Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’ve had him since he was a yearling. He was one of the two I brought down out of the mountains,” Lodovico said, unable to keep his pride out of his voice. “You should have seen him then. He was all legs and feathers and every attempt he made at flying was simply pathetic.” He gave the beaked and taloned hippogryph another familiar pat on the neck. “He’s fine now. On land or in the air, I’ve never seen his match. I can’t imagine anything that could best him.”

  “We were shocked at the horses brought to Nuova Genova,” Falcone said. “We’d never seen anything like them before, but this… He surpasses everything!”

  “Yes, he is something special,” Lodovico agreed. “I’d offer to let you ride him, but he doesn’t take too well to strangers on his back. We might be able to ride him double. If we don’t have to go very far, he’ll be able to carry two of us.” While he was pleased that Bellimbusto was so much his own mount, he thought it would be a pleasure to see Falcone riding him in the sky. “Your name alone should give you the right to ride him. A falcon like you…” He stopped in mid- sentence. “I’ll send word to Italia. I’ll tell them that you must have one of Bellimbusto’s children.”

  “Are there more, then?” Falcone asked, his black eyes alive with wonder.

  “Not very many, but they’re breeding well. We’ve had good luck with the two I brought back. They produce about three offspring a year—more than horses—and they grow quite rapidly. The real problem is taming them to ride. If you take a tumble when one of these animals is in the air, well, you might have time enough for a prayer.” He chuckled, a full, rich sound that evoked an answering laughter in the Cérocchi Prince.

  “Have you ever fallen?” Falcone asked, becoming serious once more.

  “Only once,” Lodovico confessed, his handsome features darkening with the memory. “Not very far, but far enough. I was fortunate to land in a pond.” That drop through the sky, when his heart seemed lodged in his jaw, the sickening impact in shallow pond in the field of ripening vegetables, still had the power to cause him chagrin.

  “You were very fortunate. I would not want to fall off such an animal once it was airborne..” Falcone ruffled the feathers of Bellimbusto’s neck. “I think such a fall would be formidable.”

  “It was that,” Lodovico allowed with forced laughter.

  “We will need much strength against the sorcerers of the Fortezza Serpente,” he went on thoughtfully as he studied the folded wings and powerful hindquarters of the horse. “Their warriors…” He broke off quite suddenly.

  Though the sun was warm on Nuova Genova and the distant waves were a soft, ecstatic sigh on the beach, Lodovico felt cold go through him. “What about their warriors?”

  Falcone hated to show fear, and for that reason he hesitated before he spoke. “They are giants, enormous, as strong as the bear and the panther together. They are armed with javelins and spears, and are all but impervious to our weapons.”

  “Impervious?” Lodovico echoed. “I don’t doubt you, hut how can they be impervious? The Holy Roman Emperor in all his armor is not entirely impervious to injury.” He folded his strong arms on his chest and waited for the answer.

  “They are coated with flint and frost,” the Cerocchi Prince admitted unhappily. “When our arrows strike them, a bit of the flint breaks off, but the warrior is unharmed.”

  “There are cannon,” Lodovico remarked. “It would be difficult taking them into the wilderness, but not impossible. If castle walls can be breached with cannon, then these flint warriors will be destroyed by a few well- placed balls, and your archers need not endanger themselves at all.”

  “I have seen your cannon,” Falcone said slowly, little hope in his jet-dark eyes. “Against walls they are, as you say, most effective. But against tall, swift men, what can they do? I don’t think your cannon can be maneuvered quickly enough to defeat them.” He looked again at Bellimbusto. “These animals, well, that’s another matter. With such mounts, we could defeat the flint giants, perhaps.”

  Lodovico’s eyes widened at the thought of such a formidable foe. “Giants armed in flint and frost! Never have I faced such warriors. It may be as you say, and they will be the most difficult opponents I have ever encountered.”

  “They are that,” the Cérocchi nodded mournfully. “Some of our most stalwart warriors have fallen to them. Then…”—his face was set with the horror of what he had to tell—”the sorcerer you call Anatrecacciatore takes the skins off our fallen men and with dreadful incantations and forbidden spells, inflates those same skins with the breath of his evil power and gives them the ability to move again, but at his behest, so that they enter the numbers of our enemies.”

