well respected by the crew. Respected enough that perhaps he could have led a mutiny over Mr. Vassali?’

‘I do not think so, sir,’ said Mr. Talbut, ‘Polli was respected, beyond doubt. Respected because of his loyalty to his ship. To his captain. Patrique and Polli had been companions for years. Since Polli was a child. Patrique freed him from a pirate galley. There is simply no way he would turn on his captain.’

Diego gave a great sigh, before turning to glance at Dante behind his shoulder. He looked to Dante with exasperation writ plain across his features, before closing his eyes and turning back to face Mr. Talbut.

‘I am having a vision,’ sighed Diego, as he scratched impatiently at the back of his head, ‘Of how the rest of this conversation plays out. I ask after your crew. And you tell me that each and every one of them are paragons of virtue, as trusted and loyal as brothers-in-arms. And in the end, we get nowhere, and we find nothing. I report this to Lord Vi Marcano, who becomes angry. Incensed. And bids me return. To take your hands. And perhaps your tongue. And nail them to that pretty blue door of yours outside.’

‘S-Sir!’ Mr. Talbut stuttered, ‘Please! I swear to you-’

‘I do not want this to happen, Mr. Talbut. Believe me. So, I will offer an alternative. You give me a list of your crew. With the names and addresses of each of their next of kin. So I can do the job that you should have done. And find this ship. Before I have to come back and find you.’

‘Sir!’ Mr. Talbut bristled, finally finding protest in his quavering voice, ‘This is unheard of! Against all customs of trade in this city. To demand a list of next of kin? It-it is an outrage, sir. A betrayal to my men! If word got out that I agreed to this, I would not be able to find a single limp-bodied or lame-minded sailor to ever set sail with the company again. We would be ruined! I-I can not, sir. I will not-’

But his words were cut short again, this time by Diego leaning forward and handing Mr. Talbut the small piece of folded parchment Dante’s father had given him upon their departure.

As Mr. Talbut’s eyes traced the ink upon the letter, the blood from his face sunk like wine from an upturned glass. Dante had never seen a man go so pale, so rapidly, as he handed back the note to Diego with shaking hands.

The man sat for a moment, looking like he might well follow in Dante’s morning ritual, and paint his office with a fresh coat of green bile. But before long, he was up from his seat, searching through the collection of ledgers and folders which lay on the bookshelves behind his desk.

‘Here,’ he said, quietly, thumbing through a red, leatherbound folder, ‘Take it,’ he spat, closing the folder, before thrusting it towards Diego, keeping his head low, and his eyes sullenly upon the ground.

Diego took the folder from his hands, before turning on heel and giving a quick nod to Dante.

Dante opened the door and waited for Diego to leave the room, before closing the portal on the scene of an old man looking sick and pale as he stared at the floor of his office.

*

Out on the road, the sun had reached its zenith, casting their horses and cart in a searing heat which burnt away any possibility of shadow.

‘Gods its hot,’ Dante said, loosening the collar of his shirt, ‘Must be past midday already. Hope it cools down some this afternoon. The duel’s to be had out by the Fiorlora. No shelter at all out there.’

‘I’ve asked around about this Nicolai Constance, My Lord,’ Diego said, as he saw to the horses, ‘Spoke to some of my friends in the old legion. He is said to be a formidable swordsman.’

‘So I keep hearing,’ Dante replied, stepping up onto the cart.

With a loud grunt, Diego pulled himself up to claim his own seat next to Dante.

‘Fucking leg,’ he groaned, as he placed the red folder he had procured upon his lap.

Diego sat for a moment, muttering to himself as he thumbed through the pages within.

‘Gods,’ he sighed, not looking up, ‘Most these people aren’t even in Nevora. A few of them not even in Telarria,’ he added, running his finger down a list of names before him, ‘Ah. Here’s one. Teo Romassi. Next of kin, Gioni Romassi. Hmm. Not far either. I know this street. Only a few minutes away.’

Diego placed the folder in his satchel, and took the reins in his hand.

‘You’ve done what your father requested of you, My Lord,’ he began, ‘Admirably, I might add. Now, I can take you back to the villa. Or you could come with me to talk to this Gioni woman. See what information we can glean from her.’

Dante opened his mouth to speak, but closed it a moment later. He was going to tell Diego to speed straight home, without sparing the horses or himself. But he had to admit, that he had become somewhat intrigued by this whole matter. And intrigued, too, in the way Diego conducted these interviews. He felt he could learn something here. Something that might well help him get an advantage over friends and enemies alike.

Not that there was much difference between the two.

‘If we must,’ Dante said with a sigh, ‘Though let us try not waste too much time amongst the riff raff, old boy. I fear I might have invited a colony of dockland fleas to settle beneath my undergarments already.’

‘Right you are, My Lord,’ said Diego, ‘Tell me though, before we set off. What did you see up there?’

‘I saw an old, scared man. Too craven to lie to you. But with a guile that is common amongst successful traders. His simpering hid his evasiveness well. And his upset at your request seemed somewhat authentic- though I believe he added the theatric indignation to project some sort of faux-loyalty to his employees.’

‘Very good, My Lord,’ said Diego with a small smile, ‘Indeed, the man was frightened, but not as much as he portrayed. Mr. Talbut is a shrewd businessman. He knew we wanted him to think we had him rattled. Wanted us to think that we drew information from him by force, when really it was given freely. Right until the end.’

‘The letter. Yes. That instilled a real fear in him. Made him drop his façade for a moment. Made him give what he truly did not want to give. What did it say?’

‘Here,’ said Diego, handing Dante the letter.

Dante unfolded the stiff parchment, and looked upon the scrawling cursive of his father’s hand. The note had but seven words, etched deeply into the paper.

‘Sylvie, Jacob, Marko, Elissa, Concetta, Tomas, Guilia?’ Dante read out loud.

‘His wife. His children. His grand-children,’ Diego said, giving a light tug on the reins as the horses set into motion, ‘They’re the names of his family.’

*

The cart rumbled its way hazardously across the rough cobblestone road, as they turned the horses down a narrow street headed away from the water.

Running the length of the pothole laden promenade were two lines of drearily dishevelled hovels, stacked so tightly together that if but one wall was removed, the whole street would likely come tumbling down in a giant heap of earth and stone.

Which would have been a marked improvement.

‘Here we are,’ Diego said, pulling tightly on the reins as he looked down to the paper in his hands, ‘The abode of Mr. and Mrs. Romassi.’

Dante felt an unpleasant mix of revulsion and disgust as he looked upon the structure before him. Constructed primarily of mud and stone, the building (if he were being generous enough to call it that) was tilted so far to the right, that it looked like a tavern drunkard leaning precariously upon its neighbour’s equally unbalanced shoulder.

Two roughly cut holes – either side of a rotting door which hung sadly upon its hinges – served presumably as the only windows to the residence, from which a dull light spilled upon the road before them.

Dante could simply not understand the indolence and cravenness of the peasantry. How anyone could choose to live like this was beyond him.

‘Let’s see if she’s in,’ said Diego, as he gently stepped from the cart, ‘You can remove your hat if you like, My Lord, and you can speak freely. Doubt anyone is going to recognise you here.’

Dante pulled the hat from his head, casting it down upon the seat beside him, before fastening his hair in a warrior’s tail. With agile step, he was out the cart, and beside Diego, as they faced the door to the dreary hovel before them.

Four swift knocks echoed their way along the empty street as Diego turned his knuckle to the sodden wood.

‘Just a moment,’ came a soft voice from inside, before the door swung open before them.

A young woman in her early thirties stood before them, wearing a plain, brown dress, cinched at the waist by a dirty yellow sash. She had long black hair, framing a face that would have been rather pretty, were it not for the malnourished gauntness which darkened her features

‘Good afternoon, madame,’ Diego said, with a swift bow, ‘My name is Diego Lorensa, and this is my associate, Geral Barto. Might we have a moment of your time? It is about your husband.’

‘Teo,’ the woman breathed, ‘Has he been found? Has their ship returned? Is he alive?’

‘Perhaps it would be best if we spoke inside, madame,’ said Diego.

‘Gioni,’ she said, introducing herself with a faint attempt at a smile, ‘And yes, of course. Please, come in.’

Dante felt a small grimace form between nose and mouth as he stepped into the woman’s home. The smell of mould and mildew perforating off the damp walls was almost as stifling as the billows of thick smoke which sputtered from the small fire in the centre of the room.

