Stories thread - King of the Romans PBM

[TinCow]

Milan, 1364

The rat crept slowly and cautiously forward. It smelled a presence several feet away; close enough to give it concern, but not close enough to deter it altogether. The scent of the bread crust was too strong to abandon because of a distant competitor. It advanced forward, its nose held high to detect any movement from the creature in the distance. When it reached within springing distance of the bread, it tensed and prepared to jump. It would grab the crust and dash back into the safety of its nest in the cold stone walls.

Too late, it sensed movement in the air nearby. The rat only had time to jerk its nose sharply upward before the slab of rock crushed its head, snuffing out its life in an instant. The creature grabbed the still twitching corpse and tore into it with its teeth. There was no revulsion or hesitation with its actions, only the pleasure of warm meat. It did not leave the bread crust either.

After the brief meal, the ragged creature shuffled back to the pile of filth-ridden straw in the corner. It picked up a small stone, one edge worn smooth from days of rubbing. Soon it would need to find another one. The figure ground it into the wall of the cell, making yet another line in the absent-minded assortment of geometric shapes that it had carved over the previous years.

So it was that the sound found it in that spot, crouched low like the rat it had just eaten, carving its own nest into the stone walls around it. At first it was just the sound of a door creaking open somewhere above him. This was followed by some muffled footsteps and a low-level conversation. Typical of a guard change or a steward bringing a meal to the jailer. What was not typical was the sharp increase in volume by one of the voices, and the even sharper manner in which it was cut off. Then came the sounds of scuffling bodies and a thump, as something heavy fell onto the hard stone floor.

His mind registered these abnormalities and slowly brought him out of his carving-trance. His eyes stared blankly at the dark wall for a moment, as Intelligence regained prominence over Instinct. It took a good half minute before he finally swiveled his head to look towards the iron-bound door that enclosed his cell. He could not see beyond it, but he knew the sounds and echoes of the dungeon well enough that he could sense the entire lower level of the dungeon, and every living object within it. Someone was coming down the stairs, and it was not a person who had ever been there before.

He did not move a muscle as the dim torchlight appeared through the small, barred window in the door. It got brighter and brighter, burning his heavily dilated eyes, and forcing him to cower slightly. The Outsider stopped in front of his cell and there was a moment of near-total silence. For a long moment, the only sound was the man’s breath.

“Stoyan?”

He did not move.

“Stoyan? Jacobus Stoyan?”

Somewhere deep in his memory, something began to stir. The sounds were words. The words were a name. His name. The Outsider was talking to him. Jacobus grunted to signal his existence and comprehension.

“Are you Jacobus Stoyan, the Bohemian?”

The memories began flooding back into his head. Bohemia. Prague. Home. He tried to remember the proper sound to respond with. His lips could only come up with “Yyyyyyyy…”

There was more shuffling from beyond the door, followed soon after by the sound of rattling metal. The keys. The Jailer’s ring of keys. Yet the Outsider was not the jailer. He smelled different. The smells were strange. Some fabric he did not know. Something that might have been flowers and smoke. On top of those, though, were more familiar scents. Things he knew. Sweat and fresh blood. Human blood. The Jailer. The Outsider had killed the Jailer.

Jacobus’ mind registered alarm at the same moment that the keys clinked in the lock. He spring back into the darkest corner of the cell and covered his face with his arms in a weak defense against the offensive light that poured through the opening doorway. The Outsider stopped in the doorway, peering at the occupant of the cell. He squinted through the darkness at Jacobus.

“You are the mercenary? You were with the group that killed Siegfried?”

Siegfried. Instinct resurfaced to register one thought, ‘Danger,’ and then fled back to the depths of his mind. Cold Intelligence flooded back into its place. He had told no one of his participation in that attack; to do so was as certain a death sentence as a man could hope for. When he was taken by the Bavarian guard, he had quickly confessed to thievery under torture. Better to confess to a lesser crime that would warrant at least a quick death, rather than the fate that awaited him for impericide.