  An Italian would have had tears on his face at such a terrible revelation, Lodovico thought, but these courageous, stoic Cérocchi would not so honor the evil of Anatrecacciatore. “Have you the will to fight these abominations, who wear the faces of your brothers?”

  “Ah!” Falcone turned to Lodovico. “You understand. Yes, that is the worst of it—that we must strike at those who are most dear to us, and those who have had the greatest respect of our people.”

  “Were you hoping, perhaps, that our men, being foreigners, would be able to battle the transformed warriors without the hesitation that you, in your fidelity, must feel?”

  Falcone acknowledged this with a gesture. “It may be foolish of us, but what can we do? I saw my own cousin, whom I had watched die four days earlier, come toward me with a maul raised to strike, and I did not want to fight him. I felt my spear enter the flesh and saw the thing collapse into a withered husk, and still it seemed to me that it was my cousin who had died afresh, though I knew it was his stolen skin only, and the malefic will of Anatrecacciatore, not good, faithful Boscoverdi who fell.”

  “You are a valorous people,” Lodovico said, his voice deep with sincerity. “It is a mark of your valor that you do not willingly attack those known to you, though it endangers you.” He put his hand on Falcone’s shoulder. “We are together in this, good Prince. You and I will find a way to defeat this evil, or no one will.”

  “I pray you’re right,” Falcone responded with a brave squaring of his angular jaw. “You are new to this land; you have nothing holding you here…”

  “Except my vow,” Lodovico put in, his fine eyes blazing.

  “Vows have been broken before. There was a promise of peace between the Serpente and the Cérocchi. You may still turn away from us and leave us to our fate. But we Cérocchi—where can we go? This is the land of our fathers and their fathers and their fathers before them. Our blood is mixed with the earth and we may not leave it.”

  “You have had my vow, Prince Falcone, that we will fight with you, and if God so wills it, die with you. The sorcerers of the Fortezza Serpente are spawn of the Devil and no Christian knight can call himself true and worthy if he turn from such combat. We will ride into battle side by side, and if we fall, it will also be with our faces toward the enemy and our banners high.” He turned quickly back toward Bellimbusto so that Falcone could not see the moisture that shone in his eyes, for it would unman him to weep before this honest Prince.

  Falcone put his hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “I will call you my brother Ariosto, and will trust you with my life.”

  “And I you, Falcone,” Lodovico said when he had mastered himself.

  “But if you go, you endanger yourself,” Andrea Benci said to Lodovico somewhat later as he sat in the audience hall of the Palazzo del Doge.

  Lodovico shrugged. “Life is filled with danger, Podestà, and there is no avoiding it.” He stroked his short, beautifully curled beard. “It is important that I meet with the King of the Cérocchi and, perhaps, his allies as well. The longer we avoid this discussion, the greater advantage to our enemies.”

  “You may be attacked. Wounded! Killed!” The old man’s face was filled with terror at the possibility. “You’re too valuable.”

  Lodovico let his eyes rest on Andrea Benci a moment. “I
am here because il Primàrio was willing to risk me. How can you, or I, do less than honor his commitment?”

  “He does not understand the situation here,” Benci protested, his old hands tightening on the arms of his chair so that the blue veins and ridged tendons stood out in the skin like gold in quartz.

  “That does not matter, Podestà,” Lodovico said even more gently. “If I fail here, it will be my responsibility.” He looked beyond Andrea Benci, and there was a dreamy expression on his face. “In the end, it is a question of worth, of integrity. I could be named the greatest hero of the Italia Federata, but if I turn from this war, then nothing would redeem my honor in my own eyes. In the end it is myself who must answer to God for my actions: not you, not Damiano, not the Saints and Martyrs. You may order me to remain, and still I will go.”

  Podestà Benci sighed. “Very well, Ariosto. Go, if you must, but I pray, do not expose yourself to needless dangers.”

