Gioncavallo - Some Things Are Very True When People Die for It: GIONCAVALLO, #3

By Pier Maria Colombo

The blacksmith slash adventuring hero Gioncavallo is faced with his most dangerous challenge yet. Gioncavallo's eternal enemy, Emanuele della Corte Mona teams up with Frau Hilde, the dark witch, scheming to end the life of Emanuele's lord father. Gioncavallo's old friend—and old fling—Florebella ends up being swept up in Emanuele's nefarious schemes, and Gioncavallo has no option but to intervene.

Gioncavallo must fight his way with sword and grit through a world of danger and intrigue to stop what he believes are Emanuele's plans, only for him to discover an even darker mastermind behind them. Who is the one that moves the strings behind the scenes? And why is everyone so dead set on disrupting Gioncavallo's attempt at living a normal life? From daring prison breaks to terrifying storms and epic battles, this action-packed tale will leave you breathless until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seagull Editions
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223361053

Book preview

Going underground

As the contents of the cart rattled, Juan Diego could see his assistants exchanging looks of terror. He kept his eyes on the road, avoiding addressing their concerns. In truth, their concerns were of no importance to him. He was on a holy crusade against evil, and the fear a few young men held for his torture instruments was secondary to that.

Besides, it would do them good to fear him and his expertise in torture. He had sworn to strangle heresy out of all Christian souls, and that’s what he was planning to do. If that required the application of pain, even extreme pain, then he’d gladly apply it. Fire would cleanse everyone of their sin in the end.

The cane at his side, which disguised one of the many blades on his person, made to roll away. They were on ancient roads, left unmaintained since the time of the Caesars, and the cart wheels were suffering like witches suffered in Juan Diego’s hands. Just as Juan Diego reached out to grab his cane, one of his assistants, the youngest—barely twenty—and the newest, tried to grab it first.

Juan Diego, his hand lightning-quick, grabbed the cane. With an expert twist of the handle, he released the blade contained within. Then, he shoved the blade inside the assistant’s outstretched hand, pinning the hand on the cart’s wooden seat.

For half a second, the assistant, whose name Juan Diego couldn’t remember at the moment, stared at his hand, eyes wide. It bled on the seat, though there was little blood flowing from it. Juan Diego had ensured no major blood vessels had been damaged, though the man probably wouldn’t use that hand again. The lesson would certainly be inscribed into his very soul: don’t touch another man’s weapons. Juan Diego didn’t even need to say it.

After the half second passed, the man screamed. That earned him a back-handed slap against the mouth. Keep your pain inside, Juan Diego said. Reach out to God. He’ll take your pain as payment for your sin.

Yes, Inquisitor, the man stammered. His eyes returned to his hand. C-can I, he paused, his lips trembling in a whimper, can I tend to my hand?

No, Inquisitor Juan Diego said. The knife is mine. I shall retrieve it when it has finished its role.

Yes, Inquisitor, the man whispered. All color had drained from his face. Juan Diego spotted several other men in the other carts next to them steal glances towards the exchange. Despite the clamor from the torture devices in the backs of the carts, despite the whispers and whimpers, Juan Diego could hear the young man’s blood dripping on the cobblestone underneath.

It was a beautiful sound. The red liquid gave life, but if life was sinful, it was of no use to God. And Juan Diego de Toledo would make sure that all life that survived him would not be sinful.

They took a wide turn in the road and the forest thinned out. Finally, they were out in the open. In the distance, he could see his objective.

Rome. The pope himself had requested his presence. His Holiness’ letter said that there was a nest of depravity, a coterie of demons, that only he could exterminate. There was no extermination invitation that Juan Diego would turn down, of course, but the more depraved the sinners, the better. The letter explained that there was a suspected coven of witches in a quaint town and that Juan Diego had best bring along his best tools to root out heresy.

The best tool was pain and fire, of course, but Juan Diego always had that on his side. Indeed, he didn’t need more tools than that, but he liked using the metal instruments that rattled behind him. He only needed to make a short stop in Rome before heading off, to meet with the pope himself, before heading off.

The young man next to him was bleeding more now, the movements probably making the perfect wound he had inflicted worse. Juan Diego briefly considered letting him bleed out, but good assistants were hard to come by. They had to come from inside the church, and they had to possess the stomach necessary to help an inquisitor do his holy work.

