David Blixt - The Master of Verona

With one exception. Vanni Scorigiani, the Toothless Master who had bragged for years that he ate steel for breakfast, held his ground. He positioned himself directly in the Scaliger's path, spear braced on the stones at his horse's feet.

Cangrande did him honour. Even as his horse dodged the spear, Cangrande stood in the stirrups and gave the Paduan knight his most powerful blow. The sword severed Vanni's head from his body, which lingered in the saddle for an instant before being battered to the ground by the galloping horses that followed. What happened to the head, Pietro couldn't see. His eyes were filled with tears of joy and sorrow as horse after horse passed him by.

The change was as indefinable as it was palpable. The Paduan army shook, panicked, and fled.

In their midst, the Count of San Bonifacio was riding among the leading elements of the fleeing exiles. They had owned the best place for a retreat, being stationed on the outer walls. Though everyone around him shouted with terror, he was smiling. His plan had worked. Certainly the Pup's forces were distracted. The battle had lasted far longer, been far more devastating, than the Count could have dared hope. All he had to do now was slip away from the army -

" Bonifacio !"

The naked rage made Vinciguerra grab at his sword. Turning, he saw the upraised sword and was helpless to prevent it falling. The blow scraped off his helmet, struck his armoured shoulder. Before he could bring his own weapon to bear, a second blow ripped open the flesh on his left leg. Blood pumped up towards the sky, almost as high as the Count's head.

" Traitor !" The contempt in Carrara's voice was unmistakable. The young Paduan drove the tip of his sword into Vinciguerra's armpit, hoping to pierce his heart. The armour prevented a fatal blow, but he did manage to unseat the Count, toppling him into the dirt.

The flow of men swept Marsilio on, but he was satisfied. Honour had been served. The Count was finished.

On the ground, Vinciguerra lifted his head. His helmet was heavy upon him. He called me a traitor. I suppose I am, to Padua. But not to Verona — never to Verona. I am a patriot. And I was so close…

He saw the red-headed soldier called Benedick arrive over him. Sparing the Count a single glance, the man said not a word. He sheathed his sword, jumped into the Count's saddle, and rode for his life. Groaning as the first real wave of pain swept over him, the Count still managed a nod of approval. "Not a fool — after all."

The battle had swept on into other streets, leaving the wounded and dying in its wake. His neighbour's son died in Pietro's arms without a last word for his father. Pietro wept as he stood and tore the boiling armour from his torso, relieving his legs of the awful weight. He looked at the petta , and the crest of San Bonifacio on it — the image of the two opposing stars was now bruised and covered in blood. He let the breastplate fall from his fingertips and wandered among the dead and the wounded, looking for friends.

Amazingly, five of his men had survived relatively unscathed, with more possibly still alive in the yard where this bloody business started. He found Tharwat under three Paduan corpses. The Moor was breathing, though shallowly. Pietro ripped some cloth from a dead man and bound the head gash as best he could. Tharwat's left arm hung at a strange angle, but Pietro knew nothing about mending broken limbs. Deciding to wait for Morsicato's advice, he propped the Moor's head against a wall and moved to look for other wounded men.

Just then he heard more horses approaching. These were not the hoofbeats of warhorses. Coming out of the smoke, a young man on a light riding horse almost trampled Pietro before he checked. His two attendants did the same.

"Pietro!"

It was a familiar voice that cried his name. Pietro looked up to see a thin fellow in riding clothes who looked oddly familiar. Then he saw the delicate features and the sky-blue eyes and realized, impossibly, who it was. "Donna Katerina?"

"Pietro, thank God!" The lady's voice was full of panic as she leapt down from the saddle.

Rising, Pietro held her by the arms, steadying himself against her. "I'm fine, lady."

"He's gone, Pietro! They've taken him! The chart was right! He's going to die! They both are!"

Hot and exhausted, Pietro couldn't follow what she was saying. Had someone taken Cangrande somewhere? "What? Lady, calm yourself. What's happened?"

"The guest, the man who was staying in the palace — the exiled banker who bought his return! He called himself Pathino."

Pietro shook his head. "What about him?"

"He came yesterday — said he's trying to rebuild his old business — but he's taken them both, both of them!"

Pietro felt his flesh begin to crawl. "Who, Donna? Who did he take?"

Tears were flowing freely now. "Cesco! He's gone! And he took my son with him! Cesco and Detto are gone!"

Cangrande halted his pursuit of the Paduans at Montegalda, refusing to let his men cross the Paduan frontier, lest he be accused of violating the peace himself. Now that he had the just war he'd been hungering for, he had no wish to spoil things.

The armourless Scaliger rode along the line of his soldiers as they cheered him, crying "Sca-la! Sca-la! Sca-la!" Uguccione was grinning through a face smeared with blood. Nico sported an arm that hung limply at his side, yet he hopped up and down in the saddle as he mocked the fleeing knights. Morsicato looked tired as he wrung blood from his beard. Luigi Capulletto looked annoyed that the battle was over, and his brother Antony shared his expression.

But Antony wasn't looking at the backs of the fleeing Paduans. The Scaliger traced Antony's scowl to a figure in a blue cloak. His armour bore the Montecchio crest, the clasp on the cloak carrying the same device. But he was too short to be Gargano. That left only one answer. "Ser Montecchio, welcome back! I trust you've been home to see your father."

" Oui, mon Capitan ," replied Mariotto, much to the Scaliger's amusement.

"You provided me good service. I trust all your affairs are settled?"

Cangrande saw Mari's eyes flicker towards Capulletto. "I expect they soon will be."

A frown formed on Cangrande's brow. "Where's your father?"

"He's on our lands, coordinating the net for fleeing Paduans."

"Go join him." Cangrande raised his voice. "I want all Paduan prisoners back in Verona the day after tomorrow. Every one, even the lowliest, is to be treated royally. The nobles may be ransomed to their families, but this time Padua itself will have to pay to get its soldiers back. I'll ransom them as a group."

Nico da Lozzo studied the sky, all innocence. "I don't suppose it's occurred to you…"

"It has. The answer is no. They live." The Scaliger was about to instruct Capulletto to stay with Uguccione, thus keeping the two idiots away from each other, when something pricked at his ears. Light horses and voices calling.

Turning, he saw his sister — her cross-dressing never fooled him. She was probably angry with him for sneaking into town. She'd always loathed his playacting. "Thank you, my dear, for ringing the bell. I felt certain it was-"

His expression changed as she came close enough to reveal her face. Katerina told her tale in a very few words, concluding, "Ser Alaghieri has already started the hunt."

Cangrande issued crisp orders. "Uguccione, trace Pietro. Morsicato, find the Moor, make sure he's well, then follow. Nico, get your arm looked at then find me, wherever I am. Capulletto, you and your brother take fifty men and throw up a cordon west of here. Once that's done, ride to the old Bonifacio estates and see if there's any activity there. If not, find me for more orders. Mariotto, find your father and use his men to throw up a dragnet. Go with him, Benvenito. Bonaventura, you and your cousin comb your lands. Forget the Paduans. I want people searching every castle, hamlet, farmhouse, outhouse, cave, ravine, and riverbed between Illasi and here. Bailardino, do the same thing to the east. Take as many men as you want. Antonio," he said, addressing the elder Nogarola, "take the north. Everybody, throw the net wide and then draw it tight. Take your time, be thorough. They could be anywhere. Whoever finds Pietro Alaghieri first sends word immediately! He's got nearly thirty minutes on us." Cangrande looked up. The daylight was two hours old but the sky was darkening. Always rain, when it comes to Cesco . "Use what light we have. Move!"