The building was even smaller than it appeared from without; comprised of two small rooms and low ceilings, made lower still by the thick fog of smoke which hung above their heads like storm clouds.

The room in which they were standing had the vague appearance of a kitchen, with a cauldron, firepit and a low table surrounded by four precarious looking chairs. Dante glanced momentarily into the other room, noting three straw pallets upon the ground, and two extremely small children, with dirt smeared faces and large eyes peering out of the gloom.

Dante felt an involuntary curl of disgust creep its way up his lip.

‘Please, sit wherever you like,’ Gioni offered, gesturing to the four empty chairs, looking pale as a sheet as she herself paced the room.

‘Thank you, madame,’ Diego replied, taking a seat, before gesturing to Dante to do the same, ‘Before we start, please sit, madame. And ease your concern. We have had no ill news of your husband. But I am afraid, we have had no good news either. We have simply come to ask you some questions.’

‘Oh,’ Gioni said, looking at once relieved and disappointed, ‘Oh,’ she repeated, with a sigh, before taking a seat herself, ‘You may ask away, gentlemen. But I am afraid I have very little to tell. Teo left upon The Black Rose two moons ago, headed for Tyrr and Vareen. And has not returned. More than that, I know not.’

‘Before he left,’ queried Diego, ‘Was Teo acting strange at all?’

‘No stranger than usual,’ Gioni said with a scoff, ‘We had a row before he left. Which was customary. They say to always part with sweet words before a long journey. We never seemed to manage it.’

Diego gave a small smile before proceeding.

‘And did he say anything about the ship? Talk about any of the crew? About the cargo? Anything out of the ordinary?’

‘No, not that I can recall. He’d done this trip with The Rose at least half a dozen times before. This one sounded much the same as the rest. Though he might have said something about the profit from this one being bigger than the rest.’

She stopped, eyes darting rapidly between Dante and Diego.

‘I- I know how that sounds. But it wasn’t like that. A few silvers more is what he said. Better price than usual. That’s all. Said he might be able to get a proper bed. For the boys,’ her voice went hoarse as she looked to her hands, ‘I know what you are thinking. Why you’re asking me these questions. But my Teo was a decent man. Is a decent man. He might like the bottle too much for my liking, but he would never betray Mr. Talbut or his captain. Never.’

She looked up again with a fierce earnestness in her eyes, daring them to challenge her. Dante felt the honesty and conviction in her words. She, at least, believed what she was saying.

‘Is there anyone on the crew that Teo didn’t trust? Anyone new to the ship perhaps?’

‘Not that I know of,’ she said with a sigh, ‘They were good men. These weren’t brigands or criminals. They were sailors. Simple sailors.’

‘Very well, madame,’ Diego said after a measured pause, before starting to stand from his seat, ‘Thank you for your time. I do hope your husband returns safely. Geral?’

‘One moment, sir,’ said Dante, gesturing for Diego to hold, ‘Madame, you said that you and your husband had a row. Before he left. Might I ask what it was about?’

‘Oh,’ she sighed, ‘A silly thing. Sailor’s superstitions.’

‘Please, indulge us.’

‘Teo’d said there’d been some rumours from out east. Tyrrian sailors going missing in the waters. Sightings of krakens in the deeps. Things we sailors’ wives hear every other night. But Teo was worried. Said he was thinking about not going. I said when the children are hungry at night after no dinner, he can tell them at least daddy’s safe from krakens,’ she paused, her voice cracking upon the last word, ‘Maybe I should have listened.’

‘I’m sure he’s fine, madame,’ Diego said, standing and bowing his head, ‘There’s often delays with this sort of thing. Say a prayer to Nelipor tonight for his safe return. Anything else, Geral?’

Dante shook his head in response.

‘Thank you again, Madame. Good Fortunes to you and your sons.’

Diego gave a swift nod to Dante, and the two walked silently out of the room, whilst Gioni Romassi wept quietly in her kitchen.

*

‘Good instincts in there, My Lord,’ Diego said, throwing his satchel upon the cart outside before climbing aboard, ‘To ask about their row. Pity the answer was such drivel. Still, should have asked myself. It was the right thread. Your father would be proud.’

‘Well,’ said Dante, reclaiming his seat next to Diego, ‘We both know that’s a lie.’

Diego gave a quiet chuckle in response.

‘What did you make of all that, then?’ Asked Dante.

‘She was telling the truth. At least the truth that she knows. I’ll ask my boys to do some digging on this Teo fellow. But I’m thinking it won’t turn up anything.’

‘What do you think happened to them?’

‘The crew? Probably dead. Hit a storm somewhere at sea most likely. Bones being picked clean by the fish as we speak, I’d wager,’ Diego said, clicking his tongue to get the horses moving, ‘That woman’s fucked. She’ll get a widow’s wage, but with two young mouths to feed that won’t last a month. Probably see her soon at a nearby whorehouse – if you fancy a go at her. She wasn’t too bad looking behind them tears.’

‘What will happen now?’

‘We’ll find the names on this list. Ask the right questions. Get no answers. Do our due diligence. If the Rose and its crew sleep beneath the waves, Mr. Talbut will pay your father for the cargo, and a fair bit more for the inconvenience. Depending on how your father is feeling, that will be that. Else I might be sent back, to adorn the offices of Talbut and sons with a set of bloodied hands and a cut out tongue.’

‘Well,’ said Dante with a yawn, ‘I think that is quite enough time spent amongst the great unwashed for one day, old boy. Back to the villa if you will. Might still make it for a spot of luncheon.’

‘Very good, My Lord. And again, fine work. Your father might not be proud, but he will be pleased with your conduct today.’ Said Diego, snapping the reins,

‘That will be the day, old boy.’ said Dante with a scoff, as the horses sped across the rough cobblestone before them, ‘That will be the day.’

Chapter Two

The Villa of Blue Roses

The gleeful screeches of unreserved youth greeted Dante at the door as he stepped into the grand foyer of his ancestral home. He looked around a moment for Clemence, but the old major-domo was probably too busy furiously scolding an errant serving boy to fuss over Dante’s return to the villa.

Dante found his feet leading him instead towards the sound of merry laughter. A rare melody in the Vi Marcano manor, that only ever emanated from one particular area of the house.

He had always loved the light this side of the villa. The sun which seeped through the shutters here rested in pools of warm, rich hues. It draped itself delicately over the soft furnishings, like peaceful, old relatives with kind faces, finding solace in the stillness that only the wizened seem to truly appreciate.

He knocked lightly on the door, before entering his sister’s rooms.

Amelyia Vi Marcano was a blur of colour and a cacophony of sound. Her long, dark blonde hair, which served as an eternal battleground between mother and daughter, flew behind her, wild and untamed, as she darted and dodged around her would-be pursuer.

She was wearing the bottom half of an elaborate scarlet red dress, its silken surface riddled with myriad semi-precious stones and fussy looking ribbons that rippled in the sunlight.

Giving chase was Amelyia’s handmaiden, Kataryna, a comely young woman of nineteen summers, with dark auburn hair, hazelnut eyes and pale skin. She was from a lesser branch of a noble family, and had been bestowed the honour of serving one of the great Nevorian households, and the privilege, Dante thought, of on occasion sharing his bed.

‘Dante!’ Amelyia shrieked happily, coming to an abrupt halt.

She beamed at Dante, and he could not help but return the smile. Dante loved few things in this life. He was generally unfamiliar and wholly uncomfortable with the concept.

Dante’s life was dictated by a pleasant blend of hedonism and apathy, a strict code which he followed with as much rigidness and pertinacity as any military man or religious fanatic.

But Dante loved his sister.

This was, in his opinion, Dante’s greatest flaw, his greatest weakness. Love, kindness, benevolence – these were for the holy men of the mountains. These feelings, these weaknesses, were not for the ruling families in Nevora. These feelings opened one’s heart. In Nevora, an open heart was an invitation for a dagger.

 These sombre thoughts fled Dante’s mind, as they always did, at the sight of his sister. Amelyia was a young girl of twelve summers, she had dark blonde hair and soft, green, almond eyes that had all of Dante’s playfulness and cleverness, but none of his cold, unfeeling indifference.

