Only a fool believes…
… in witchcraft.
Stalking the border between the Ottoman and Christian worlds, only the bold survive this wicked mystical land.
Does a power older than Christianity haunt these untamed passes?
It doesn’t matter…
Thaddeus found himself ready to quit, anything to escape the daily insanity.
With enough time, he hoped to discover a safe place, a quiet hermitage where madness might overwhelm him.
Can Thaddeus find peace in the unforgiving mountain valleys of Wallachia?
Read the next installment of the Thaddeus of Venice series to learn Thad’s fate.
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Genre: FICTION / HistoricalI have over 30 books published in several SF/F sub-genres; I would like to increase my international readership.
The stench of sex permeated the very plaster that covered the walls of the small cell given Thaddeus to sleep in. Despite the exhaustion that settled into his very bones, sleep eluded him.
The ruckus coming from the adjacent rooms didn’t help. If people were going to commit acts of depravity, the least they could do was have the common decency to do it quietly and in secret, like the clergy.
With so many calls to the supreme being, it was a wonder why the Almighty didn’t reach down from the heavens and search out the reason for such a huge quantity of entreatments.
The hope for a comforting sleep during the falling snow wasn’t in the cards.
Something nibbled on Thad’s leg under the woolen blanket. One more insult to injury, and no matter how hard he scratched, the little bloodthirsty demon escaped death. The thought of what might have nested in the straw-filled mattress only served to make his skin crawl. This night’s sleep would have no happy ending for Thaddeus.
The inquisitor should have said something when the scribe from Padua suggested they move off the road for the night. The trip from Trieste through the mountains into the once Kingdom of Serbia had been a toil. Ever-present danger only served to increase the stress of the journey. The blue sky of spring remained out of sight. The clouds and haze of winter held the mountain passes in their icy grip for many months to come. Every hour that passed only lowered the temperature more. Before they found this place, their breath hung heavy on the air, a frozen fog.
At least they had not been tested by highwaymen or the troops of a misguided warlord. In warmer weather, both roamed these tracks and operated by the same rules. Take what they wanted. Kill any who resisted. In that respect, the wet weather served to keep most brigands out of the cold.
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Brigida Sepe
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Jorge Ledezma
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Author review: Thank you. |
