Greetings. I have enjoyed writing since I was a kid, love creating complex characters and plots, immersing myself in my own world. I'd like to think I am pretty damn good at the plot side of things, however my writing could always be improved being I only do it sporadically, when I have spare time, in other words - hardly ever. I'd like to share a short(ish) story I was inspired to being writing thanks to a series of pretty damn cool battles (and the resulting screenshots) during my Milanese campaign. I'll post what I have written in chapters as you're more likely to read it that way
You know the drill, feedback, comments and thoughts aregreatly appreciated.
"I Figli di Milano"
CHAPTER 1: THE SILENT GUNS
The smooth polished iron surface of the cannon a silent grey gave off a dull glimmer in the piercing sunshine of the province of Nicaea. Manno Rossi brushed his hand over the frictionless surface, towards the wheel mounts his palm detected the grooves cut into the barrel by the crew of the artillery piece. A killing tally. These guns had surely wreaked havoc upon countless Turks and even the followers of the Fatimid dynasty had tasted their lead fury. Manno walked a little more over the dried earth, the limited, frail grass begged the skies for rain. He had to step over one of the crumbled machines, and grimly, it’s former crew who were straddled over it’s ruins. The next cannon, even more kill markings than the last. The crew of this weapon had even named it, “I nostri signori furia” Manno read aloud. “Our lord’s fury”. He crouched at the end of the barrel. His tunic, bearing the colours of the Duchy of Milan protruded from beneath his armour, it delicately hovered above the dusty earth. Manno’s gaze drifted into the barrel of the nearby war machine. The darkness inside hushed and whispered an eerie aura of chaos and chillingly seemed to crackle with restlessness. Violence it’s very nature and yet here it was, residing in silence; complete and utter peace. The kind of silence and conviction found in a mass murderer’s eyes. Manno’s face was accosted with a calm breeze of cold air from within the barrel, as if the machine’s spirit had calmly blown on his sweat-dampened face.
It made the Italian uncomfortable, so he broke his weary gaze with the cannon. He peered about him, surveying his immediate surroundings. A green tunic or two were strewn about, a lone shield rested atop one. Blood spattered and dented, the polar opposite to the appearances of the artillery pieces lined up before him. Manno was aware of the sound of a horse approaching him, his mind was preoccupied however, so his subconscious promptly filed it away. He could see footprints, and horseshoe patterns dotted around the earth around him, his mind almost filled in the picture, almost recreated this place little more than 2 hours ago. His willpower cracked through, “No.” He mumbled to himself, re-enacting these men’s deaths in his head was not how they would want to be remembered. Not how he wanted to remember them. The sound of hooves was close now.
From his crouch beside the cannon Manno squinted up at the deep blue sky, light clouds swirled and whisped over his head, basking in the intense sunlight of the Anatolian mid-afternoon. A light breeze buffeted his face, warm and littered with sand and dust. The clip clopping of falling horse hooves no longer tapped at his eardrums, replaced now by the heavy foot steps of an armour-clad man.
“Looking for god, Manno? Save your eyes the trouble of the sunlight, he isn’t there.”
Manno Rossi turned to the voice of his older brother. “You shouldn’t speak such blasphemies, Guiliano.”
“If god did not want me to speak, he would not have shown me what it is he does.” Replied Guiliano Rossi. Manno had no reply for his brother, so the two exchanged sour expressions of grief before embracing eachother. Their armour clinked together.
“I travelled here as fast as I could when I heard the news. My men and I brought medicine and bandages, but the wounds inflicted here go beyond the talents of our surgeons.” Guiliano spat as he spoke, then taking a moment to pause, allowing his anger at the brutal attack settle once more. “…Where is he, Manno?” Asked Guiliano after a short pause. Manno peered up from the dirt to once again make eye contact with his brother. He could not force the words from his dry, cracked lips. He tipped his head in the direction behind the line of cannons. Guiliano turned on his heels and paced past the cannons and scattered corpses. A brown horse trotted awkwardly in a small circle, sniffing the air. A shallow limp hindered it’s front right leg, a trickle of blood ran down to it’s dust covered hoof. The coat on it’s back bearing the colours of Milan, and the insignia of Vaggio Bernadi. Guiliano stopped just short of where the horse was. At the horses feet, a body. Guiliano tipped his head slightly, allowing for him to remove his cumbersome helmet. His shoulder-length brown hair matted and damp beneath it. He dropped the helmet to the floor, as it rolled toward the fresh corpse, gently knocking the outstretched hand.