She was in many ways his direct opposite – soft where he was hard, kind where he was callous. Yet they shared many physical features; the dark green eyes, olive skin, even the aquiline nose – though hers was small and delicate where his was large and pronounced.

She was, overall, a sweet, good soul, who could often be found caring for the injured critters her ferocious calico cat, Natasha, would bring to her parlour in tribute. Prone to sombre spells of tears if Natasha had been too eager in her offerings – her feline, murderous impulses overcoming her dutiful reverence.

This goodness, this sweetness of soul, Dante hoped, was but a curse of youth, one that would fade as Amelyia grew to womanhood. It was acceptable – decent even – for a woman to seem charitable and show kindness to an extent. But it must be as a soft fur coat that one can shed at an instant, to reveal the sharp barbs of cold, steel armour hidden beneath.

‘Amelyia, stop tormenting poor Kataryna,’ Dante softly rebuked her, ‘Can’t you see how you distress her so?’

Amelyia turned to see Kataryna, flushed with exertion and embarrassment at being discovered in the midst of their game.

‘Oh, I am ever so sorry, my sweet Kataryna, will you please, please forgive my terrible insolence?’ She cooed satirically.

‘Of course, my Lady.’ Kataryna curtseyed playfully.

Amelyia had always been close with her handmaidens – closer than her family would deem appropriate. She resented the proper formalities involved in dealing with these girls from lesser houses. And though careful in public and in the company of her parents to follow correct procedures, in her own rooms and with her brother she forsook all conventional protocol, unless only to do so in a mocking, farcical manner.

‘Mother seems to be in one of her famous good moods today,’ Dante said, a tired hint of a smile playing upon his lips, ‘You better not rip that new dress of yours.’

‘Gods, isn’t it horrible?!’ She laughed, twirling in a circle so that the gemstones caught the sun, sending thousands of specs of light around the room, like shooting stars ripping through the black canvas of a clear winter’s night

‘Hideous,’ Dante said, grinning at his sister, ‘And while a tear or two might actually improve its appearance, I don’t think you want to get on Mother’s bad side today. I caught only a glimpse of it this morning, and my poor balls are yet to resurface from my arsehole.’

Amelyia laughed appreciatively; a warm, honeyed tone which always made Dante smile. Kataryna covered her mouth, but the mischief in her eyes betrayed her delight.

‘What a brute my brother is!’ Amelyia asserted gleefully, ‘I had guessed Mother’s mood earlier. Heard her screaming old Imrean curses at Clemence. Something about his mother’s teat suckling demons till the seas dried out and the mountains crumbled to dust. You know how beautifully she speaks when her temper is flared,’ she added with a scoff, ‘I think she heard some bad news this morning. I heard her and father talking. They did not sound happy.’

‘Do they ever sound happy?’ Dante said, sighing, ‘Speaking of which, do you know where father is?’

‘In the luncheon room, I believe. Taking tea, and grumbling obscenities at his letters, I’d wager. Mother made the kitchens leave out some food for you there. Though she told them to not prepare anything fresh. Even though they said it was no bother.’

‘I’m amazed she did even that. If I was late for luncheon in the old days, she’d feed the leftovers to the dogs and make me watch. Must be getting soft in her old age.’

‘Heavens forfend,’ replied Amelyia with a laugh, ‘I believe we will be joining you in there for tea, once we’ve figure out where my legs go in this horrid thing.’

‘Then I shall see you in there.’

Dante bowed low as he backed out of the room, the two girls curtsying deeply before him, with two smiles of a very different nature.

*

Dante’s father was already at the table when his son entered the luncheon parlour, thumbing through a stack of parchment sat atop a silver tray.

‘Good afternoon, Father.’ Said Dante.

‘Hmph,’ his father grunted, not raising his eyes as he pointed a finger to the table before him, ‘The kitchens left you some food.’

Dante entered the large room and made his way to the grand oak table which dominated the centre of the chamber. He noted curiously that it had been set for five. Usually, the enormous table had only four settings upon it, much to Dante’s amusement; each member of the Vi Marcano family at each extremity, glancing over at one another like warlords over an immense field of battle.

Today a fifth setting was placed next to Amelyia’s seat under the immense, beautifully paned window which gifted its light generously to the cavernous parlour.

‘How did it go with Mr. Talbut?’ Alonzo asked into his letters.

‘Not much to report, I’m afraid,’ replied Dante, as he piled onto his plate a heap of olives, cured meats, fresh, warm bread, and bright, sumptuous tomatoes; slapping away the hand of a serving boy who attempted to assist him, ‘Diego managed to procure a list of the crews’ next of kin from Mr. Talbut. We interviewed one of the sailor’s wives. But it didn’t amount to anything. Diego thinks the ship’s most likely gone down in a storm. I’m inclined to agree.’

‘It’s the third one this year,’ Alonzo said, with a shake of his head, ‘We might need to start looking at new routes. These set backs are killing us. The Cirevillis and Dangforts have had no such ill fortune, and are making us suffer in the markets.’

Alonzo stopped speaking as he turned his eyes up to the Luncheon parlour doors.

Amelyia had just entered the room. Her scarlet dress – a wonderfully shocking contrast to the muted palette of the luncheon parlour – was fastened, tied and clasped with all its elaborance and grandeur.

She was followed shortly after by her mother, who looked no less striking in her purple velvet gown – though where Amelyia’s bright colours reflected her joy and youth, Elena Vi Marcano’s rich hues were more reminiscent of a deadly snake, whose vibrant tones served as a harbinger of its venomous bite.

Kataryna scurried in soon after, along with two of Elena’s ancient handmaids, clad in aged, ashen robes, who deftly shut the parlour doors behind them before fading into their respective corners like wraiths in the mist.

Dante and his father arose from their seats; Dante with grace and ease, Alonzo with the groans of age and a chorus of rattling plates, as his swollen belly collided with the grand oak table.

‘My ladies.’ They echoed in unison.

Elena and Amelyia curtseyed delicately before taking their seats at the table. At this silent cue, half a dozen figures emerged from the shadows of the parlour, surging forward to the table like waves rushing to meet the shore.

Tea was poured, napkins removed and placed upon laps. Plates were adorned skilfully with a variety of cakes, confectionaries, and ripe fruit fresh from the estate’s own gardens.

Dante looked over to his father, who was attacking his plate as if his sweets had done him some grievous, personal affront. The ladies at table were a little more refined in their technique, delicately dissecting their portions into polite allotments.

Dante ate his leftovers with as much fervour as his father, feeling better and more himself with each bite, as the remnants of his hangover faded into memory.

‘Family,’ Alonzo vi Marcano began, wiping his mouth roughly with a white cotton napkin, ‘I have some… news to share.’

Dante paused mid-chew and looked over to his father. It was not unlike Alonzo to share tidings at tea, however, the tone in which his father now spoke had piqued Dante’s interest. It was a flat tone – a tone which attempted to sound neutral, even positive, yet belied a barely concealed irritance and, perhaps, even a little fear.

‘Your Uncle is to return to Nevora today. At any moment-’ he snapped the final words as an ominous warning to the household attendants, ‘Dante, it has been some years since you have seen him. Amelyia, it will be your first occasion to meet your uncle. He has… changed in many ways since he has been gone. And though his appearance and demeanour might seem… odd, he is to be treated with all respect and courtesies due the oldest living male of the Vi Marcano line.’

Dante glanced over to his mother, whose face was a perfect, marble bust of the goddess of impassiveness and serenity. The only tell she had was that the rouge on her cheeks had turned to pale pink as the colour drained from her face.

For what reason, Dante wondered? Fear? Anger? It was hard to tell. With his mother it was always hard to tell.

‘He shall be staying here?’ Amelyia squeaked enthusiastically, seemingly oblivious to the oppressive atmosphere which had settled in the parlour.

‘No, my dear. He has taken up accommodation in his old villa by the Fertieve lakes, just north of the city. But he has expressed his desire to call on us today,’ Alonzo said gravely, ‘We must make preparations.’

*

The old stone felt cold and damp beneath Dante’s feet as he stood in the darkened confines of the Vi Marcano armoury. Below ground, the subterranean vault maintained an ever-present chill, regardless of the blaring heat of the summer skies above.

The cool air had the taste of old leather and steel, which coursed its way across Dante’s tongue, as he opened his mouth to speak.

‘Baldrun, did you know that I had an uncle?’ Dante asked his sword bearer as he fastened the laces of his leather bracers.

