The dry grass crunched under every step. Sir Eldric, astride his white steed, moved forward without once looking back, the sun beating mercilessly down on his bald head. Behind him, bound by a rope, Giotto was forced to march, dragged along by the horse.
Sweat soaked his brow, his throat burned, and his legs trembled. They had been walking for over four hours, and still, there was no sign of civilization.
"How… much farther?" he asked hoarsely.
The knight said nothing. His horse, however, answered by defecating as it walked.
"Merda!" Giotto hissed, nearly stepping in the mess—just enough to make the knight draw his sword again and aim it at him.
"Shut your mouth, wretch!" Eldric snapped, pressing the flat of the blade lightly against Giotto's cheek. "If I hear that vile dialect again, I'll rip out your tongue and make you swallow it."
A thin trickle of blood slid down Giotto's cheek—so quickly even Sir Eldric didn't notice it. The wound closed instantly, leaving only the crimson trail behind.
"Y-yes, alright, I'm sorry… I won't say another word," Giotto stammered, cowed by the threat.
The horse whinnied, sensing the shift in its rider's mood. Eldric watched Giotto with his single eye, hungry for an excuse to sever his head. But the prisoner's cowardly demeanor made him sheathe his blade and ride on.
"We'll soon reach my lord's estate. He will decide your fate, blasphemer."
Giotto clenched his jaw. He could feel the sticky warmth of drying blood on his face, the metallic taste lingering on his tongue.
There was something deeply archaic about this man—not just in his speech or attire, but in the way his gaze seemed to relish the prospect of violence.
«Savage,» he thought.
They walked in silence for what felt like centuries, until the tree line broke open. In the distance, perched atop a hill, stood a blackened stone structure: high walls, jagged battlements, a wooden palisade, and banners fluttering in the wind beneath a gray sky.
"There," Eldric declared, pointing to the castle. "There, cursed one—you'll find your grave."
When they reached the heavy wooden gates, two guards on duty—lightly armored, each with a halberd and a dagger—blocked their way.
"Identify yourself," one ordered, casting a wary glance at Giotto's odd clothes.
"I am Sir Eldric of Essex, sworn knight to Lord Oswald. I bring this sorcerer to face my lord's judgment."
The guards nodded.
"Go ahead," said the taller of the two, then turned to Giotto. "Take the prisoner to the dungeons."
One of them untied the rope from Eldric's horse and dragged Giotto forward like a rabid beast. They passed over cobbled paths and between ancient wooden houses. People continued about their business, offering him no more than a fleeting glance before carrying on.
The stench was unlike anything Giotto had ever experienced, even in the medieval reenactments he'd once taken part in. It wasn't just the usual filth of old villages or the scent of aged wood—it was a heavy, cloying mix of stale damp, dry sweat, wood smoke, a bitter hint of rot, and a faint metallic tang that reminded him of the taste in his mouth.
Giotto looked up, ignoring the soldier's tug on the rope. The crowd parted, revealing a man with an axe, and a servant collecting a head in a basket.
"Move!" barked the guard, yanking so hard on the rope that Giotto fell to the filthy ground. "Get up, or I'll make you."
Giotto didn't wait for a second warning. He scrambled to his feet and hurried after the guard.
"Such a shame," he heard someone say, "he was Marcus the baker's son. Good lad… but they say he was dealing with a witch."
Giotto sharpened his senses, listening carefully as they walked. It came easily now—one of the few perks of the changes to his body.
"Those beasts tempt the best of us. May God have mercy on his soul. Apparently—"
But the voices faded into the noise of the town, and his sharpened hearing was no match for the chaos around them. They reached one of the castle's towers.
"Prisoner," the guard announced to another soldier in identical armor.
"Proceed," the second man replied, opening the heavy doors.
The corridor beyond was narrow and dim, lit only by the slivers of light slipping through the cracks in the stone walls.
As they descended, Giotto felt the air grow heavier, the scent of blood more pungent. Then the silence broke—pierced by an endless scream that echoed from somewhere below.
They reached the bottom of the stairwell, and the real horror began. The dungeons were filled with the howls of suffering. Cell after cell stood empty, save for puddles of blood visible in the faint light.
Then he saw it. A man. The wretch was strapped to a wagon wheel, bound hand and foot. His limbs twisted at impossible angles. Arms broken like dry branches, bones jutting beneath torn flesh. The wheel rested atop two stone blocks, and a hooded executioner, his face hidden beneath a grimy cowl, held a rod of glowing iron.
Each strike landed on the man's already-mangled limbs, shattering bone, snapping sinew, ripping involuntary spasms from a body that should have passed out hours ago.
The executioner raised the iron again and brought it down on the crushed knee. A wet, dull thud echoed through the chamber, followed by a guttural moan begging for mercy.
The guard dragged Giotto into an empty cell, barely large enough for a moldy pile of hay pretending to be a bed. The stench of urine and feces burned his nostrils, and beside the hay lay a pool of dried vomit, being gnawed at by black rats.