“So this is your resting place.” Guiliano spoke, an undercurrent of regret in his tone. The body was Vaggio Bernadi, or rather Count Bernadi, as he would have soon been known. His father, the real Count Bernadi had headed back off to Italy to see his dying father. He would have been made Duke, and so Vaggio would have taken his place as Heir – The Count. The Duke typically ruled from the Capital of Milan itself. And the Count, at least for the last two generations has overseen affairs in the east with the aid of the ruling council, composed of nobles and governors from the Italian Crusader states in and around Anatolia. Now Vaggio would never know the honour of the title of Count.
Manno approached the light brown horse, “Carica”, Vaggio had named it. He remembered several years ago when his father let him have his pick of the horses. Carica had always been his favourite. The injured horse let out a deep sigh as Manno patted its neck. Carica seemed glad for the comfort, and Manno was a friendly face from the days past when the two Rossi brothers and Vaggio would play in the stables. As the horse once again lowered itself to sniff it’s fallen master Manno’s attention drifted over to his brother. He stood, statuesque above his cousin. Manno could see Guiliano was submerged deep in thought, deep in memories. He would give him a few minutes with his cousin. Guiliano’s armor had several dents and scratches, the most prominent decorated his breastplate. Manno had never been in a battle, he had seen a battle, but never fought in one. Guiliano on the other hand was one of several prominent commanders in the region. He had fought the Muslims on many occasions. Although rarely commanding his troops alone, he often went to battle alongside Vaggio. He wore a scar on his cheek, almost an elegant swirl, no doubt inflicted by some manner of Muslim weapon. His blue eyes seemed dimmed, the fire and life in them somehow blunted and oppressed. They glimmered in the sunlight more than his armour, a sheen of salty tears had built up. Manno knew his brother would not cry, not here in front of the other men and soldiers. Distracted by his own train of thought Manno didn’t notice Guiliano was speaking until he repeated himself.
“Asuman. I must go to her now.” Once he could tell his younger brother had taken in what he said he turned sharply and stalked off back towards his bodyguards and steed. Manno wanted to object, but it would be wrong to take from Guiliano his right to see the Turkish harlot he so loves. As Manno watched him leave, it was as if part of him was still standing there, looking over his dead cousin who he held so close to his heart.
Manno was once again awakened from his thoughts to the sound of shuffling feet and the almost musical muttering of prayer. Evio Mendes, a cardinal who Manno had known since he was a child. Manno had been Evio’s pupil up until two years ago, before he decided to leave the church and follow in the footsteps of his brother, defending the new Milanese realm in western Anatolia.
The cardinal opened his eyes to meet Manno’s gaze, this is a man Manno had no second thought about crying before and so his eyes began to fill with salty tears of sorrow. “My child, do not despair for your dear cousin is now in God’s caring hands. He earned his passage by defending his lord’s people here today. And the foul insurgents who defied God’s will here and took his life will be punished forever.” Said Evio. His voice a wave of calm on the storm of emotions clouding Manno’s thoughts. After a short pause Evio stepped closer to Manno and placed a gently reassuring hand upon his right shoulder, almost whispering.
“And how did your brother Guiliano take Vaggio’s passing?”
“Not too well, father. He seemed discontent with the lords doing. Even spoke blasphemies due to the strain on his heart.” Replied Manno.
The man of the church seemed very distressed at the reply, a more pious man Manno had never met. He made a mental note to bring Evio before Guiliano once they are back at Constantinople to help him rebirth his faith.