‘I did not, m’lord,’ croaked Baldrun in reply.

The guttural tones produced by the Northerner as he spoke the Empire’s Tongue always reminded Dante of an old perturbed frog lambasting passers-by who dared to walk too close to his bog.

It helped that Baldrun, himself, was a toadish looking man; short of leg and round of body. Though he wore vibrant, bright colours of canary yellow and emerald green, as if his noisy palette could somehow make up for his diminished stature.

‘Yes. Quite before your time in our service. He left almost twenty Summers ago. When I was still but a child. In his youth he was said to be one of the greatest duellists of his age. Enzio Vi Marcano, the oldest of the ancient Vi Marcano bloodline. Set to inherit the wealth and power of one of the greatest families in Nevora and in the Telarrian Empire itself.’

Dante lifted his arms high as Baldrun helped loop his sheath and belt around his waist.

‘I had an aunt, too. And a cousin. Though I can’t quite recall his name,’ Dante mused, flexing his fingers, stretching the leather of his gloves, ‘I was quite young when they died. I remember them only in pieces. Like an old tapestry faded with age. But my uncle changed after. That I remember.’

Baldrun pulled hard on the belt, buckling it tight.

‘A few years of mourning and melancholy passed, and then he disappeared. Vanished without a word. Three years later, father received a letter from a messenger. From the Zweiland territories. Harsh lands with even harsher people. Even more fierce and barbaric than your own. The letter was sealed with the crest of Enzio Vi Marcano, first son of Ecchio Vi Marcano.’

Dante lifted his right foot to allow Baldrun to fasten the laces of his high leather boots.

‘The letter rescinded all heirship to the Vi Marcano holdings, businesses and properties. All but the small family villa by the lakes. And then, again, he disappeared. My grandfather passed the following winter. And, like that,’ he said, with a click of his fingers, ‘My father inherited it all. Overnight he became one of the most powerful Lord State Merchants in the whole empire.’

‘And the finest one that Nevora has ever been blessed with, if I do say so, m’lord!’ Baldrun squawked enthusiastically

‘Quite,’ Dante sneered, giving his displeasure for his swordbearer’s sycophancy an audible release, ‘Hand me my blade.’

Baldrun recoiled into a low bow as if Dante’s words had physically forced him to submission. He scurried toward the bureau and retrieved a dark mahogany case adorned with gold and silver engravings.

The case bore Dante’s initials in beautiful, cursive script, with exquisite vine and leaf decals. The blue Vi Marcano crest in the centre was set, as always, with an intricate, gold and silver peacock atop an unadorned, iron helmet.

‘For the Gods are good.’ Baldrun whispered piously, head bent low as he offered the ornate case to Dante.

‘And their mercy swift.’ Dante replied, taking the box from Baldrun’s hands.

He unfastened the clasps and lifted the lid. Inside lay Dante’s rapier, glimmering seductively in the candlelight; its fine edge embraced lovingly by the plush, midnight blue velvet lining within.

It was a long, thin blade, of about two fingers width, that seemed quite fragile at first glance. Yet, though it looked as delicate as the sculptures the Nevorian glassblowers would produce to exhibit their subtle skills of the hand, this blade was far from fragile.

Created by Layo Fierinsi, the greatest weaponsmith the Telarrian Empire had ever produced, it was a sword with as much history and infamy as the great house who possessed it. A history which was passed down to Dante, along with the blade itself.

Commissioned by Dante’s great great great grandfather, Belucha Vi Marcano, Darksong – as the blade had come to be known – was the final piece of artistry created by the fabled Maestro Fierinsi. It was made from the finest tempered steel of the Carcadian Alps – as sharp and straight as the horizon, and as strong and unyielding as the mountains whence it came.

After finishing the blade and declaring it to be his finest work and the last of its kind, Layo Fierinsi was invited to Palaroma, the glorious capital of the empire, to the exalted court of the Emperor Clavius IV.

 Clavius lavished the Maestro with praise and adoration, and asked him to make one final blade for the emperor himself. Fierinsi, much to the shock and dread of the court, flatly refused, stating that whilst he appreciated the emperor doing him such a great honour, he had taken a vow to Bulwray – God of Forge and Creation, whom smiths and masons make offerings – to create no more swords. The rest of his days, he vowed, were to be spent in peace and reflection, turning his hand only to help those in need.

At this, the Palaromian court was said to burst into raucous laughter at the absurdity and ignorance of this old fool. Dante himself had always thought this part of the story droll and ironic; a peasant’s sense of naive empathy from the man who created the most perfect instruments of death.

The emperor, however, was not so amused. He asked Fierinsi with which hand he intended to help those in need. The Maestro, with visible confusion, raised his right hand. The emperor then asked if he needed this hand to make swords, to which the smith replied that he did.

At a nod, the emperor’s guards rushed the man and forced him to his knees. He begged for mercy and pleaded with the cold eyes of the court who smirked and sneered at the old fool. They wrenched his left hand from his side as he struggled in vain against the great strength of the guards.

One of the men then removed an immense longblade from his sheath, bringing his sword down in a violent arch, separating hand from limb. The women of the court screeched, some in shock, others in delight, as the old man slumped to the ground, blood spurting from his wound, painting many of the closer courtiers with a stream of glistening scarlet.

As the screams from the old man faded into pathetic whimpers, the emperor asked if he would make him a sword now. The old man only sobbed and shook his head. The emperor asked if his vow was still stopping him. He shook his head again. Why then, the emperor pressed, would he not make him a blade? The old man choked back a painful sob in his throat and told the emperor he could not make the blade because they took his left hand, the hand with which he created.

The emperor, more furious and enraged than ever, asked why he lied and said he needed his right hand to make the sword? The old man replied that he did not lie – he used his right hand to hold the sword still, whilst his left hand tempered the blade.

So, the emperor took his head.

Dante always laughed at the story – at the foolish Maestro who refused to make the blade, and the even more foolish emperor who did not know one needed two hands to craft a sword.

Nonetheless the story was, mostly, true and the blade had passed from father to son all the way down to his uncle, Enzio, who they say wielded it with almost as much skill as Dante himself. Enzio relinquished his ownership of the blade to his brother when he vanished, and thus the blade had come to Dante.

And now his uncle was back. Was this why his father had looked so concerned? Might Enzio be returning to reclaim his properties, his birthright? Would this mean he would wish to reclaim Darksong? If so, Dante thought, he might be receiving the sword in a slightly more painful manner than he had perhaps assumed.

It was said that the Gods punished those who killed a family member more than any other. That once their time upon this earth reached its inevitable conclusion, their souls were to be sent immediately to the lowest depths of the Underworld, to receive Herres’ most brutal of tortures till the end of days.

But Dante was fairly certain that his ferry was destined there already. And he had always presumed a few sweet words of penance, and a couple of gold coins would perhaps convince the Gods to redirect his passage.

Besides, why create forgiveness if it was not meant to be sought?

Dante grasped the hilt of the rapier and softly lifted it from its case. The elaborate steel guard of the blade entangled Dante’s hand like a spider’s web, whose silken strands, heavy with dew, glimmered in the morning sun.

He marvelled at the weight and balance of the blade as he raised it to his face, catching a brief glimpse of his green eyes caught in a moment of awe as he studied its edges.

‘Ready the horses. It must almost be time.’

*

Dante stood beneath the shade of an ancient olive tree, chewing on a stick of liquorice root, as Baldrun rounded the corner of the villa with two horses in tow. The horse in the lead was an ancient looking nag, affectionately named Fleabag – an omnipresent being in Dante’s life who had served the family before he was even born, and seemed destined to outlive them all.

Behind Fleabag came Dante’s steed; an immensely large and impossibly black stallion, with a shocking white mane of hair that looked like a single brush stroke upon a dark canvas. He had named the horse Marllon, after the God of War and Thunder, whose great beard was said to be as black as coal.

A gift from his father upon reaching manhood, Dante had trained and cared for Marllon with as much dedication and diligence as he had with his own martial training and self-care. Marllon was as much of an extension of himself as was Darksong, and they rode together with such harmony and synchronisation that to an outsider it looked as if they shared but one mind.

Marllon whinnied in anticipation as he approached Dante. He was a fiercely loyal companion with an excitable disposition and an ill temper. The stableboys’ hearts would sink and their stomachs churn with apprehension when it was their turn to tend to the horse that they nicknamed Diavo, after the God of Death and Darkness, which they thought better suited his mood.

