Gianfranco Mancini > Recent Status Updates

Guilliman spoke once more, detailing more of his long-gestated plans. There would be no delay now – the ships were already waiting, and as soon as they were provisioned the assault would begin. For the first time since the days of the Crusade itself, the Imperium would be launching a true offensive. The long retreat was over, and the reconquest would soon begin.

Prayto had been at Ullanor. That already felt like more than a lifetime ago, in a galaxy that had now become foreign and unknowable. The grandeur of it had been entirely deliberate, a show of force to inspire the Imperium to even greater heights and to daunt the xenos dregs who still lurked on the margins of a dominated galaxy.

«Li ha sentiti?» chiese Reacher. «Quando?» «Sempre», sussurrò. «Fanno sempre piani, Borken e i suoi. Le donne e i bambini devono morire, dicono. Ci costringeranno a suicidarci, in massa: le nostre famiglie, i nostri figli. Alle cave. Credo che abbiano intenzione di portarci alle cave e di obbligarci a toglierci la vita.»

Novecentonovanta passi, pari a ottocentonovanta metri. Borken s’inginocchiò sulle stuoie e prese il binocolo di Ray: riusciva a malapena a vedere l’albero bianco. Reacher lo osservò mentre tentava di contenere lo stupore. Volevi un grande spettacolo, e l’hai avuto, pensò. Ti è piaciuto, grassone? «D’accordo», fece Borken. «Adesso vedremo se sarai altrettanto abile.»

‘Lied to? Of course you were. Though no more so than the Imperium did.’ He tried to shift, to move what remained of his body, but the effort merely brought new rivulets of blood coursing over that shattered armour-bulk. ‘The Warmaster is dead. His soul is annihilated. Those who marched with him are scattered. You should run. Just keep going. Perhaps the tide of vengeance will not reach you.’

A Legion was a fractious, violent thing – a horde of gene-bred monsters, only disciplined and moulded by the superhuman presence at its head. Dark stories abounded of the Revenant Legion, the predecessor to the Blood Angels. Maybe they would revert to that. If so, it would be a poor reward for their loyalty. That fate had to be prevented, if it could be.

«Succede. Gli uomini validi possono perdere la ragione. Ne ho visti alcuni fare questa fine, è un bel guaio.» McGrath girò le foto sul tavolo e le guardò. «È vero», disse. Johnson lo fissò. «Posso tenere quella foto?» domandò. «La prima?» McGrath scosse il capo. «No», rispose. «Se vuole una fotografia, gliene farò io una: sua figlia e lei davanti a una lapide col nome di questo coglione.»

«Chiamo un testimone», decise Fowler. «Stevie Stewart.» Il Piccolo Stevie si alzò di scatto e Fowler gli fece cenno di sedersi al vecchio banco dei testimoni, posto al disotto e a fianco di quello del giudice. Borken si sporse per dargli un libro nero. Reacher non riuscì a capire di che libro si trattasse, ma non era la Bibbia, a meno che non avessero cominciato a stamparla con la svastica in copertina.

«Devo prendere una decisione», annunciò Borken. «E tu mi dovrai aiutare.» Jack si accorse di aver distolto lo sguardo da lui: aveva la sensazione che quell’aura lo annientasse. Si costrinse allora a girare lentamente il capo e a fissare il suo viso largo e slavato. «Quale decisione?» chiese. «Se tu debba vivere», rispose Borken. «O morire.»

Thus was the curse transmitted from the Palace to all the realms below it, like some hex placed on generations to come. That mortal slurry carried every foulness the gods had devised. It was their legacy. Their noxious libation, poured over mortal lands to stew and bubble and cultivate fresh misery until the end of days.

Sometimes, just for short moments, the sky would fall back into its natural darkness. Those were the hours that they ran, breaking out of whatever miserable hole they’d buried themselves in, sprinting towards the next potential sanctuary, expecting at any moment to hear the whine of a lascannon powering up or a gunship roaring after them.

Holly assunse un’aria perplessa. «In Canada?» L’uomo scosse di nuovo il capo. «Non siamo in Canada, puttana», disse. Holly scrutò gli alberi e le montagne circostanti. Poi guardò il cielo notturno e rabbrividì per un’improvvisa sensazione di freddo. «Be’, non siamo neanche in Messico», commentò. L’uomo sollevò entrambe le braccia come se volesse mostrare qualcosa. «Questo è un nuovo Paese.»

Avevano commesso un errore: l’avevano trasformato da spettatore in nemico. Ed era davvero un grave errore. Avevano aperto la porta proibita, senza sapere che cosa avrebbero trovato. Jack rimase disteso e si sentì come una bomba ticchettante, portata da loro stessi nel loro covo. Percepì l’ondata di rabbia e ne fu eccitato: l’assaporò e la tenne in serbo per il futuro.

This was a fleet that had come right out of combat, bloody and weakened but still driven and desperate to reassert itself. Some of the First Legion craft were of an unusual profile, the product of their access to ancient and powerful technology. The Wolves had their own flavour of belligerence, of course – somehow they made everything they travelled in look ragged and obnoxious.