  Lodovico gave him an ironic bow. “I will keep what you say in mind, Podestà. It is certain that you wish me success. He stepped back from the frightened old man. “You have a garrison here,” he reminded the leader of the Signoria. “You’ve relied on them in the past…”

  That was different,” Andrea Benci interrupted, glowering. “They are good enough, of course. They’ve fended off occasional raiders and a few Turkish pirates, but that is not the same thing as protecting this city from the forces of a strong enemy.”

  “There is no indication that Anatrecacciatore is on the march,” Lodovico said, trying to soothe the old man. “From what Falcone tells me, it will be many days before he can launch an attack against us.”

  “He’s a sorcerer, Ariosto! Who knows what he can do! You’ve heard about the warriors of flint and frost? And the reanimated skins of fallen Cérocchi? You’ve learned of this and still say that we cannot be attacked?” Andrea’s voice had risen to a shriek and he sank lower chair, as if hiding from the forces which he feared, even now, were gathering to strike at him.

  “It is possible, I admit,” Lodovico answered. “We must pray that he has not the power for such a move, or is still unaware of the resistance we’re planning.”

  With a sudden burst of energy, Podestà Benci launched himself out of his chair, almost colliding with Lodovico. “We’re desperate here. You know that!”

  Then the sooner I meet with the Cérocchi, the better,” Lodovico said quietly as he led Benci back to the chair. “You must not let the people of Nuova Genova see you are afraid, for if they do, they will catch the fear from you, as if it were an infection, and you will be conquered by it rather than by Anatrecacciatore. If you cannot be brave for yourself, Benci, then be so for the people here.”

  Andrea Benci nodded, his head wobbling on his neck like the head of a poorly jointed doll. “Yes. For them. You’re right.”

  “I’ll make my journey as quickly as possible, you have my word, and will return as soon as I may without giving offense to the Cérocchi.” He felt a great compassion for the Podestà. He had been an incisive and cold-minded diplomat in his day, but since age had taken hold of him, he had lost something of that cutting edge to his intellect. Before Lodovico had left, Damiano had confided in him that it would have been better, after all, if he had sent Andrea Benci to his family estates in Umbria or appointed him Senior Envoy to the French court that was so much in the shadow of Italia Federata. “You have served our beloved country long and well, Andrea Benci,” Lodovico told him, all the impatience gone from his tone. “Your love and your skill will guide you now, as they have so often in the past.”

  For a moment, Andrea Benci said nothing. “I’ve forgotten the way of it,” he admitted in a small, timorous voice.

  “No, you haven’t,” Lodovico said heartily. “You are merely out of practice. It will not take long for you to remember.”

  There was a pathetic gratitude in Andrea’s smile. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, and added in firmer tones, “if you’re going to see the King of the Cérocchi, it would probably be best if you went now.”

  Lodovico could only admire the courage of that dismissal. He made a graceful bow and withdrew.

  Bellimbusto attracted the attention of the entire Cérocchi city as he landed, both Lodovico and Falcone on his back. From everywhere the people came running, most of them shouting, all of them amazed.

  “Dismount first,” Lodovico said. “He’s restless in crowds, sometimes, and may soar without warning.”

  The Cérocchi Prince nodded and scrambled hastily from the high-fronted saddle, turning to face his people as they gathered around the newcomers.

  There were shouts of recognition, and after a moment a path was made for Falcone’s father, the great Alberospetrale, King of the Cérocchi. Tall and straight, wearing his age in glory, the King passed through the throng with head high, the jewels of his leather giaquetta interspersed with porcupine ivory and the talons of eagles. As he drew near, Falcone dropped to his knee in homage to his father.

  “Now let the gods be thanked: you have come again,” Alberospetrale said in his deep, sonorous voice as he raised his son to his feet.

  “With this splendid animal and this more-splendid hero, who is his master, to aid us,” Falcone responded with pride. “We have been repaid in our good faith, for these valiant Italians have given their word that they will aid us in our struggles with the evil Anatrecacciatore and his terrible flint warriors. In token of their pledge, they have sent Lodovico Ariosto, who defeated the Great Mandarin himself in single combat.”