Dante revelled in this knowledge, for Marllon was as calm and patient as a babbling brook in his presence, which in his mind, made their bond all the more singular. He scratched behind the large steed’s ears, and whispered soft adulations and warm greetings to his most reliable companion.

Placing a foot in the stirrup, Dante launched himself dexterously up onto the saddle.

‘Do hurry up, Baldrun.’ He sighed impatiently, for the old hand was struggling to mount Fleabag; his short legs and rotund frame making the simple task a fair bit more challenging.

Eventually the stout little man managed to roll onto the back of the old nag, huffing and panting with the immense exertion. Dante raised his eyebrows and looked upon Baldrun expectantly.

‘Are we quite done?’

‘Yes, m’lord. Sorry, m’lord.’

Dante turned his horse in a circle before clicking his tongue and applying a hint of pressure to Marllon’s great, barrellike ribs. Without hesitation, the large stallion moved his powerful legs into a graceful canter, as they made their way down the long path which led them out of the villa’s grounds via the Vineyard, avoiding the longer, more scenic route through the great gardens of the estate.

The Villa of Blue Roses, as the Vi Marcano’s estate was known, was situated atop one of the rolling hills which encompassed the city of Nevora proper. The hills themselves had no official names, but were affectionately dubbed The Golden Vistas by the townsmen and peasantry of the city.

The more naive residents of the Vistas thought the name alluded to the beautiful, breath-taking views the lavish holdings provided. However, Dante knew the title referred to the fact that those who lived on the hills were said to rain down piss upon the chamberpot that was the city of Nevora itself.

The hills were divided into the large estates of the Lord State Merchants and miscellaneous Nevorian nobility. Traditionally, they had been held for generations by the same ancient, venerable houses, who could trace their roots back to the founding of Nevora, before the Empire, in the times of Heroes and Gods. However, in recent years, some had fallen into the hands of a few powerful upstart families who had purchased the historical properties from the dwindling powers of old.

The landscape was dominated by the grand, opulent villas of the ruling elite and their various stables, olive groves and vineyards. The horses, oils and wines produced here were of some of the finest quality in the known world, but few, if any, ever left the Golden Vistas.

They predominantly served as symbols of status and as a further means of demonstrating one’s wealth, prosperity and affluence. Battles that could not be fought on the field between families at peace could be won or lost in the various cellars and dining rooms of the Vistas, or upon the great racetracks situated at the foot of the hills.

Dante looked over the rolling hills of his family’s vineyard, pleased at the progress of their ancient vines, whose gnarled, venerable roots graciously, and with heart-breaking benevolence, turned specs of dirt and mud to honeyed orbs of delectable nectar. The grapes on the vine were still in the process of ripening; turning from the budding green of youth to the alluring, rich purple of maturity.

He loved being out here, amongst the vines. Watching the grapes form, from shoot, to flower, to seed, to fruit. Seeing the leaves brown in the cool autumn breeze, before withering and falling to the ground under winter’s sombre spell, only to be raised again in Spring by Gaeyla’s loving hand – the Goddess of Earth – to begin its harmonious cycle of beauty and balance anew.

He smiled to himself as he passed a patch of grass where he recalled fucking a shapely young farm girl, whose name he had quite forgotten; his mind filling with the image of dark soil smeared into the fair, innocent flesh of her pale, ample arse.

Dante had quite forgotten the purpose of this afternoon ride – caught in the wistful thrall of the beguiling vines and pale young thighs. But as he emerged from the vineyard, the great lake named Fiorlora, which lay at the foot of the Cirevilli estate, snapped him out of his reverie.

His eyes fell upon a bright red marquee, which had been erected on the eastern shore, outside of which stood a small host of equally brightly clad figures.

‘It appears, good Baldrun,’ Dante said, urging Marllon forward, ‘That we are late.’

*

As Dante neared the tent, the figures surrounding the marquee began to take shape. He saw Timo Cirevilli, the slighted party; youngest of the great upstart family, seated upon a floral upholstered chaise longue beneath the scarlet pavilion. He was flanked by two young serving girls wielding absurdly large fans, faces red with effort for even lifting the enormous devices.

Timo himself was a slight, sickly young man of nineteen summers. He had sallow, almost cadaverous looking skin, stretched painfully over a gaunt face. His eyes were pale blue, piercing and singular, hidden partially beneath a mat of dirty blonde hair which lay plastered over his shining forehead, sleek with sweat in the unforgiving heat.

He wore dark red, silk trousers tucked into velvet slippers. And upon his white, frilled shirt lay a smattering of wine stains, like an archipelago of crimson islands drawn hastily upon a map – the same colour, like as not, as his teeth were sure to be. His voice was raised and muffled in drunken, slurring tones as he laughed and spoke to the brooding figure who stood behind him.

Malliso Cirevilli towered over the back of his younger brother. He was a tall, imposing man of one and thirty Summers. He had broad shoulders, long, muscular legs and a large, powerful frame. His thick, sandy hair was kept short and sleek, slicked back with scented oil. His handsome face, though similarly ashen in colour, was fuller than his brother’s, and his dark brown eyes shone with severity and cleverness.

He wore a more practical garb than most under the canopy; brown, leather trousers tucked into knee high leather boots and a dark blue linen shirt. Malliso had spotted Dante’s arrival and was staring at him with cool indifference as his brother unwittingly continued his drunken ramblings.

An involuntary shudder ran up Dante’s spine as he glimpsed the figure stood beside Malliso. The man had been quite obscured by his dark robes as he lingered in the shadows of the marquee, but as he leant forward to whisper into Malliso’s ear, the pale, waxen skin of his face and neck protruded from the darkness, like some horrid snail slowly emerging from a shell of deepest gloom.

Dante did not know the man, yet he recognised the scarlet robes of a priest of Illunar immediately. Only the Cirevillis would be so brazen as to bring one of those cultist cretins to so holy a ceremony. Dante would have appreciated the brass and gall of the act were it under any other circumstances, but the Illunari and the practitioners of its so-called religion set him at such ill-ease that he found it quite impossible.

There was something of the mucinous about them. Something viscous. Something putrid. He found it hard to explain, but in the presence of the Illunari he could feel the creeping of a thousand spindly legs as they crawled their way across the surface of his skin.

‘One thousand pardons for my tardiness, My Lords and Ladies,’ said Dante, dismounting his horse, as he reached earshot of those within the tent.

‘Ah! Dante!’ Timo’s high-pitched, nasal voice came out in slurred tones as he rose eagerly from the chaise longue, ‘Good to see you, old boy! We were beginning to think that you had quite forgotten about us.’

‘One would be hard-pressed to forget such an esteemed and noble procession! I must confess that my delay is due to a weakness of heart. A weakness facilitated by a disposition too pious and devout,’ Dante’s voice cracked with emotion at the last words. He raised his hand dramatically to his chest, clutching his heart before continuing, ‘I am shamed to admit that I was, this very morning, so engaged and immersed in prayer, on my knees at the shrine of Our Lady – so taken aback by the love and glory of the mistress Ellucia, that I had quite forgotten the hour, nay, the day, the year even! So engrossed was I in holy sacrament. And thus, I come to you all now, humbled and repentant, but with the light of Ellucia flowing through my veins.’

Dante bowed his head low and spread his arms in supplication.

‘The only thing you have flowing through your veins is wine!’ A rough, mocking voice shouted from the back of the gathering, ‘And the only reason you’ve ever knelt at a shrine is to be sick on it!’

Dante raised his hand to his eyes as he searched the faces of the procession.

‘Mother?’ Dante called out, ‘Is that you?’

A ripple of laughter, followed by a chorus of good-hearted boos and jeers emanated from the crowd, before the majority of those surrounding the marquee returned to what conversations they had been engaged in before Dante’s entrance.

A short, lean youth, with dark brown hair, framing a round, amicable face, dressed in shades of brown and forest green stepped forward from the gathering, a wide grin upon his face.

‘I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show. The Great Dante Vi Marcano, finally defeated. Losing his first ever duel to a bottle of wine,’ the young man scoffed as he extended his hand to Dante.

‘Ah, good Louis, you underestimate me. You see, I was outnumbered. It was three against one. One white and two reds,’ Dante shook his old friend’s hand, and with his other arm on his shoulder pulled him closer to better hear his hushed whisper, ‘How does this Nicolai look?’