"In you go," said the guard, shoving him so hard he nearly stumbled. Giotto barely kept his footing as he stepped inside.
"Filthy sorcerer," the soldier spat, literally and figuratively, before turning on his heel and leaving.
Giotto couldn't hold it anymore. He vomited—right onto the soiled hay. He had kept his composure for far too long. Tears fell in streams as he retched again and again, even after there was nothing left in him.
«Is that what awaits me?» he wondered, as the tortured man's screams continued to fill the air.
«No… I still have a way.» Giotto took a deep breath, ignoring the choking stench of the cell. He remembered it—not his own memory, but the Traveler's. The method of travel he had inherited.
The fifth form of travel. One of the most powerful. Walking, teleportation, rifts… all governed by will. And he had inherited that gift. He could go back. Return home. Leave behind these powers and pretend none of it had ever happened.
He summoned his will. Fear was a great motivator. He felt the power stirring within him, just like last time, when he'd tried to teleport just a few meters—
A chill ran down his spine.
Doubt crept in. Last time, barely six hours ago, he had tried to teleport—and ended up in this universe. Only one question haunted him now:
«What if next time I end up somewhere worse?»
The will he had gathered evaporated, along with the chance to use his power. Giotto knew it—no matter how much he cursed or screamed, that wouldn't change. If he used his ability and failed again, he might land in an even greater hell. He would have to survive by other means.
Castle Whitertown
Sir Eldric marched through the ornately decorated halls, clutching a small scroll tightly in his hand.
He stopped in front of two heavily guarded doors, flanked by battle-hardened knights: the Duke's honor guard.
"I must speak with Lord Oswald. It's urgent."
The elder of the two nodded, sending the other to alert the Duke. Moments later, the knight returned and allowed Sir Eldric to enter the library.
It wasn't large, but enough to hold three full shelves of books and ancient scrolls comfortably. The marble floor gleamed, and two windows bathed the room in light.
"My lord," Eldric said, dropping to one knee, "I bring news from Baron Joseph."
Before him, a man with black hair and a deeply lined face sat behind a wooden desk, signing papers without looking up.
"Go on," he commanded, his voice low and cold.
"When I delivered your message to the Baron, he locked himself in his study for an entire day. During that time, I was able to speak with one of his knights and—"
"Get to the point."
"As you wish. The barony is facing the same wave of attacks we are. Traces of demonic rituals have been found in surrounding villages. No survivors."
"I feared as much. Anything else?"
For a moment, the perpetually stern face of Sir Eldric shifted, and a bead of sweat rolled down his bearded cheek. He hesitated.
Duke Oswald set down his quill and fixed his gaze on the knight.
"Sir Eldric?"
"Forgive my boldness, my lord… but… thanks to a friend in the barony, I managed to meet with one of the captured witches and… it appears a coven has formed."
Lord Oswald stared at him in silence. The cold calculation of aristocracy drained from his face, replaced by raw fear.
"I… I see. Thank you, Sir Eldric. If there's nothing more—"
"Before I left, Baron Joseph gave me this letter. He said its contents were for your eyes only."
Oswald nodded, allowing him to approach. He took the scroll, sealed with the Baron's wax insignia.
"And one more thing, my lord," Eldric added. "On my way to Whitertown, a warlock appeared at my camp. I've brought him here as a prisoner—he's now in the catacombs."
"Good. He will be judged tomorrow. For now, Sir Eldric, you may rest from your long journey."
Whitertown Dungeons
Morning in the dungeon felt no different from night—except that the torturers had finally given the poor man a reprieve. Giotto had no way of knowing it was already the next day.
"On your feet, sorcerer!" Giotto looked up to see the same guard from yesterday, banging his sword hilt against the bars. "Duke Oswald wishes to see you now."
Giotto rose quickly. He wasn't afraid anymore. If he was right, maybe he had a chance. And if things didn't go his way—he still had his power. Even if it took him somewhere worse, it was better than death.
The cell door opened. The soldier shoved Giotto forward, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword.
Compared to the day before, the journey back to the surface felt shorter. A knot twisted in Giotto's gut when he saw the man's corpse still on the wheel—but he pushed the feeling down. Now wasn't the time for sentiment.
Once aboveground, he was led through the halls of Duke Oswald's castle. Each footstep echoed through his body as they approached the guarded door of the Duke's chamber.
Giotto took a deep breath. What happened next would determine whether he lived—or died.
«Alright, Giotto. You're half gypsy… make your grandfather proud.»
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This chapter was a lot of fun to write. I wanted Giotto to face not only the physical horrors of his new reality but also the most dreadful fear of all: the fear of having no control over one's own fate. Sometimes, the cruelest punishment isn't torture — it's uncertainty. Here, we see an ordinary man who, though he possesses power, cannot use it without risking something far worse.
I'm also really enjoying writing in this medieval setting.
In this third chapter, the story moves forward and we get a little taste of everything; even I, as the author, am excited to see what fate has in store for this unfortunate soul.
Thank you all for reading.