It had been a wise gamble. Soon after he had been tossed in the Milanese dungeon, the invasions by the Catholic Alliance had begun. Criminal justice had been one of the first concepts to disappear in the city. As the entire Reich was mobilized for war, the jail’s guards were sent to man the city walls and eventually only the Jailer was left. The prisoners themselves were forgotten about, even those due to be executed. The only outside contact was at meal times. When the Byzantines took over the city, the dungeon itself was almost entirely ignored. Many prisoners starved to death. The Bavarians eventually reclaimed the city, but none of the records of the dungeon inhabitants could be found. The old Jailer was dead and any surviving guards had become permanent members of the militia. Even if the Bavarians hadn’t been too pre-occupied with the war to deal with common criminals, there was no way to identify him. This relieved any doubts Jacobus had that his true crime would be discovered, but his fate was no less miserable for it. With no indications of their crimes or sentences, the new Jailer left them all left to rot in their cells until they died from starvation or exposure.

“Hhhhhh…” Jacobus shook his head and grunted. He strained to find his voice. “Hhhow y-you kn-knnnow mmm-mmmeee?”

“Money will always find the information you need, if you have enough of it.” The Outsider tossed a bundle at Jacobus. He shrank back, but then slowly reached out a gnarled hand and touched it. It was clothing. Good clothing; wool and leather. It was all he could do not to start chewing on the boots. He looked up at the Outsider. “Fff-fffoood?”

The man nodded vigorously, and then jerked his head out to look down the dungeon passageway. “Yes, food. Much food, but we must go now. Quickly.” He gestured at the clothes. “Put those on.”

Jacobus remained crouched in the corner, one hand on the leathers, like a wolf protecting a fresh kill. The Outsider moved and metal suddenly shone in the torchlight. Steel. A blade. The mercenary jerked back and bared his teeth.

“No, no. It’s alright. This is for you.” The Outsider turned the dagger around, so that the hilt faced the prisoner, and slid it across the cold stone floor. It stopped when it hit Jacobus’ foot. He looked at it for a moment, then grabbed it greedily and pointed it at the Outsider.

“Www… wwwwhhhhooo?”

“My father was executed for the crime of being Milanese. He and many of his friends and business associates were murdered on the false pretense of assassinating Kaiser Siegfried.” He paused, glancing back into the corridor, before he continued. “My father had never even met Giovanni Legnano, let alone conspired with him. His death was simply a convenient way for the Duke of Bavaria to cover up his own treason. After all, when has a German shed any tears for my people?”

Jacobus stared at the Outsider in silence, his eyes asking the question that his mouth could not form.

“I am freeing you because you are the only way I can have my revenge.” He thrust his hand forward and revealed a small bag with several pieces of parchment inside. “These prove that it was the Duke of Bavaria who was responsible for Kaiser Siegfried’s death, not the Milanese or the Assassin’s Guild. Yet, I cannot give them to those who can act on them. No one would believe a Milanese.” His mouth opened in a wry smile. “But you, even in your decrepit state, would have a chance. No one would voluntarily admit to killing the Kaiser, which is exactly why they may believe you. Your word alone would not be enough, but the information you can provide them with, along with these,” he shook the bag of parchments again, “would suffice.”

The emaciated prisoner didn’t move, but his eyes looked at the dagger, then back at the Outsider.

“Yes, they may kill you, but then again they may not. If you remain here, you will surely die, and slowly. If you help me, you will have a chance at life. Even if they kill you, you will at least be free for a while, with warm clothing and good food.”

Food. FOOD. The mention of sustenance broke through any resistance that remained in Jacobus’ body. He did not trust the man, but if there was food to be had, he did not care. With jerky movements, he dressed himself in the wool and leathers at his feet, then slipped the dagger into his belt pocket and moved towards the doorway, his back stooped and his eyes wary.

The Outsider nodded and led him down the corridor, then up, up into Heaven. Even the upper level of the dungeon was Paradise to Jacobus. He could sense less stone around him, and with it the pressure on his mind began to ease. When he saw the open door and the city beyond, he began weeping silently. The mercenary paid no attention to the Jailer’s body as he walked by it, still seeping blood into the cold stone of the prison. He was free. Free.

The Savior led him through twisting and turning alleyways, but he paid no attention to his surroundings. He stared in wonder at the stars shining above him. The splendor of the night sky and the sheer space around him even quieted the hunger that had been his constant companion for so many years. Jacobus did not know how long they walked. It could have been minutes or years; he did not care. He drank in every moment of it with rapacious greed. Eventually, he became aware that they had stopped.