‘He looks nervous. But he is strong and he is fast. He moves well; however, he seems a little uneasy going back on the left foot,’ he paused, looking Dante in the eye, ‘Are you ok? You look like shit.’

‘I’ve had better mornings, my friend.’ Dante said, clapping Louis on the back, before releasing his hand and moving towards the ensemble beneath the marquee.

‘Again, sincere apologies for the lateness of my hour, gentlemen,’ said Dante, bowing low before the small group.

‘For certain, Dante. The sincerity simply oozes from your tongue,’ said Malliso, with a sigh. He had the singular ability to sound both perturbed and bored in equal measures, at all times, regardless of the situation.

‘Come now, dear Brother,’ Timo attempted through painful sounding hiccups, ‘I am quite sure that good Dante meant us no dishonour.’

‘Indeed not, gentlemen,’ capitulated Dante, ‘I have neither the desire nor the capacity to bestow honour or dishonour, upon such esteemed and noble personages. I am but a blessed observer, who has the fortuity, nay, the privilege, to bear witness to the comings and goings of such giants of virtue and exaltation.’

  Dante bowed low once more to the sound of a few scoffs and sniggers emanating from the gathering before him. Timo smiled dumbly, looking placated and thoroughly impressed.

‘There,’ he whined, ‘You see. He does us great honour.’

‘Quite,’ sighed Malliso disparagingly, ‘Well, if we are quite done here, I think it best to forsake any further pleasantries and proceed immediately with the ceremony. We have wasted quite enough time as it is,’ he added, before clapping his hands, ‘Let us begin!

Chapter Three

The Duel

At Malliso’s command, the crowd spread out into a circle from the base of the marquee. Dante and Baldrun stepped out into the middle of the clearing, and were followed shortly after by a stumbling, clearly inebriated Timo, being supported by the Cirevilli’s Second, Brusco Maltesta – the largest, most unsightly man that Dante had ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes upon.

Though Dante was tall, Brusco stood at least a head and a half above him, and was almost twice as wide. He had a dense, impossibly thick auburn beard, and kept his head shorn clean with a razor.

The Maltestas were a peasant house from the Docklands of Nevora, raised to the station of a minor house by the Cirevillis after years of loyal and leal service by Brusco, who had held the position of the First for the family for over a decade.

 During this time, the man had never once lost a duel. He was a brutal, indomitable opponent; astonishingly quick for a man of his size, possessed with a strength that seemed almost unnatural. He was also quite merciless; of the two and fifty duels he had fought, only nineteen men had walked away with their lives.

It had come as quite the surprise then, to many in the realm – including Dante himself – that Dante had been selected by the Cirevillis nearly two Summers ago to replace Brusco as their First. However, like the wines and horses of Nevora, the selection of a family’s Duellist had much to do with fashion, intrigue and status.

Dante had qualified as a Prefect of the Academy of Duellists at the youngest age in the history of the empire – an accolade that Brusco, as a peasant boy, could never have hoped to achieve. He was also from an old, renowned family, had a style which was as graceful and elegant as was deadly, and made, quite simply, a far more aesthetically pleasing figure.

 Brusco, on the other hand, was from an elevated peasant family, had a style, which – while wholly effective – was downright brutish, and had the appearance and manners of a barbarian from the Zweilands.

Whilst Dante was not truly sure what the outcome would be if the two undefeated fighters were pitted against one another, he knew damn well which one looked more the part.

Dante crouched down on one knee as Timo and Brusco stepped into the arena, feeling a few blades of grass beneath his fingers.

Bone dry, he thought to himself, feeling the tiny spikes of the grass grating painfully and pleasantly against his sensitive fingertips, as he delicately caressed the blades. This was good. This was why he preferred to dance in the afternoon. Dante hated morning duels, when the grass, heavy with dew, meant one foot in the wrong place could result in a slip or a fall. And one slip or fall in this dance could mean certain death.

He raised himself back to his feet, letting the grass fall to the ground, and looked out to the sea of faces turned towards him. Quite an array of dignitaries had ventured out to witness the ceremony. Dante smiled to himself. A duel for a family as prominent as the Cirevillis was sure to attract a few merchants hoping to catch the ear of one of the most powerful houses in the city, offering congratulations or commiserations, and securing a meeting or even a handshake.

It was also sure to lure a few true lovers of the sport, who seldom missed the chance to see a good match, as well as those who turned up simply in the hopes of seeing some bloodshed and violence – two of the few things guaranteed to bring any semblance of joy to the Nevorian nobility. It mayhaps even draw out a bored lord or two who wished to escape, for a moment, their dreary lives or irksome wives.

But to pull a crowd so large and so illustrious for a duel against a man from an old, decaying house barely worth mentioning? Dante knew that this gathering was for him. To get a chance to see the youngest prefect the Academy had ever produced pit his steel against a seasoned opponent.

They were here for a spectacle. One that Dante was happy to give them.

Dante surveyed the crowd, taking note of some of the eminent faces in the throng. Louis had joined his father, Piotr Orzino, someway off to the left of the tent where they were engaged in conversation with Bantone Dangfort and his uncommonly tall wife, Sussette. Dante’s heart thundered in his chest for a moment as he searched for Louis’ sister, Esmé, but he knew better than to expect her at a duel.

To their right stood Ducco Bronsini, a large, silver-bearded man in yellow robes, patron of one of the oldest families in Nevora, with his youngest son Martyn, a handsome, blonde-haired youth of fifteen summers, and Martyn’s ever-present companion, Viccili Pomfort.

One man, however, quite stood out from the rest of the gathering. A tall, lean, older gentleman with a salt and pepper beard, braided and glossy with oil stood on the opposite side of the circle. Though his beard was worn in a distinctive style, it was his outlandish garb which drew Dante’s attention towards him.

He wore high, black leather boots studded with rivets of tarnished iron. His trousers were billowy and appeared to be made from some sort of black satin material, although Dante was quite sure he had never seen the fabric before. Across his chest hung an off-white tunic, with unfamiliar symbols embroidered on the sleeves, cinched tight by an ornate, black leather belt. And atop his head sat an odd hat that was formed of interweaving cloth, tied and knotted in an intricate, complex manner; it was like nothing he had ever seen.

The man himself, was like nothing he had ever seen. He was drawing more than a few deriding glances and barely contained sniggers from some of the younger ensemble. Dante was smirking himself until he caught the man’s eyes.

At once, his smile faded, as he looked into the man’s dancing green orbs. He felt a surge of adrenaline course its way throughout his body, as he was fixed by a gaze of such formidable cunning and intensity. And something more disturbing. Something familiar. Something conspiratorial. Like Dante and him shared a secret jest unbeknownst to the rest of the world.

For a moment, Dante’s breath caught in his lungs.

His eyes were suddenly filled with a clarity of vision, as a kaleidoscope of colours, bright and vibrant, imbued the scene around him. A thick fog of greyness and obscurity seemed to fade from sight, receding from his vision like a heavy mist pierced by the stark light of the sun.

It was as if his eyes were a dusty looking glass, wiped clean after years of neglect and inattention. Had the blues of the sky above and the waters of the Fiorlora always been so enchantingly melancholic? Had the greens of the grass and trees always seemed so alive and vivid? Teeming with the limitless potential of life?

       He looked about him, glancing upon the faces of those who surrounded him. Had their faces always looked so listless and drab? So impassive and lifeless? Had their eyes always seemed so dull? For a moment, they seemed but grotesque masks placed upon the faces of the assembly, ill-fitting and macabre in their loose imitation of humanity. All but the man, with the eyes of forest green which burnt with fire and life, as vivid and bright as the resplendent world which surrounded him.

Dante’s musings were called to an abrupt halt as he saw the two clerics of Diavo, the God of Death and Darkness, and Ellucia, the Goddess of Life and Light, enter the clearing. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, as the world before him gradually returned to normal.

Gods. What in the nine rivers of the underworld did he drink last night?

The priest of Diavo wore worn, black robes tied at the waist by a burlap string; his face covered by a white ceramic mask, featureless aside from two small holes for eyes and a third for a mouth. The face of death bore an unsettling and uncanny resemblance to that of a new-born babe. It was a face that Dante, whilst happy to deliver, seldom liked to look upon.