He retrieved the knife. With a sharp movement, he shook the blood off the blade. It was back in its sheath, the cane, before the wounded assistant had even realized his hand had been freed.

Th-thank you, Inquisitor, the man stammered. What was his name again? Pedro? Santiago? He couldn’t recall.

Dress the cut, Inquisitor Juan Diego said, but don’t stop your prayers. It’s not the medicine that heals you, it’s your faith.

Yes, Inquisitor, muttered the man. He left the cart quickly, hurrying to the one that bore their medical supplies, such as they were. In Juan Diego’s opinion, they were just another sign of the times. A thousand years ago, people had the faith to heal the sick. Prophets walked the land, and taught the word of God. Now, people needed bandages and poultices to heal themselves. Such a lack of faith.

Juan Diego was left alone in his cart, listening to the musical rattle of the torture instruments in the back. Yes, they’d soon sing their songs, extracting the truth from the heretics. He smiled to himself. No witch could hide from the eyes of judgment for long.

Viviana, Florebella said the woman’s name as if testing it out. Strange name, isn’t it? Somewhat witchy.

What makes you say that? Gioncavallo asked, eyes wide. He stole a look around himself, making sure that no one overheard them. But the din in the tavern disguised their discussion well enough.

Well, it’s not a name you hear often, Florebella said, looking at the redhead sitting opposite of her.

It means ‘lively,’ Viviana replied. I was a lively baby. Her manner was calm, almost nonchalant, but Gioncavallo wasn’t fooled. While she did appear calm, he could hear the ice in her voice.

He hadn’t ended things very cleanly with Florebella. In fact, he had fled the town with her help, and though he had always been eager to see her again, he hadn’t made any attempt to go back. And with the new rumors added to his name, he knew that there was little to no chance he’d be quickly forgotten by those who sought him. Which meant, no chance to have a stable life with her.

Well, not that he had ever committed to something like that. He tried to brush off the feeling of dread, focusing back on the women, who were in a heated discussion about something seemingly irrelevant—whether Viviana’s fiery red hair were a product of dyes or whether she had been born like that.

How are the things back at the village? Gioncavallo derailed the discussion. He didn’t want the argument to continue, because he was afraid of how it would end. Viviana and Florebella maintained eye contact for a couple moments more, before Florebella finally broke it and looked at him.

Not good, Florebella said. Not good at all. I had been hoping to bump into you somewhere. Lord Cassio’s been sick for a while now, and Emanuele’s grasping for control. He has even allowed the pope’s knights to keep a garrison inside the city. She threw a look at Viviana. They’ve been burning witches left and right.

Real witches can command fire, Viviana said, matching and even surpassing the fire in Florebella’s eyes. They wouldn’t get burned. So, it’s just sadistic men killing innocent women.

Gioncavallo rushed to break into the conversation again. Well, if things get tough, I’m currently laying low at—

Laying low? Florebella laughed. We heard about the ‘Ghost-whispering Blacksmith’ even at our little town. Your fame precedes you. She threw another look at the Viviana. They even talk about your ‘redhead wife.’

She’s not— Gioncavallo started.

I’m my own woman, thank you very much, Viviana said. I could be his wife, but I’m not just someone’s wife, I’m me. She shook her head. Why would I need to be defined in relation to somebody else?

Well, I agree with that, Florebella muttered.

Back to the issue at hand, Gioncavallo intervened once again. If we can help, you can get a letter out to Sir Pasquale Coppo de Casa Irta. We’re laying low there, no matter how it may seem.

‘We,’ huh, Florebella said, eyeing Gioncavallo. I’ll keep that in mind, though, she said. Emanuele is getting married soon, but I think he’s going to do something. I don’t know what, but things are changing around the city.

Him? Married? Gioncavallo asked, surprised.

To a neighboring lord’s daughter, Florebella nodded. Lord Avito’s daughter.

Avito, huh, Gioncavallo said. I know of him. He’s pretty strict, and quite corrupt. You can fault Lord Cassio all you want, but at least he’s not corrupt.

And Lord Cassio hates the church, Florebella added. They sent his sons to the slaughter.

Right, they were knights, Gioncavallo nodded. That explains how rarely we saw inquisitors around.

That’s one of the things that are changing, Florebella said. "I heard that Emanuele had specifically