“Oh, and what manner of Blasphemies did the misguided Guiliano commit against the lord this day?” Spoke Evio.
“He merely suggested god was not in the heavens, watching over Vaggio Bernadi.” Replied Manno, still on the brink of tears erupting down his cheeks. The cardinal’s expression soured at his reply.
“Merely? Do not forget a blasphemy is blasphemy, there is no degree of severity for all are as severe as can be. Pray for your brother and pray for his faith. I sincerely hope these are side effects of losing a loved one. Now young Rossi, I must return to the cathedral in Constantinople. God be with you, and your estranged brother.” A few seconds passed before Evio Mendes turned back towards his carriage. He recalled the other priests in his entourage as he climbed aboard. Glancing sideways once more at Manno.
A f t y
A A R S
:: The Sun always rises in the East :: Flawless Crowns :: Dancing Days ::
"We kissed the Sun, and it smiled down upon us."
You know the drill, feedback, comments and thoughts are
It made the Italian uncomfortable, so he broke his weary gaze with the cannon. He peered about him, surveying his immediate surroundings. A green tunic or two were strewn about, a lone shield rested atop one. Blood spattered and dented, the polar opposite to the appearances of the artillery pieces lined up before him. Manno was aware of the sound of a horse approaching him, his mind was preoccupied however, so his subconscious promptly filed it away. He could see footprints, and horseshoe patterns dotted around the earth around him, his mind almost filled in the picture, almost recreated this place little more than 2 hours ago. His willpower cracked through, “No.” He mumbled to himself, re-enacting these men’s deaths in his head was not how they would want to be remembered. Not how he wanted to remember them. The sound of hooves was close now.
From his crouch beside the cannon Manno squinted up at the deep blue sky, light clouds swirled and whisped over his head, basking in the intense sunlight of the Anatolian mid-afternoon. A light breeze buffeted his face, warm and littered with sand and dust. The clip clopping of falling horse hooves no longer tapped at his eardrums, replaced now by the heavy foot steps of an armour-clad man.
“Looking for god, Manno? Save your eyes the trouble of the sunlight, he isn’t there.”
Manno Rossi turned to the voice of his older brother. “You shouldn’t speak such blasphemies, Guiliano.”
“If god did not want me to speak, he would not have shown me what it is he does.” Replied Guiliano Rossi. Manno had no reply for his brother, so the two exchanged sour expressions of grief before embracing eachother. Their armour clinked together.
“I travelled here as fast as I could when I heard the news. My men and I brought medicine and bandages, but the wounds inflicted here go beyond the talents of our surgeons.” Guiliano spat as he spoke, then taking a moment to pause, allowing his anger at the brutal attack settle once more. “…Where is he, Manno?” Asked Guiliano after a short pause. Manno peered up from the dirt to once again make eye contact with his brother. He could not force the words from his dry, cracked lips. He tipped his head in the direction behind the line of cannons. Guiliano turned on his heels and paced past the cannons and scattered corpses. A brown horse trotted awkwardly in a small circle, sniffing the air. A shallow limp hindered it’s front right leg, a trickle of blood ran down to it’s dust covered hoof. The coat on it’s back bearing the colours of Milan, and the insignia of Vaggio Bernadi. Guiliano stopped just short of where the horse was. At the horses feet, a body. Guiliano tipped his head slightly, allowing for him to remove his cumbersome helmet. His shoulder-length brown hair matted and damp beneath it. He dropped the helmet to the floor, as it rolled toward the fresh corpse, gently knocking the outstretched hand.
“So this is your resting place.” Guiliano spoke, an undercurrent of regret in his tone. The body was Vaggio Bernadi, or rather Count Bernadi, as he would have soon been known. His father, the real Count Bernadi had headed back off to Italy to see his dying father. He would have been made Duke, and so Vaggio would have taken his place as Heir – The Count. The Duke typically ruled from the Capital of Milan itself. And the Count, at least for the last two generations has overseen affairs in the east with the aid of the ruling council, composed of nobles and governors from the Italian Crusader states in and around Anatolia. Now Vaggio would never know the honour of the title of Count.