The priestess of Ellucia, conversely, wore pure, unblemished robes of white. Her face was bared, but her hair was covered by a large, rippled hood. The two clerics knelt side by side in the centre of the clearing, placing two fingers to their mouths, then to their foreheads, then to their hearts, before bending forward to place their heads upon the ground. They leant back in unison and began to chant in haunting, melodic tones, harmonising eerily with one another as they intoned the divine hymn of judgement.

‘The day begins, as night draws to a close,

The end of darkness, and its begotten woes,

Ellucia comes, to bring light to the world,

But Diavo waits, with fingers unfurled.

He beckons to thee, no anger or wrath,

For death awaits, at the end of each path,

To flee, is for fools, as would be to hide,

For Ellucia waits, upon the other side.

The two, thee shall meet, always at the end,

To greet thee at last, and embrace as a friend,

Two more, doth we bring, to send one away,

To meet with the Gods, at the end of this day.’

As the spectral harmonics faded away, Dante and the amassed gathering placed their two fingers on their lips, forehead and heart in expected reverence to the divine ritual.

‘Who has issued the challenge before the Gods?’ The clerics sung again in unison.

‘I,’ said Nicolai Constance, as he emerged from the crowd, ‘I call upon the Gods, in their glory and wisdom, to grant me justice.’

It was the first time Dante had seen his opponent. He was larger than Dante expected, roughly his own height but with extremely broad shoulders and large arms, more akin to those of a blacksmith than a soldier. His skin was dark and smooth; the skin of a young man whose short years spent out in the elements had not yet begun to take their toll.

He was a handsome youth, with bright green eyes and dark hair tied back into a warrior’s tail. In many ways it was like looking in a mirror. Dante could see why the peasant girl had risked so much to be with him.

‘Who comes forth to accept the challenge?’ The haunting, harmonised voices sang once more.

The call was met by silence. Dante took his eyes from Nicolai and looked to the man beside him. The gaze of the crowd followed suit as all eyes landed upon Timo Cirevilli, dosing stupidly on his feet, eyes fighting to stay awake, mouth agape in a gormless, repulsive countenance. Brusco gently shook Timo’s shoulder, rousing him from his grotesque slumber.

‘Who comes forth to accept the challenge?’ The voices beckoned again.

‘Me… I!’ Timo’s slurred, ‘I call upon… The Gods in their… Drudgery and tedium… Can we get on with this?’

A wave of muffled laughter ran through the crowd. Dante looked up to see Ducco Bronsini shaking his head, eyes ablaze with fury at Timo’s lack of respect.

‘Does the challenger wish to represent himself?’ The priest of Diavo asked, ignoring Timo’s slight – his melodious tones giving way to a pragmatic, business-like monotone.

‘I do.’ Nicolai’s voice was soft and hesitant, but full with passion, ‘May the Gods grant me strength.’

‘Does the challenged wish to represent himself?’

‘No,’ sneered Timo, ‘I do not.’

‘A First has been selected?’

‘Yes.’ Timo replied, his shrill voice loud and piercing, ‘Dante, teach this whelp a lesson.’

At this, Dante stepped forward and bowed his head before the two priests.

‘Do you accept this nomination?’ The priestess asked, her honeyed voice quite beautiful now that she was not singing her eerie psalm.

‘I do,’ replied Dante accordingly.

‘Then bring forth your instruments.’

Dante nodded to Baldrun, who stepped forward with the dark mahogany case. He unfastened the latches and opened the box. Bowing his head low, he extended the encased blade toward the clerics.

Beside him, a burly gentleman sporting a large, blonde moustache and wearing weather-worn (though immaculately presented) military garb, stepped forward. Nicolai’s Second had the bearing and manner of an Imperial man to be sure. And judging by the accolades pinned upon his breast, an accomplished one at that. For a moment Dante felt a pang of remorse that he would not be testing his blade against this worthy adversary.

Perhaps some other day.

The man unsheathed Nicolai’s sword from its leather scabbard, before laying the blade on the flat of his left palm and extending it towards the priest and priestess.

Nicolai’s blade was unadorned and clearly well used. Dante noted that the weapon – a bastard sword of about twelve hands in length – was, whilst seemingly quite plain looking, of fine quality and craftsmanship. Its edges were honed with obvious care and experience. The steel itself looked strong and resilient. And the number of notches it bore painted an impressive picture of a long, successful career in warfare. Dante smiled to himself – a smile of respect and of anticipation.

This was going to be a fine dance.

The clerics looked over the blades for a moment before placing two fingers from their lips to the tips of the swords.

‘Be these thine arms, on our mortal domain,

Be these thine lips, as ye call for the name,

Of the one, before, who stands in the wrong,

The one, who ye call, at the end of our song.’

     

A deathly silence fell over the gathering as the song of the clerics faded away. Dante drew Darksong from its case, a blissful shiver running up his arm as he felt the cool steel of the guard encompass his hand. The leather of the sword’s grip sank perfectly into his palm, like a lost limb being reattached after an agonisingly long separation.

He gave the blade a few nimble swishes and thrusts, marvelling, as always, at the beautiful, almost celestial balance of the weapon. He walked slowly to the far end of the circle, under the watchful, greedy gaze of the crowd. Nicolai made his way to the opposite end, where the circle almost met the azure lake.

Dante met Nicolai’s eyes as he reached the boundary. His light green orbs glimmered with determination and fierce passion as he stared at Dante with an intensity that Dante found he could not help but respect.

Dante wondered what Nicolai saw as he returned his gaze. Would he be fooled by the playful, innocent glint in Dante’s own eyes? Or would this seasoned soldier see through to the cold, hardened core which lay beneath?

‘Are you ready, sir?’ Shouted Dante across the now sanctified arena.

‘I am, Sir!’ Retorted Nicolai, with the same intensity that his eyes portrayed.

‘Come then.’

No sooner had the words left Dante’s lips than Nicolai had sprung into action. The young man rushed towards Dante, lightning-quick, his large frame surging forward, building fearful momentum as he approached.

Dante stood fast, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, and waited for Nicolai Constance to descend upon him. He marvelled at the speed of the large man’s approach, Louis was right, he was extremely fast. He would be upon Dante in no time.

Dante took one step back, planting his right foot hard to the ground, pivoted slightly to the right, as he moved Darksong behind his back. Nicolai was almost upon him now, Dante could see the stubble of his youthful, dark beard catching the light of the afternoon sun.

The large man raised his bastard sword above his head. He was so close now that Dante could see the small beads of sweat glimmering off his forehead. His forearms tensed and bulged as he began to bring the blade down in a powerful, two-handed swing.    

Dante dropped his left shoulder and sprung with great force and alacrity from his right foot toward the surging youth. Nicolai read the manoeuvre, and attempted to alter the course of his swing, but much too late.

Dante’s shoulder brushed gently off the large man’s thigh, spinning him in a low, full circle beneath his attack. As he turned, he drove the sharp pommel of Darksong into the back of his opponent’s left knee.

Nicolai’s leg buckled, and the large man, carried by his great momentum, tripped and was launched head over heels into the screaming crowd. The attendants shrieked and shouted, some in shock, most in joy and amusement.

Dante spun again, rolling over his shoulder to come to a graceful halt in the centre of the circle. The audience whooped and whistled their appreciation as Dante waited for the youth to find his feet again.

Nicolai returned to the circle with a slight limp to his gait.

‘That was a cheap trick,’ he grunted unamused.

‘You came at me like a virgin comes to bed, sir. Let us try a more measured approach,’ Dante replied in his most polite and gentlemanly tones, ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

Nicolai approached slower this time. His footwork now, Dante noticed, was actually rather sophisticated. He circled Dante, changing stances multiple times. First the Amarri Descent, then to Machimo’s Surrender, then to Mico’s Gambit.

Dante was sure the youth had no conception as to what these techniques were named. Nor about the history of the great two-handed masters with which they were associated. But he used them well.

Dante, however, knew the counters for the bastard sword even better, as he switched from Fierriensi’s Retreat, to the Rolance Combination, to the Fool’s Feint. Dante could not help but smile, this was the part of the dance that he loved the most. The anticipation of his opponent’s moves. Attempting to decipher his adversary’s next step before he knows it himself.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Shot Nicolai.

‘You dance well, sir. It is the smile of admiration,’ Dante replied.

