Behold the penultimate chapter! If ye missed the previous libro, read it here!

Our true gothic tale so far: Summersbane finds himself tasked with an exorcism, in the dark canals of Venice. To rest, the ghost demands revenge, & our dread necromancer must help her seize it! & so they invaded her killer’s villa, through clever use of sea & soup. Now, the bastard’s bodyguard stands in the way…

Summersbane Saga
Ghost of Venice

Libro IV: Drowned Ones

Summersbane’s man-skin boots thudded down the stairs, leaving bloody footprints. He expected a hail of gunfire—had wards prepared to meet it—& felt slightly disappointed to find the room held a lone Russian priest, clad in vestments as black as the sea, swirling unholy swill. 

“Too good for my special stew, Batiushka?” Summersbane scoffed. “Don’t tell me you subsist on vodka.”

The oddly-calm priest spat at Summersbane’s feet. “I pray over my food, koldun.”

The Russian stood slowly, & our necromancer took a moment to survey the windowless chamber. A situation room of sorts, it seemed—a wall of monitors showed the pathetic guards, their intestines exploded, laying motionless all around Giacomo Dellarosso’s tasteless compound.  

The pale blue screen-light retreated before the flickering circle of candles at the presbyter’s feet.  Summersbane noticed a glitter in the man’s robes—sacred geometries, stitched in golden thread.  On the ground, arranged in a pentacle, lay Bible pages, torn by the priest's own holy hands. He had bound each page to the floor with wax, estamped with detailed seals. Everywhere Summersbane looked, he noticed more votive wards, on the tables, walls, & chairs. 

Summersbane clapped softly, amused. “An impressive command of wards & sigils, for a man of the modern church.”

The priest only grunted.

“Which one lets you know when the cookies are done?”

In a flash, the holy man produced a mace from beneath his robe & spake a single word—“Hagios.” 

The Bible pages around the room burst into white flame, but did not burn.  The mace glowed with holy power. Summersbane’s eyebrow shot up as he felt runes of binding awaken around the room. He scanned for the focal points to break the spell, but needed more time. 

“Do the Cardinals know you are here?” Summersbane smirked, “They don’t take kindly to scismatici.”

“I have no love for masters, but I go where I am bidden, nekromant scum,” the Russian growled.

“I just don’t see real priests working with oligarchs often. What changed in Russia? Ah! Your church doesn't know, do they? An oligarch has your family?” Summersbane’s accusation was answered by a telltale twitch of the shoulders & tightening of the priest’s grip. 

Yet, the priest said nothing, patiently waiting for his runes to do their job.

“I am Summersbane of the Council of Ten, under-lords of the venerable state of Venice. I seek revenge for the wrongful death of my Domina, Catalina.  The City of Masks will have satisfaction & see our daughter returned. We declare vendetta.” Summersbane punctuated the word with an outstretched arm, which cracked & deformed until, from his palm, came a rapier of bone.  

“Feh, you Italians & your vendette. I am Father Yuriy of the True Cloth, & I follow in the footsteps of our Lord.  Prepare to die, Spawn of Hell!”

Summersbane held the rapier to his face, point skyward, then he flicked the blade to the side, in a duelist's salute. He lunged, with a vile grace. The priest Yuriy deflected the blow with his mace, widened his stance, & cracked Summersbane across the sword-hand with an open-palmed strike. The touch began to putrefy Summersbane’s unnatural hand down to its blackened bones, the flesh melting & aging all at once. 

Betraying no emotion, the necromancer switched the sword to his other hand & moved swiftly to defend. The priest stepped in to finish the necromancer off; as Father Yuriy closed the distance, Summersbane jumped back, lopped off his right hand with his rapier, & swung the bloody stump in a wide arc. The rotten blood-spray temporarily blinded Yuriy, halting his advance.

The panting priest wiped the blood from his eyes, & blinked away burning tears. The room resolved into focus, but Summersbane wasn’t in front of him.  Yuriy spun, expecting an attack from behind, but none came.  He scanned the room for any sign of the intruder—then heard a wretched scratching in the far corner.

He watched in horror as Summersbane’s bone-blade scoured a wicked sigil into the wall, destroying the bind-runes & revealing a hidden door to the next room where Giacomo Dellarosso hid. 

“No! How?!,” Father Yuriy cried. 

Summersbane ignored him, “Now, Catalina!”

Aurelio’s body, with Catalina still riding inside, bounded down the stairs & towards the door. 

“Traitor! Italian!,” Yuriy screamed. He hurled his mace at the possessed guard, cracking into the skull & producing a sizzling spurt of brain-matter. As “Aurelio” crumpled to the ground, Catalina’s spectral form sprang up from the falling corpse & dashed through the doorway.

“Impossible!,” Yuriy roared, as he sprinted toward the door, but a slash across his cheek stopped him in his tracks.  Summersbane blocked the priest’s path.

“Éla,” Yuiry spake, & the holy mace flew back into his grip.

“This is between them,” Summersbane hissed.

“You’re in no condition to fight, One-Hand.”