‘You were a magister,’ Thalis said, looking up at her hopefully. ‘You spoke the words. My troops need that now. They doubt. I had to shoot one myself, just to keep order. You need to speak to them.’
But what could she say? Her dreams, the ones that had told her so much, had ceased. The certainty that had fuelled her had been replaced by a dreadful emptiness. She was alive, just, but that was all.

L’uomo aprì il sacco. La prima cosa che vide fu un dito. Bianco, gelido, perché ormai privo di sangue, e pieno di callosità giallognole. Apparteneva a un uomo che svolgeva un lavoro manuale. «Adesso, la chiuderò in quella stanza», annunciò il cliente. «Se non ne uscirà entro domani mattina, le farò lo stesso servizio, ha capito? Con la sua dannata sega, perché la mia si è rovinata tagliando questo qui.»

Dietro la catasta c’era anche qualcos’altro. Qualcosa di strano. I due falegnami fissarono nel buio alcune sagome curve. I due falegnami studiarono quelle strane sagome curve, poi si guardarono negli occhi e si voltarono. Il cliente sorrise, quindi sollevò un’automatica nera opaca.

Kah’s light could not be dimmed. She had flown—for just a brief moment, she had flown. And now she had friends who cared about her. That was a lot more than she’d ever hoped for before she came to this place named for dread. This was her great adventure.

“If you do not wish to watch this part, I can have my servants bring tea to the salon.” “Tea?” Chivarion made a face. “Is there anything stronger?” The doctor started up the saw, and flecks of blood sprayed the room. “We’ll take tea.” Alishai grabbed Chivarion’s arm and steered him toward the lab door, where the homunculus waited. Rotrog swiftly followed, plugging his ears as the saw bit into bone.

“You there!” he said, brusque and accusatory. “State your business.” Alishai seemed at a loss for words, so Chivarion said, “Um…not getting caught?” And then his elbow crunched into the man’s nose. “We talked about this,” Alishai said. “He’s a guard. He would’ve raised the alarm. And look! He’s not dead, and now we have another coat.”

Mentre osservavo, fui investito da una strana paura. Sembrava che la Margaret che conoscevo stesse cambiando e nel profondo del cuore pregavo che l'inquietante causa di tutto ciò svanisse presto. In quel momento, desiderai più ardentemente che mai che il nostro terribile Esperimento si concludesse con successo.

Chivarion was more than happy to avoid the university. Anyone who would choose books and learning over swords and fighting couldn’t possibly be much fun, in bed or out of it. Unless the book was about things to do in bed, but Chivarion didn’t know if books like that existed. If they did, he hoped they were mostly pictures. He prodded Rotrog in the back to get him walking again.

“I can’t believe it,” he crowed. “You should believe more,” Kah told him. After a bowl of stew and a cleaning spell, they all fell asleep around the smoldering fire, surrounded by trees that whispered in the voice of needles and rust monsters restlessly prowling and scratching at the makeshift door.

“Come, come!” Kah urged him, tugging at his cloak. Alishai was already running toward the forest. Chivarion was collecting his dropped blades—the ones that had not rusted. All Rotrog could do was stand on numb feet and follow the others toward a forbidden forest of rusty blades and a future where he’d lost everything.

Il sangue era colato e aveva macchiato di marrone le bende, come se fosse ruggine. Lì, quindi, v'era piena conferma del racconto. Con una prova del genere circa la veridicità di quanto detto dal viaggiatore, non potevamo dubitare delle altre cose che aveva raccontato, come il sangue sulla mano della mummia o l'impronta lasciata da sette dita sulla gola dello sceicco strangolato.

“But…he is our host!” Rotrog cried. “A great man! A count! Surely he wouldn’t—” “He would. He has. Please stop giving your trust to a monster. You’re smarter than that.” Alishai sounded exhausted. “Again, can we just kill him and stop all this nonsense?” Chivarion held up a dagger. “Yes! Killing! Love the sound of that!”

“So what are we dealing with?” Alishai asked. The man took off his glasses and cleaned them on his cloak. “We are dealing with only the most merciless and cruel creature in all of Barovia. I take it you have heard of vampires?” After a brief pause, Alishai, Rotrog, and Kah burst out laughing.

“So delicate,” Strahd said, his voice even again. His eyes met Chivarion’s, and it felt just like looking down that endless shaft to the bottom of the castle. “Bodies are such tender things, are they not? So easily broken. So easily crushed. I only hope you and your friends are careful as you enjoy my hospitality. Even under my protection, there are so many accidents waiting to happen in this musty old place.”

“Once upon a time, there was a young man of noble birth who was good and kind and wished to protect his people. He was a warrior and a leader, and he dedicated himself to his duties, ensuring that his nation was strong. When he grew older, he moved to the valley of his greatest conquest and claimed the earth by spilling his own blood. He named the valley Barovia and built a castle there—Castle Ravenloft.”

Every particle of Alishai’s body urged her to leave the chapel immediately. She did not feel Selûne here. She did not feel any gods. The gods, if they had any sense, had abandoned this place long ago. Strahd could rot. This place was cursed.