  The Cérocchi had quieted as Falcone spoke, and now there was a new energy in them as they stared at Lodovico, who had stayed in the saddle to control his restive mount.

  “It is well,” Alberospetrale intoned. “It is a great good and we are grateful to the Italians.”

  Lodovico murmured a few reassuring words to Bellimbusto, then came out of the saddle to kneel at the feet of the King of the Cérocchi. “Great Alberospetrale,” he began, then looked up at the tall old man in his feathers and leather and ivory and jewels. “It is a humbling moment, to kneel before you.”

  Alberospetrale accepted this and indicated that Lodovico should rise. “You have brought two wonders with you—hope and that animal.” He indicated Bellimbusto with a distinguished nod of his head. “I have never seen anything like him.”

  “There are only a few of them in the world,” Lodovico informed the Cérocchi King with pride. “I was allowed to have this creature as my own in recognition of valor. Though it was too great an honor, I could not resist accepting him, so fine a mount is he.” He reached out and patted the feathered neck.

  “Ariosto tells me that it will be good to have his creature in battle,” Falcone said, moving closer. “A few such animals as this one, and the flint warriors will not be able to stand against us.”

  “Excellent.” Alberospetrale turned his hard, dark eyes on Lodovico. “I will not deceive you. The forces of the Fortezza Serpente are all armed and ready for war; since his army is made up of supernatural creatures, he need not worry about food and wounds and long marches, as we must.”

  “But he has to draw his power and contain the malefic forces he employs,” Lodovico pointed out. “That in itself will make him vulnerable.”

  Alberospetrale agreed. “It is true, but without your help, we will surely be cut down so that our entire people are remembered only in legends.” His kingly face was filled with a steady sorrow at the words. “We cannot prevail without you. Seeing you and this miraculous animal I can almost dare to believe we have a chance against the Serpente.”

  Once again emotion threatened to overcome Lodovico. He could only bow in acceptance of this trust. “I will try to be worthy, great King. If God gives it to me, I will find death in your cause the finest triumph of my life.”

  Before Alberospetrale could speak again, the crowd parted and this time women approached. Falcone cried out as he saw them, and then went hastily to greet them, giving reverences to each of the women as
they came up to him.

  “This is my wife and daughter,” Alberospetrale informed Lodovico, indicating the first two women. They were quite tall and handsome in that exotic way that reminded Lodovico of the women of the Great Mandarin. “Queen Giallopampino and Princess Ombrenuvola,” he said as Lodovico bowed with consummate grace to each woman in turn.

  The third woman hung back, and it was Falcone who brought her forward. “And this is my betrothed, of the Scenandoa people, the Princess Aureoraggio.”

  Lodovico was speechless. He had never before seen such a woman, one so lovely, whose every feature was in such perfect harmony with all the rest of her. Her dress was simple jeweled leather, and yet she outshone the Cérocchi women as a torch does a candle. At that moment, Lodovico wished for a quarrel to force upon his courageous ally Falcone only so that he could defeat him and claim this woman for himself. He bent to brush her hand with his lips. The fingers! Her touch! His pulse drummed in his temples like a call to arms. With an effort he relinquished the hand.

  “I am a fortunate man,” Falcone said simply, but to Lodovico he sounded intolerably smug and haughty.

  “A very fortunate man,” Lodovico agreed in a voice suddenly hoarse. “The Scenandoa, you say? I have not encountered them yet, I think.”

  Aureoraggio spoke then, and her voice was soft as the music of trees stroked by the springtime wind. The words, charmingly mispronounced, enchanted the great Italian hero. “We are the neighbors of the Cérocchi, and live three days’ march from here. We are not a very large country, not nearly as vast as the land of the Cérocchi. We could not do you so much honor, but you would be the more welcome.”

  “If it came from anything that is yours,” Lodovico managed to say with all the ardent gallantry that bloomed in his heart, “it would be a finer gift than any I have known, if it were only a drop of water.”

  Falcone applauded this. “They told me Lodovico is a great poet, but until now, I did not believe it.” He said to his father, “These Italians have a reputation for their art, and I have seen their houses and know that it is true, but until I heard Ariosto speak, I did not know what orators they were.”