Manno approached the light brown horse, “Carica”, Vaggio had named it. He remembered several years ago when his father let him have his pick of the horses. Carica had always been his favourite. The injured horse let out a deep sigh as Manno patted its neck. Carica seemed glad for the comfort, and Manno was a friendly face from the days past when the two Rossi brothers and Vaggio would play in the stables. As the horse once again lowered itself to sniff it’s fallen master Manno’s attention drifted over to his brother. He stood, statuesque above his cousin. Manno could see Guiliano was submerged deep in thought, deep in memories. He would give him a few minutes with his cousin. Guiliano’s armor had several dents and scratches, the most prominent decorated his breastplate. Manno had never been in a battle, he had seen a battle, but never fought in one. Guiliano on the other hand was one of several prominent commanders in the region. He had fought the Muslims on many occasions. Although rarely commanding his troops alone, he often went to battle alongside Vaggio. He wore a scar on his cheek, almost an elegant swirl, no doubt inflicted by some manner of Muslim weapon. His blue eyes seemed dimmed, the fire and life in them somehow blunted and oppressed. They glimmered in the sunlight more than his armour, a sheen of salty tears had built up. Manno knew his brother would not cry, not here in front of the other men and soldiers. Distracted by his own train of thought Manno didn’t notice Guiliano was speaking until he repeated himself.
“Asuman. I must go to her now.” Once he could tell his younger brother had taken in what he said he turned sharply and stalked off back towards his bodyguards and steed. Manno wanted to object, but it would be wrong to take from Guiliano his right to see the Turkish harlot he so loves. As Manno watched him leave, it was as if part of him was still standing there, looking over his dead cousin who he held so close to his heart.
Manno was once again awakened from his thoughts to the sound of shuffling feet and the almost musical muttering of prayer. Evio Mendes, a cardinal who Manno had known since he was a child. Manno had been Evio’s pupil up until two years ago, before he decided to leave the church and follow in the footsteps of his brother, defending the new Milanese realm in western Anatolia.
The cardinal opened his eyes to meet Manno’s gaze, this is a man Manno had no second thought about crying before and so his eyes began to fill with salty tears of sorrow. “My child, do not despair for your dear cousin is now in God’s caring hands. He earned his passage by defending his lord’s people here today. And the foul insurgents who defied God’s will here and took his life will be punished forever.” Said Evio. His voice a wave of calm on the storm of emotions clouding Manno’s thoughts. After a short pause Evio stepped closer to Manno and placed a gently reassuring hand upon his right shoulder, almost whispering.
“And how did your brother Guiliano take Vaggio’s passing?”
“Not too well, father. He seemed discontent with the lords doing. Even spoke blasphemies due to the strain on his heart.” Replied Manno.
The man of the church seemed very distressed at the reply, a more pious man Manno had never met. He made a mental note to bring Evio before Guiliano once they are back at Constantinople to help him rebirth his faith.
“Oh, and what manner of Blasphemies did the misguided Guiliano commit against the lord this day?” Spoke Evio.
“He merely suggested god was not in the heavens, watching over Vaggio Bernadi.” Replied Manno, still on the brink of tears erupting down his cheeks. The cardinal’s expression soured at his reply.
“Merely? Do not forget a blasphemy is blasphemy, there is no degree of severity for all are as severe as can be. Pray for your brother and pray for his faith. I sincerely hope these are side effects of losing a loved one. Now young Rossi, I must return to the cathedral in Constantinople. God be with you, and your estranged brother.” A few seconds passed before Evio Mendes turned back towards his carriage. He recalled the other priests in his entourage as he climbed aboard. Glancing sideways once more at Manno.
A A R S
:: The Sun always rises in the East :: Flawless Crowns :: Dancing Days ::
"We kissed the Sun, and it smiled down upon us."