A Conspiracy in Stone

Nothing else smells like pooling blood. Especially when it's yours.

Photos: Pixabay, Pxhere

Constantia blanched at the wound in her stomach. She never could turn her head in this helmet, and today proved no exception. Her fingernails were turning blue. Not much time left.

The grating of metal on stone forced Constantia to crane her neck to see. A balding warrior with long sideburns pulled an embossed gorget off a well-to-do condottiero, one of many corpses littering the alleyway. The moldering brick passage was a riot of tangled victims. The monster had ambushed them here – and how fast it was. Constantia’s ears still rang from its roar. Around her laid the well-earned proof of the creature’s name: the Beast of Ramona. She never even got the chance to see it in full. It must be slumbering now. Dawn was coming.

Constantia focused bleary eyes on a lithe woman in leather armor standing guard past the looting warrior. A deadly looking double crossbow rested over her leg. Constantia remembered them now, Brodus and Destine, two sellswords from the eastern frontier.

A few weeks ago when the killings started, word had spread across the farms and up the trade roads. Just last month Ramona's priori council had commissioned the local mason's guild to restore an honored guildhall in time for the coming holiday, but storms delayed the work. When the masons finally returned, something inhabited their worksite. Three of them never made it out again. Those deaths raised quite a clamor, followed by a fat purse from the Commune of Guilds.

Per usual, the resulting disaster had started at a tavern. The place was named the Pig and Whistle, but everyone called it the Pork and Blow. The brave and the greedy gathered there to await the official word, letting drink set their courage and their tongues to wagging. This crowd of bravos paced as the priori council bickered with their newly appointed foreign syndic, since the Free City of Lyvondis had just ceded Ramona via treaty to Duke Dasiotes after losing the Battle of Salix Marsh. The Duke allowed Ramona to elect a new council after purging the old one, but the Duke's man ruled them now, a recently entitled Iryxene baronet named Umberto Anzalone.

Constantia chuckled at that. It was a clever political ploy, since the Anzalone were a Lyvondan house, but known as duplicitous schemers who played both sides of the border. There were also rumors of shape shifters among their extended family. It was vital for a hireling to follow such doings in the corridors of power. It could mean life or death.

This political quagmire had caused Ramona’s priori council to hesitate, and while they argued, their imported mercenaries began to gamble and scheme. During these games, Brodus and Destine lost their shirts, and to make matters worse, the self-appointed head of this lot, a prideful Gadarene named Mennipos, had acquired a town map. Since there were so many of them, Mennipos would draw lots (and take bribes) for the best routes to the creature's lair. Again, Destine's luck proved false, or so it seemed. She'd drawn a circuitous route, a fact which bruised her pride but spared her and Brodus the ambush.

Constantia chuckled. Destine must have guessed what would happen and said nothing, the clever bitch. Now the pair's luck had surely changed. Constantia noted how they acquired the wizard Enderith's cart - was that him against the wall, a pair of quarrels in his face? No teleportation escapes this time, you smug bastard. The mule nickered nervously as Brodus stacked valuable arms, shields, and helmets in neat bundles in their new vehicle.

"I'm thirsty."

Constantia's voice sounded harsh. Brodus turned with an arched brow, perhaps surprised that she was still alive. The broad shouldered warrior reached for a wineskin and unstoppered it, bending to brace her head. He had gentle hands for one so big. The wine tasted divine, a strong Lygean red. He looked Lygean, maybe a little Parnian blood, which explained his size. She'd never seen a man so serene amongst such gore and carnage. Despite the surroundings and his ghoulish looting, he seemed completely at peace with himself.

He also seemed ill matched to the scar-faced woman, Destine. She was unmistakably Phabian, those dark locks over pale skin, her passionate scheming eyes. Anyone could see she was seven kinds of trouble.

Constantia thanked Brodus, asking, "You wouldn't by chance have any smoke leaf, would you?"

"I do."

This cool remark from Destine. Constantia couldn't believe her luck. She laughed suddenly at the thought. Her stomach ached at each contraction. Brodus returned her smile with a knitted brow. Destine pulled out a pouch and rolled up a smoke, striking a tinder twig on the bricks and stooping to place it in Constantia's mouth.

Constantia dragged deep. It was fine, rich leaf. These two might look scruffy, but their tastes were impeccable. She supposed that's what became of two souls whose profession poised them on the edge of death. A tear rolled down Constantia's cheek as she puffed. She fought the fear.

"The Gods will thank you both for your tender mercies to me."

"The Gods will not thank us, Constantia. If they hear us at all, it is only because they are amused by our guile and our villainy. I'm a treacherous mercenary, a backstabbing thief, a cardsharp and a scoundrel. But, I'm also an excellent judge of character. Of this rabble, only you are worth saving."

Destine turned to Brodus in a silent exchange. She looked Constantia over and touched his shoulder.

"I won't let what little virtue is left in this wretched town die bleeding on the cobbles. Bring her."

The last thing Constantia remembered was looking up from the cart as it rolled clanking through town square. Above her towered the imposing bronze of San Pietro, patron saint of Ramona. Now there was a story that betrayed this city's true character.

His birth name was Petrus Ratajczyk, a towering black haired warrior from Sargoviste. A barbaric horde of Parns approached Ramona to sack its famous chapels and enslave the populace, demanding tribute from those that remained. On the day of battle, Petrus, a foreigner with no stake in the city save his piety, led Ramona’s modest army and beat the pagan invaders against all odds. The city elders gathered to debate in secret: how could they reward such a hero?

Money and material goods seemed too worldly and insulting to such a pious figure. This man was already sworn to be married back home, so no beautiful maids or wedding vows would do. He was humble and did not wish entitlements or position of any kind, and so it seemed there was no honor to compare with the preservation of their city's liberty.

Finally, one of them stood with an epiphany, saying, "He is a chaste and pious fighting man whom the Gods favor. Let us kill him and worship him as our patron saint."

So that's exactly what they did.