The Andes Dream-Chapter 204: Assault on Santa Fe de Antioquia

A paladin entered the small tavern, his polished armor scraping softly against the doorframe as he stepped inside. He approached General Giuseppe without hesitation.

Upon seeing the towering figure in ceremonial steel, Giuseppe sneered and burst into laughter.

"You see them?" he said loudly, gesturing with his cup. "Those pompous armors. They stopped working in Europe the moment modern muskets appeared. But they love to show off, so they parade around in useless, glittering tin."

The soldiers laughed, some openly sneering with disdain.

The paladin’s face darkened beneath his helmet. As one of the Bishop’s chosen, he was the face of the Church’s authority. This general showed no respect—not for him, and certainly not for the Bishop.

He reached for his sword.

Instantly, pistols and blades were raised, all pointing at him.

Giuseppe remained seated, utterly calm.

"What do you say, oh so-called paladin?" he asked lazily. "Are you willing to test whether your sword is faster than our weapons? Remember—these aren’t militia muskets. These are Italian-crafted pistols. Your Bishop wasn’t the only one with money. They’ll punch through that armor before you even finish taking a breath."

The paladin tightened his grip on the hilt, muscles straining.

He sighed in defeat, the metal plates of his gorget creaking as he relaxed.

"The Bishop is anxious," he muttered, his voice muffled by the helmet. "He asks when we will attack. Remember the deal: you help us unify New Granada, and in exchange, we help you secure the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. Until then... you still work for us."

Giuseppe didn’t even look up. He took another slow sip of aguardiente, staring into the bottom of his clay cup as if the paladin were nothing more than a shadow.

The insult was too much.

With a metallic roar, the paladin drew his sword, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. He raised it high, intent on splitting Giuseppe’s skull.

But Giuseppe was faster.

He didn’t draw his blade. He stepped inside the paladin’s reach, where the long sword was useless, and slammed the heavy brass pommel of his hilt directly into the paladin’s solar plexus.

CLANG.

The sound of hardened muscle striking Italian steel rang through the tavern like a hammer on an anvil. The paladin gasped, his breath trapped behind the breastplate.

"You see this?" Giuseppe shouted to his soldiers, keeping his hand pressed against the paladin’s chest as the giant staggered back. "He’s wearing a fortress, but he’s forgotten how to breathe! Armor doesn’t stop impact—it traps it!"

As the paladin struggled to recover, Giuseppe hooked his foot behind the man’s armored heel and shoved.

"Gravity," Giuseppe sneered as the paladin crashed to the floor with a deafening rattle of metal. "That’s the one enemy your Bishop didn’t pray to. Once a turtle’s on its back, it’s just meat in a tin can."

Giuseppe stood over him, pouring a few drops of aguardiente onto the paladin’s visor.

"Tell the Bishop we attack when the sun is high enough to cook you inside that suit," he said coldly. "Now get up, you useless noble. You’re frightening the locals."

One of the soldiers asked, curious, "Noble? Do theocracies even have nobles?"

Giuseppe sneered.

"Ask this group of paladins," he said, gesturing lazily toward the fallen man. "They represent that social caste. In a theocracy they may not be called nobles, but the families backing the Bishop are clearly the new nobility. That’s why they wear luxurious armor and act high and mighty."

He leaned forward, his voice hard.

"But as you just saw, they’re weak. Vulnerable. Never assume a man dressed in fine clothes knows how to fight."

Giuseppe drew one of his pistols, already packed with powder, and fired—BOOM—the shot cracking the air just beside the paladin’s helmet. The echo thundered through the tavern.

"Those valiant nobles," he continued as smoke curled from the barrel, "the ones who used to lead from the front, who fought and died with their men—they died the moment this was born."

He lowered the weapon slowly.

"When bullets appeared, courage stopped mattering. Bloodlines stopped mattering. A peasant with a gun could kill a duke just as easily as a beggar."

The soldiers listened in silence.

"You can own the wealth of an entire country," Giuseppe said, tapping the pistol, "but a single piece of lead is enough to end your life. That’s why the nobles abandoned the battlefield and ran back to their estates. War stopped being glorious the moment it became fair."

He waved dismissively.

"Now kick this useless bastard out. His polished armor is blinding me."

Two men obeyed, dragging the paladin away like discarded scrap. The tavern returned to drink and noise, the men celebrating until midnight.

At last, Giuseppe stood.

"Go prepare yourselves," he ordered. "At dawn, we attack the city and drive the Spanish troops out. Try not to kill everyone—those men are valuable."

