NationStates Jolt Archive

I'm going to be writing some short stories about events in the histories of my nation's premier families. This thread is specifically for the Giarelli family, the family with the most violent past, and my favorite. Some stories will be one-shot, others may have multiple parts. I just want to flesh out some of my history better, and I like writing short stories in general, so any excuse to share my writing, really.

Feel free to leave comments. I'll be linking to the story posts in this post, so extraneous posts shouldn't be an issue.

Contents:
Fear No Evil [Part I] (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=14369559&postcount=2)

Lightless Wood, Seina
1502

The rain poured down around Nicolo and his meager band. Just a dozen of them were left, shivering beneath the thick foliage of the trees all around. They huddled together for warmth and to keep their heads out of the mud around them if they fell asleep.

Marco groaned as he finally awoke. He was propped between two giant roots, unable to keep himself sitting up. With one thigh cut open and the foot on his other side crushed, he couldn’t do much of anything under his own power. Nicolo was kneeling next to him, touching his forehead to Marco’s and murmuring in prayer when Marco woke up.

“Thank God,” Nicolo said when he saw his friend’s eyes open. “We thought your fever may have taken you.”

Marco shook his head. “Not dying to no damn fever.” He coughed feebly. “What would your sister think if you were left in Seina without me, yeah?”

Nicolo grinned and replied, “She’d kill you for sure, and bring you back just to do it.”

Behind him, two of his men had gathered the driest branches they could found and were trying to start a fire. Every time they got a spark going, though, water would drip down through the mass of leaves above and ruin all their work. It wasn’t long until the wood was too waterlogged to do them any good. One of the men, Giorgio, cursed and lashed out at the pile of stick with his foot, scattering them. “Didn’t want a damn fire anyway.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a cup of hot wine. Hell, I’d take some warm water,” the other said.

“Or a bed,” Giorgio sighed, “with furs.”

Nicolo shook his head. “All I want is to see my sister again.” After a moment, he added, as though secondary, “And my wife.”

He had left them merely to lead a caravan south. With any luck, they would find their way around the patrols and out of Seina, and make their way back home within a fortnight. But outside the Lightless Wood were the hawks, the human kind, armed and armored, the sigil of the Seinian tyrant boldly displayed on their shields and surcoats. Hunters all, and they smelled Santherese blood. God, how he wanted to see his sister’s face again … her dark eyes and black curls falling long down her back -- that smile she always greeted him with. Illeana’s was a household of love and warmth, despite her husband’s dislike of him. When he made it back, he would dine with just his wife, Celia, and his siblings. They would sit around the table and laugh, just like the days when Illeana and Celia had been the best of friends at finishing school.

But that fantasy seemed so far away, now, with the sound of rain pattering on the treetops, heavier and heavier, almost like a horse. No, wait, it was a horse.

“Shh!” Nicolo waved at his men. He grabbed his crossbow, pulling back the cord and placing a bolt in the clip. Some of his men did the same -- the wounded, mostly, while those who had managed to remain unharmed drew their swords and hefted their spears.

The horse came out through the brush twenty feet away without a rider. When it stepped fully out, they could see where the rider had gone. His foot was caught in the stirrup and he dragged along the ground. He was a bloody mess, and whether that was from the blow that had killed him or being dragged over sharp rock was unclear.

Giorgio stepped toward it slowly, sheathing his arming sword and holding a hand out, as though offering the horse some food. He didn’t, of course, have any for himself, much less a horse. The animal snorted and took a step back, but it didn’t run. It was plainly scared but not of him. He has been the Giarelli master of horse, after all -- he knew this one. “Mm, shh, girl, it’s okay. You’re home now, Pearl.” His voice was low and calm, and familiar to the mare. She breathed heavily on him but allowed him to scratch her behind the ears. He grabbed the reins and led her toward the rest of the men. “Take care of him,” he said, gesturing at the corpse.

Loris, the man who had attempted to help build the fire, pulled the corpse’s twisted foot out of the stirrup and laid the man who had once been his comrade-in-arms gently on his back. “Who is this?”

From the tree, Marco coughed and spat. “Dante, I think. Only one I saw take the claws to the belly, yeah?”

The body’s entrails had spilled out, and had mostly been lost along the mare’s journey through the wood. The remains of them were still in evidence. The face was unrecognizable and the back of the head caved in, so the hair was little help, either. “Dante…,” Loris whispered. “I know his mother. She and my cousins live at the Red Bridge.” He sighed and signed the cross over the body. “Good man. You’re in God’s hands now, Dante.”

“How are you sure that was him?”

Loris shrugged. “Ask Nicolo. Dante took the claws for him.”

Nicolo nodded and squatted down beside the corpse. “I killed the captain right after. He didn’t touch anyone else. God, Dante, I had hoped you’d found rest sooner.... We should bury him.”

“We have no spades. Or energy,” Giorgio noted.

“I’m not letting us turn into barbarians. We’re burying him. Use your shields, spears, I don’t care. I’m burying him. You don’t have to help.”

When Nicolo started digging with his bare hands, Giorgio gave in. He couldn’t let Nicolo do it by himself; he’d tear his nails off and work his hands bloody if no one helped him. Loris kicked a couple other men awake and got them to help, too. After a couple of feet, the work was too exhausting and the soil too difficult for them to continue. They covered Dante with all the dirt they could and finished using all the rocks they had around them. Nicolo scratched the name into a stick with a quarrel and thrust it down through the rocks. It made him feel better to know that at least one of them had been properly buried. The men they had left behind had doubtlessly been left to the crows and wolves.

“Alright, we have two horses, now. Giorgio, mount up; let’s poke our noses out and see what we smell.” Nicolo needed to know just what position they were in. The Seinans may have been loathe to enter the Lightless Wood, but he and his men couldn’t stay there in the dark for long. Truffles were meager food, and it was only a matter of time until they picked deadly mushrooms instead.

Nicolo and Giorgio paced slowly through the trees, making their way north. It was a long ride in silence, the both of them concerned more about whatever beasts lay in wait than about keeping each other company. They crested a ridge on the outer edge of the wood, granting them a commanding view of the vast plain before them. There, two small camps had been erected, and the hawks were setting stakes in the ground. They were settling in to wait. Blue surcoats were plentiful, and the outriders obvious, with fresh horses, mailed and as armed as could be. There had to be at least three score on this route through the vale alone. Who knew what waited in the other directions.

When they spotted a dozen men in black plate, razor-sharp claws extending their right-hand gauntlets, Nicolo’s stomach churned. Giorgio’s breathing grew heavy and he whispered to himself, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death….”