THE IMPALER'S WIFE

16

My heart twists, tears wrung out like washing from crying over all he made me leave behind. My family, Bernádett, my falcon, even my favorite books.

"Tears do not move me," says Luigi della Scala flatly. "Instead of weeping, think of your new future."

Sniffing, I wipe away my tears.

"Genoa is beautiful, the weather always sunny and warm." The wood creaks as he shifts on the bench. "When we arrive, we will exchange rings, give consent to the notary, and celebrate with a lavish party." He nudges my foot. "Until then we will indulge each other as husband and wife. I want a babe in your belly before we reach Genoa."

I remain mute, my voice fragile, ready to splinter into sobbing.

Luigi della Scala drones on about his house by the river, favorite foods, horses, garden, and Venetian fashions. I reply. Brief. Polite. Detached.

When the shadows outside lengthen, della Scala sticks his face through the window. "Hurry, man! We must reach the Catholic monastery before nightfall!" He tucks his head back in and rummages for a flask. He gulps the liquid down, drags his hand across his wet mouth, and pushes the flask at me. "Drink. It will take the edge off your virgin fear."

I snatch it, start guzzling. How much do I need to drink to pass out?

Hoof beats thunder by. Guards shout. I lower the flask. The carriage lurches, slams me into the side. The flask clatters to the floor.

The white-faced Luigi della Scala peeks through the curtain. "Bandits." He latches the wood shutter closed and reaches for his scimitar. "My men will make swift work of them."

Someone pounds on the roof.

Cold with terror, I yank the fur blanket to my chin. "What's happening?"

"Shut up." Della Scala wipes sweat from his brow.

The shouts grow louder, cries mixing with shrieks. And then a blood-curdling scream rips all breath from my lungs. I shove my fist into my mouth, bite down on my thumb and look to della Scala for comfort. He's bloodless with fear—his scimitar shaking in his hand.

Steal clashes against steal. Long swords clang. Short blades clank and squeal.

I wedge into the corner and fold my trembling legs to my breast. Della Scala puts his finger to his lips, shakes his head.

The shouts fade into groans. Wilt into moans. Wither into bloody gurgles and punctured wheezes.

A horrible silence descends. Not so much as a footfall or horse snort. Luigi della Scala watches the door, his white knuckles clenched around his trembling scimitar.

The bandits will rob us. They will kill della Scala. I will suffer a worse fate.

The door swings wide and a masked Turk leaps in. He disarms della Scala with falcon-like swiftness.

Della Scala's blade drops. His hands fly to the crimson stain blooming across his tunic. He grunts, rasps a curse, then slumps forward.

The blood-splattered Turk, his black turban concealing everything but his emerald eyes, turns to me. He shoves della Scala's scimitar toward my feet, yanks della Scala's body onto the ground outside, and slams the door. It sounds like he drags della Scala's body across the road.

"I believe in God." I put my shaking hands together in prayer. "The Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth, I believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord who was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary."

Whack! Whack! Whack! Loud hammering stops my silent prayer. I press myself further into the corner.

"I believe in the Holy Spirit." I speak loud enough the bandits will hear. Maybe my prayer will inspire their pity. "The holy Catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the—"

A twig snaps just outside the window.

"Remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam eternam. Amen." A low voice finishes my prayer.

The resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.

My trembling fingers clench the cross at my neck as I stare at the door. I recite the Hail Mary. Intone the Our Father. The door never opens.

I hear men whisper, gravel crunch under their boots, reins and tack jangle, horses blow, then the clamor of hoof beats galloping away.

"Thank you, Almighty Father." Nauseous and damp with sweat, my hand closes around the scimitar's hilt as I push open the door.

The light is murky, the low orange sun veiled with clouds. The trees cast long dark shadows over the road. And yet I see it. A blood path.

I follow the red smears and splatters to horror. To crimson pools and viscera mounds.

The Genoan guards are slit from throat to groin, their bodies ooze blood and guts. The driver's head is severed, his sightless eyes gaze at the darkening sky. His body is splayed on the other side of the road.

Luigi della Scala's body is not among the dead.

I fall on my knees and retch. When nothing else comes out, I stand on shaking knees and gulp the air. And then I see him.

Luigi della Scala is nailed to a tree and carved open like a pig. His entrails hang beside him. A wad of flesh hangs from his mouth. His cock and testicles.

My legs give out and I fall to the ground. The bandits wanted this to look like the work of Martolea, the avenging Romanian demon.

A crow swoops down, perches on della Scala's head, and pecks at his eye.

In the distance, a wolf howl rises over the treetops.

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This novel is 450-pages long. An epic read. At this point, we're not quite  1/3  into the story.