The soldiers, drunk and suddenly alarmed, scattered toward their camps. Going into battle with a hangover was deadly, and everyone knew it.

Giuseppe stepped outside into the cool night air, the bitter taste of aguardiente still clinging to his tongue.

A wall of steel awaited him.

A line of paladins stood in the shadows, their polished breastplates reflecting the pale moonlight.

"Oh," Giuseppe sneered, adjusting his collar. "If it isn’t the shining tin cans. Did you bring friends for a dance?"

They didn’t answer.

The tension pressed down like a physical weight. Giuseppe’s hand drifted toward his hilt.

"If you’ve come for revenge," he said casually, "do it quickly. I still have things to do."

He tried to push past them.

The line didn’t break.

Two armored giants stepped aside, and Bishop Ezequiel emerged from the darkness. His white vestments looked ghostly against the black mud of the street.

"Giuseppe," the Bishop said calmly—too calmly. "I am deeply disappointed. It is one thing to refuse my authority. It is another to poison the minds of my men, trying to make them defect to your side."

His eyes hardened.

"That is a line you should not have crossed."

With a subtle flick of his finger, the paladin from the tavern—still soaked and bruised—lunged forward.

Before Giuseppe could draw his blade, four armored hands seized him. They dragged him toward a massive stone horse trough filled with stagnant water.

"I believe it is time for a new baptism," Ezequiel said, his voice flat and terrifying. "We need a General who follows God—not his own ego."

Giuseppe struggled, cursing in Italian, but steel outweighed flesh. The paladins forced him down, and Ezequiel placed a firm hand on the back of his neck.

With a sudden, violent shove, he plunged Giuseppe’s head into the freezing water.

Giuseppe struggled, cursing in Italian, but the weight of steel was overwhelming. The Paladins forced him down, and Ezequiel himself placed a firm hand on the back of Giuseppe’s neck. With a sudden, violent shove, he plunged Giuseppe’s head into the stagnant, freezing water.

The Bishop held him there.

The only sounds were the frantic thrashing of Giuseppe’s boots against the dirt and the muffled bubbles rising to the surface. Just as Giuseppe’s lungs began to burn and scream for air, the Bishop hauled him up by his hair, his face inches from the gasping Italian.

"Do not mistake my patience for weakness, General," Ezequiel whispered, his eyes as cold as the water dripping from Giuseppe’s hair. "You are here to train an army, not to start a revolution. Every word you speak against this theocracy is a seed of treason—and I am an expert at pulling weeds. If my soldiers lose their faith because of your tongue... I will make sure you never speak again."

He released him. Giuseppe collapsed against the stone trough, coughing violently as foul water spilled from his mouth.

"Now," the Bishop said, calmly smoothing his robes, "return to your quarters. And pray. You can recover Santa Fe de Antioquia quickly and with minimal losses... or we will pray for God to grant us a new general. And when that prayer is answered, you will be sent straight to God to explain your failures in person."

.

With that, and an eerily serene gaze, he turned and walked back toward the small church, the Paladins following in silent formation.

Giuseppe spat water onto the ground and cursed under his breath."That bastard is crueler than I thought," he muttered. "It seems I’ll need far more preparation if I ever want to take Río de la Plata."

With effort, he pushed himself upright and staggered toward his quarters. Once inside, he paused, staring toward Santa Fe de Antioquia in the distance.

"For now, it’s better to deal with the Spanish," he said quietly. "They’re a greater threat than this so-called theocracy."

He began sketching plans by candlelight and did not sleep at all that night.

At dawn, the blare of trumpets echoed through the camp. Soldiers gathered, bleary-eyed but ready for battle. Officers—carefully chosen by the Bishop—entered the command tent. At its center, Ezequiel was already seated, his posture rigid and authoritative. His intention was unmistakable: Giuseppe would no longer act freely.

Giuseppe entered moments later, his face pale, his skull throbbing with a vicious hangover, worsened by the memory of the trough’s foul water still burning in his sinuses. He stopped short, surprised to see the Bishop looming over the map like a vulture over a dying beast.

Despite the humiliation of the previous night, Giuseppe’s eyes sharpened as they traced the defensive layout of Santa Fe. He loosened his collar and allowed a grim smile to form.

"So," he said calmly, meeting the Bishop’s gaze, "we have the bread—and they have the stones. That changes everything."

He tapped the map.

"A man with a full stomach can afford patience. A man with an empty one will sell his soul for a crust of corn."