Summersbane looked down at his messy stump, then at the body of Aurelio, the guard. “I suppose I could…use a hand,” Summersbane chuckled.

Yuriy chuckled too, but stopped when the corpse lurched to its feet.

Aurelio’s body stood, eyes glowing yellow in deep sockets, brain matter spilling over its cracked skull. It turned to Summersbane, ripped off its hand, & presented the prize to its master. Summersbane placed the slightly-used hand atop his stump; the flesh knitted, scarred, reddened, & healed, in the blink of a terrified eye.

“Nekromant!,” Yuriy said, clearly offended. 

“Your God came back from the dead, & you love him so much. How are you not impressed?”

“Blasphemer,” the priest wailed, as he ran at Summersbane & his servant. The corpse lunged first, but Yuriy crouched low & pressed a Bible to creature’s chest; it blew back, as if blasted with a shotgun. Thus “Aurelio” crumpled again into a neat pile, finally at rest.

Summersbane seized the initiative, slicing up with the rapier to create space. As Yuriy moved to close the distance, a series of short stabs impeded his progress, but slowly Summersbane felt herded into a corner. 

“You are good, Batiushka, but I have a few years on you,” Summersbane teased, while probing the priest's defenses—ah! An opening! He lunged, stretching his undead ligaments beyond breaking, striking deep & true. 

Instead of the sickening crunch of bone-sword on man-flesh, a thud & tear answered, & Summersbane stumbled back. Yuriy’s cassock fell away, tripping up the priest. 

He skidded to a stop on slippered feet. Beneath the torn vestments, a steel breastplate over a ring-mail hauberk shone forth. Resplendent in gold filigree, with runes of power carved into the metal. Prayer-papers, with litanies of health & vitality, pressed onto the plate with red wax, curled about him.

“I may be mortal, but no young fool,” Father Yuriy chuckled, “You never had a chance at beating me, sorcerer!”

“Who said I need to beat you?”

Summersbane smiled, as the hidden door opened. A rush of bloody water gushed into the room across the threshold, soaking Yuiry’s wards & litanies; the mace’s glow faded, as the spells empowering it melted away. Catalina pushed Giacomo’s floating corpse into the room, & his bloating form bobbed in front of Father Yuriy. His charge, her killer, now merely a rotting memory.

Summersbane nodded to the body. “Your revenge, signorina?”

“I took it, yes. He would not explain why he killed me, but I suppose no answer could possibly—nothing could—nothing…there is nothing now.”

“I am sorry. Very few find murder as satisfying as they would hope.”

“But why am I still here?,” Catalina asked, with a quiver in her voice. “That was my unfinished work, my anchor to this horrible world! You said I could rest!”

Yuriy laughed, with the practiced cruelty only a priest can muster. “The necromancer twisted you, little one. You are his revenant, a Drowned One, an undead freak, now. He will drink your tears forever, Sommersa!”

Summersbane turned to Yuriy, & shot him a look of pure ice.  “Your employer is dead, priest. Begone. I have no quarrel with The Orthodoxy, & no wish to make more enemies than I already have.”

The spiteful man hefted his mace, which now seemed to weigh ten tons. “If I don’t die with him, my family—they’ll—”

“Why, my friend, you are dead.” As the priest braced for some horrid final blow, Summersbane simply snapped his fingers. The undead corpse of Aurelio, called back into service, rose from the water & walked to Summersbane. The necromancer looked at Yuriy, then back to the corpse, biting his lip. He waved his hand over the dead face, & it fell limp, disappearing beneath the fetid water.

After a moment, it bobbed back up from the murk, revealing Yuriy’s face.  Summersbane plunged the tip of his sword into the corpse’s heart; the rivulets of Yuriy’s blood on the bone-blade then flowed into the body. 

“There, the corpse is now ‘you,’ down to the DNA. Suit him in your armor, lay low for a month or two, then go be with your family. Start over, someplace new—& never take up arms again. Or I will find you, & you will know true tribulation.”

Yuriy dropped his mace, & tears streamed down his guilty cheeks. “Can it truly be over?”

Summersbane nodded. “Death is the first step in rebirth.” 

Catalina felt those words were as much for her, as they were for Yuriy.

Summersbane took Catalina’s hand, & led her out of the flooding basement, where the priest still sat, sobbing. “Andiamo, Catalina.”

“For him, it is over. Why not for me?,” Catalina pleaded, seeking an answer, or perhaps a hope, from her sickening savior. 

Summersbane, with the sadness of a hundred lives, whispered, “Not all ends come so easily.”

THUS ENDETH LIBRO IV

READ THE FINAL CHAPTER HERE!

Mercy for a vanquished foe, mystery for poor Catalina, & no rest for Aurelio—such a chock-full chapter! Take a week to catch thy breath—for one final libro remains in this saga, coming next Monday! & I shall write ye all again this Wednesday, with news of this week’s live episode—where SUMMERSBANE SHALL RETURN!

Thank ye to all who read our tales, to all who share them with others, & of course thank ye to those kindly folk who can & do send $5 monthly to support our works. Be safe, be well, & remember to double-check those wards...

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Editor, Swimming One