The Savior halted a few feet ahead and motioned for Jacobus to do the same. He peered around a corner, then walked back to whisper in the mercenary’s ear. “The city gate is ahead and guarded, and we must pass through. Beyond is your freedom, but you must do exactly as I say or you will never see it.”

Jacobus nodded.

“Good. Keep your head down and do not speak. Stay right behind me.”

The man started forward. The mercenary followed behind him, rounding the corner into a square lit by several large wall sconces. There were men with swords moving by a gateway in the middle of the square. The doors were open and the portcullis raised. There was nothing between Jacobus and freedom but air. His lip wavered and drool spilled down his jaw.

“Evening, Mikeus,” the Savior said.

One of the guards grunted at him. “A bit late for a walk, ain’t it?”

“It’s never too late for a whore, Mikeus.”

The guard grunted and gestured at Jacobus. “And him?”

The Savior shrugged and walked into the gateway. “The son of a client. His father wants him ‘educated’ in the ways of the world.”

Jacobus did not hear the guard’s response. Inside the gateway, the city’s massive walls rose up around him, blocking out all the stars. More stone around him, pressing down. Stone. Bars. Guards. He was caged once again. Jacobus could not help himself. He screamed.

Every head in the gateway rotated towards the sound. Torches came up and shed bright light on his face. Instinct returned and he thrust his arms up over his eyes to defend himself. In the inferno of suns that burst over him, his visage was bared. Sunken cheeks, wrinkled lips, deathly white skin.

“This is a client’s SON?!” Metal slid from scabbards and Jacobus screamed again. The Savior grabbed him by the shoulder and thrust a bag into his hands. He was yelling words that Instinct heard, but did not understand. “Kaiser… Chancellor… Franconia…” He stared blankly through tear-clouded eyes. Finally, the Savior said a word that Instinct knew. “…run…”

He ran. Behind him were shouts and the sound of steel on steel. The Savior screamed in pain and fear, and Jacobus ran harder. Into the night. Into the open air. Into freedom. He ran for hours. He ran for years.

***

The next morning he woke with a start, his hand clutching the dagger. He looked around and saw daylight drifting in through tall trees. He was in the midst of a vast forest, with no human presence around him, and best of all, no stone. It took several minutes to remember what had happened. He was sure that he was dreaming, but he did not care. This was a dream he wanted to have.

He opened the bag and the scent of bread overwhelmed him. He tore through the contents, scattering it on the ground around him. He found the bread and sated himself on it for an eternity. When at last his feeding slowed, his eyes began wandering to the items strewn about the ground.

Cloak. Heavy. Protection from cold. He stuffed it deep into the bag.

Dagger. Defense. Tool for skinning and eating. He thrust it back through his belt.

Florins. Sufficient for a long journey and good equipment. He grabbed them and placed them back in the bag, inside the cloak.

Parchments. Useless for survival. He moved to toss them aside, but his hand hovered over them, refusing to move. He remembered the Savior’s words. The parchments meant something.

There were at least half a dozen, but he picked up two and looked at them. There were broken wax seals on both. One, the sigil of the Duke of Bavaria, he recognized instantly. The other, a strange triangle with an oval inside, he did not. He unrolled them and stared at the marks inside. Jacobus could not read, but he knew that the marks meant something. He concentrated on them more closely.

The marks were smooth and flowing, not poorly scratched lines. He was reminded of the etching inside his cell. There had been hundreds of them, most made by hands other than his own. None had been identical, but over the years he had learned to recognize which marks belonged to which hand. Each had its own style of etching, even in the hard stone. Here, on the parchment in the easy-flowing ink, those signs were obvious to him. He looked back and forth between the two letters. Yes, he was certain. They were written in the same hand.

“These are important.” The sound of his voice, without stutters or lisps, startled him. “Important,” he repeated to himself, quietly, half to remind himself and half just to hear his own speech. He licked the last few crumbs off his lips and stuffed the parchments back in the bag. Then he picked up the bag and began to walk. He walked with his head held high, blinking into the rising sun. He walked with a smile on his face and a belly full of bread. He walked north. He walked towards Franconia.