Nicolai sprung forward and the two men’s blades met for the first time. His attacks were executed with much finesse. He had an elegance to his positioning and timing that Dante did not expect from a soldier. For now, Dante was content to play the defensive role. Parrying and deflecting his strikes with the occasional riposte thrown in just to sustain the rhythm.

Nicolai’s footwork was even more impressive in action. Dante found himself getting drawn into the mesmerising, rhythmic exchanges as the blades sung in sharp, beautiful melodies. An observer in the crowd at this point would be hard pressed to say who had the advantage in this bout. But Dante had not yet begun his advance.

He started slowly, inserting here and there a testing feint or a searching foot. Nicolai fought well. Very well, in fact. However, Dante could tell that he had pitted his blade mostly against the barbarians of the north or the various training partners he could find in the barracks or on the road.

He had never faced anyone like Dante.

First, the speed and severity of Dante’s ripostes started to increase dramatically. Dante could see a hint of uncertainty beginning to creep into Nicolai’s eyes, as each time he swung or swiped, Darksong would reply with increasing swiftness. This shifted Nicolai slowly into a defensive position as his attacks were starting to merely offer new, alarming opportunities for counterattack.

Dante then begun to test the left foot that Louis had suggested was unsteady. He had already made advances into aggravating the issue in the opening exchanges of the encounter by jabbing his pommel into the left knee of young Nicolai, and he could see now that his gambit had paid off.

Every time Dante forced Nicolai to back off on the left foot, he could see a precariousness in his balance and an apprehension in his movement. Nicolai, however, was no stranger to this dance. As Dante continued to test his retreat on the left, the young man began to counter the probing, shifting his stance onto his front right foot. When Dante began to push him back, he would parry and step with his right, giving a mighty two-handed swipe which forced Dante back each time.

This was the problem when using a rapier like Darksong against a large, two-handed sword like the one Nicolai was wielding. Dante could parry, riposte and deflect the large man’s blows, but a full-on block against a mighty swipe from such a large, powerful blade might mean the end of a rapier, even one as resilient as Darksong. And, most likely, an end for the man wielding it. Nicolai was pressing this advantage now. He was forcing Dante back with broad, powerful strokes which could only be evaded or deflected.

Dante found himself backing up with hurried steps, losing some of the elegance of his footwork as he had to rush to avoid the large, deadly swipes. His eyes filled for the first time with uncertainty and apprehension as he was forced into this desperate retreat. Nicolai’s confidence seemed to build as his strikes became more forceful and wild; great arcs of the blade slashing from right to left with mighty abandon.

Perhaps, Dante thought, he was not so seasoned after all.

Nicolai’s face seemed to pale instantaneously with horrible understanding as he looked into Dante’s eyes. Too late, he must have seen the uncertainty in those green orbs turn cold with cunning and gratification.

Dante had feigned taking a large step back, telegraphing a hasty retreat – but as Nicolai brought his sword down in another mighty swing, he had sprung forward, extending Darksong into a lunge, catching the top of Nicolai’s blade, before adding his own strength to the attack’s momentum, propelling the wild attack off to the side and unbalancing the young man, who had placed all his force behind it.

With a flourish of the wrist, like the stroke of a paintbrush, Dante glided Darksong delicately back across the man’s unguarded abdomen, as it parted through his shirt and flesh, opening his skin like the blooming of a flower.

Dante heard an awful yell of pain as he spun dexterously away from Nicolai. The large man dropped to his knees as the crowd burst into bloodthirsty applause.

‘First Blood!’ The priest of Diavo shouted, ‘Will the ceremony end here?’
      ‘No!’ An amalgamated scream echoed in response, with Timo’s high-pitched shriek intermingled with Nicolai’s deep, breathless roar.

Dante lowered his rapier, waiting for the large man to recover. Nicolai rose, clutching at his ripped shirt – damp with dark blood stains, seeping out like drops of ink upon a fresh, white page.

‘That cut was deep, sir. Darksong is a cruel mistress. Her steel is old and wicked, and her wounds heal slowly,’ Dante spoke lazily, wiping the blood from his blade. ‘I would yield, if I were you.’

‘I shall not, sir. Not at first blood. Not when my cause is just. It is you whom the Gods shall call today,’ Nicolai panted through teeth gritted with pain.

The young man propped himself up with his blade, pushed against it, and raised himself unsteadily to his feet. The crowd began to roar with a savage anticipation, the bloodthirst bursting from their throats like a nest of snakes spitting venom from their gaping maws.

Dante surveyed the gathering around them, noting the wildness in each of the eyes which looked upon them, as they brayed and clamoured for violence. Had there always been such fierceness in their tones? Such cruelty in their faces? Such desperation bursting from their lungs, as they screamed themselves hoarse with their urgent desire for bloodshed?

‘Are you ready, sir?’ Nicolai called out, his voice thick and breathless.

Dante turned his eyes back towards his opponent, and nodded his assent.

Nicolai began again to approach Dante, but his movements, now, were strained and laboured. He attempted a few thrusts and jabs which Dante parried and deflected joylessly. His footwork was still full of grace – his movement, adept and thoughtful. But he was so slow now; each attack heralded by a woeful contortion upon his brow, and a piteous grunt of pain and exertion from his lungs.

Stupid boy. Why would he not just yield?

The ailing youth, frustration and fatigue painting a dismal grimace upon his face, made a desperate lunge towards Dante, who stepped aside disinterestedly. The large man fell painfully, and lay for a moment splayed out on the windswept grass. He turned over, his hands clutching desperately at his blood-soaked abdomen.

The fight was over. The dance was done.

‘Yield, boy,’ Dante growled, ‘You fought well enough, but the day is mine. The Gods have made their judgement.’

‘No!’ Screamed a tempestuous, high-pitched whine, ‘I will not allow it! This man did me a great disservice. He must die. I want him dead!’

Timo Cirevilli had stumbled into the middle of the clearing, his face the same colour as the crimson tent from which he had emerged, flushed with fury and wine.

‘The fight is over, Timo,’ Dante sighed wearily, ‘You have won. The Gods have honoured you today.’

‘Fuck the Gods and their honour!’ Shrieked Timo, ‘I shall not let him yield!’

‘Nor I,’ groaned Nicolai as he forced himself onto his knees.

Dante turned to face the large man. Nicolai’s face was pale and ashen, slick with sweat and painted with a streak of blood on his forehead where he had wiped his hand. Yet his light green orbs were still glimmering with the same determination, conviction and ferocity as before.

Dante could not help but respect this young man. His bravery was foolish, no doubt; full of the naivety and conceited stoicism of youth. But it was bravery nonetheless. One of the few so-called ‘noble’ qualities that Dante could appreciate.

‘Don’t be a fool, boy,’ spat Dante, ‘I know you think yourself very brave and virtuous. But your death serves no one but Diavo. Yield.’

‘I will not allow it!’ Squealed Timo hysterically, ‘Finish him now, Dante, or I will have Brusco do it for you. Gods know he would take much pleasure in sending this rat to the other side.’

Nicolai had struggled to his feet, one hand clutching at his damp tunic, the other resting his large bastard sword over his shoulder.

‘Ready?’ He scoffed through a sad smile on his face.

Dante paused, looking directly into the youth’s bright green eyes.

‘What was her name?’

Nicolai gave Dante a searching look. Dante could only guess that he was attempting to see if he was being taunted or set up for a cruel, merciless jape. Evidently, he decided he was not, for after a measured pause he offered quietly, ‘Issabella… Bella.’

Dante nodded.

‘Ready.’

At that, Nicolai charged at Dante with great ferociousness and alacrity, as if speaking the name of his lost love had endowed him with one final burst of strength and power. Dante surged forward to meet the large man, spinning low beneath a brutal swing which would have surely cleaved him clean in two.

Darksong rushed up from below. Dante could feel its impossibly sharp point sliding up through flesh, muscle and cartilage. It slipped effortlessly passed the young man’s rib cage and into his left lung.

 Dante raised himself, placing his left hand gently upon Nicolai’s cheek, pulling his face against his own. He could feel the dying man’s laboured, ragged breath against his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

He thrust the point of Darksong up into the man’s heart. And as warm drops of blood fell upon the back of his hand, he felt Nicolai’s final, ragged breath caress the side of his cheek, before it merged with the soft, flower-scented wind that carried it off over the stillness of the azure lake.