Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘I’m a hedge knight, as far as you’d call it. Not a noble.’

  Arms wide, Jevratt moved in and hugged the surprised man. ‘Whilst ye’re here,’ he said, face pressed against the knight’s own, ‘ye’re nowt but family.’ Jevratt pulled away again and seemingly missed the look of disgust on the knight’s face. ‘Now, as I tell ye, off ye pop to see me ma.’

  Releasing a heavy breath, the knight shook his head in disbelief and moved across to Collett’s gaudy cab. Once at the top of the rear steps, he rapped his plate knuckles on the yellow wood and awaited a response. From inside, Collett called out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am here to… pay my dues, milady.’

  A cackling laugh from inside. ‘Milady?’ More laughter, followed by a stream of throaty coughs.

  Frowning, the knight looked back to Jevratt, who was now flanked by three lads, all young, with shaved heads and bare chests. All four grinned, as did Cheung, before moving on towards Nameless.

  Shouting and cursing greeted Cheung upon his return. Before the familiar fire and cauldron came into sight, he saw one of the many bare-chested young lads, squatting by the wheel of Cheung’s own vardo, braes round his ankles. The lad eyed the assumed priest of tears warily as he held his breath and forced out a shit.

  Clenching his teeth under the shade of his hood, Cheung merely walked past and into the space surrounding the fire.

  ‘Dash him!’ Jevratt shouted. ‘Dash him in the face, ye shit.’

  A lad dodged left and right as a man twice his girth threw heavy punches his way. More lads, and young girls wearing very little, their skin darkened by the bright sun, shouted and swore as the two combatants circled each other within a larger circle of toe-scraped dirt.

  ‘Dash him, Legg,’ Jevratt called again, to the amusement of the younger ones.

  ‘Legg, Legg, Legg!’ Several began to chant.

  He doesn’t like that, Cheung thought of the larger man, who he knew to be called Belcher, and could see the red-faced anger as the youths chanted his opponent’s name.

  ‘Stop yer feckin’ dancing, ye pricks,’ a girl shouted from the other side of the ring. Laughter followed, and Cheung noticed the other hood, behind the girl.

  Where did you come from? Cheung struggled to see more of the man, what with the voluminous robes he wore. The figure moved and Cheung watched closely.

  A capable man, by the way he carries himself.

  A collective intake of breath brought Cheung’s attention back to the duelling pair, in time to see Belcher double over in pain.

  Don’t hesitate, boy, Cheung thought, but Legg did, and through the hesitation, Belcher lashed out with surprising speed and clocked Legg on the chin with a well-aimed uppercut.

  Dust lifted as Legg hit the ground. Belcher cheered, as did the crowd.

  Fickle. Cheung smirked as the ‘Legg’ chanting youths switched to ‘Belcher’ instead.

  Looking back for the hooded man, Cheung cursed himself. Gone.

  ***

  ‘Is it reliable, Strickland?’ Morton said, walking into Tyndurris’ lounge and dropping into a comfortable chair, his sheathed bastard-sword now resting across the chair’s arms.

  ‘Good day, my lord Yewdale,’ Ward Strickland said, lowering his book and removing his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘And yes, the source is reliable. I’m not the guild master for nothing.’

  Morton pursed his lips and nodded at that. He waved away an approaching servant.

  ‘What will you do with my report?’ Ward asked.

  ‘What can I do? Other than send word to border forces and place chosen men on the roads.’

  ‘And do you think that will stop an assassin entering Altoln? One man or woman?’

  Morton sighed and rubbed at his lined face. ‘Honestly? I don’t know.’ He spoke through his hands.

  Ward offered a tight smile.

  ‘We’ve doubled the guard at the palace,’ Morton said, hands now back on his bridging sword. ‘As clichéd as that sounds.’

  Ward offered a warmer smile and the bob of a silent laugh. ‘Yes, that does always seem prudent, given such dilemmas in fairy tale or song.’

  ‘All it will do is slow an assassin down,’ Morton admitted. ‘If they’re determined, they’ll get through. Whether it’s to lace food with poison or spring from a bloody curtain with knife in hand.’

  ‘I may have an answer to the former. As for the latter, are Barrison’s servants loyal?’ Ward reached for the wine on the low table between them, placing his book and spectacles down at the same time.

  ‘Of course they’re bloody loyal,’ Morton said, although the magician knew him well enough to know he meant no offence. ‘Those folk and their families have lived and worked in the palace for generations. Some for centuries, believe it or not.’

  ‘You had their humble lineage traced?’

  ‘I did.’ Morton changed his mind at that point and waved over a servant, who brought wine.

  ‘That must have taken some doing?’

  ‘There’s a scribe. Spent time here a while back, after his sojourn with the Samorlian bastards,’ Morton said, eyes everywhere but Ward’s as he took in the surrounds. ‘First time I’ve been inside Tyndurris, Grand Master.’ Morton looked at Ward, a sincere and rare smile on his face. ‘Can you believe that? All my years in and out of Wesson, and I’ve never visited.’

  ‘You’ve never cared much for what we do here…’ Ward raised a hand to stop Morton’s protest, ‘…and I can understand that, truly.’

  ‘Never stopped me going to that damned cathedral though, did it?’ Morton snatched the goblet from the servant when he came close. ‘And those fuckers I hated the most.’

  ‘Past tense?’

  ‘Eh?’ Morton paused, goblet hovering at his bottom lip.

  ‘They’ll still be operating, here and there. The Samorlian witchunters and inquisitors.’

  Morton took a swig of the wine then rested it on his sword. He pursed his lips again and nodded. ‘True.’

  ‘Back to this scribe, my lord.’

  ‘He was tortured,’ Morton said, falling back into the tale, ‘by an inquisitor.’

  Ward’s eyes widened a touch. ‘And survived the questioning?’

  Morton chewed his bottom lip before answering. ‘We got him out of the cathedral. Well, Bagnall Stowold and the City Guard did, with my enthusiastic consent.’

  The magician’s eyes widened fully at that. He placed his own wine back on the table. ‘The scribe who told the Samorlians how to breach this tower, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, Lord Strickland, the very same. I doubt you could have avoided talking—’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Ward said quickly, holding his hand up to apologise for the interruption. ‘I was merely surprised he was still… working for you, for anyone after such an ordeal.’

  Morton nodded before swallowing more wine. ‘It’s… how should I put it… made him more inclined to do all he can to help his King. Not that he wouldn’t have done beforehand, but now? Now he works feverishly to help in any way he can. He feels responsible for what happened here.’

  ‘He mustn’t.’

  Morton nodded. ‘I know. Damn, but we all know. His mind, after what he went through…’

  ‘You’ve talked to him?’ Ward asked, surprised at the answer he thought he already knew.

  ‘Yes,’ Morton said sharply. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  Morton continued, saving Ward the need to answer. ‘He’s done well in tracing the servants. He leads a good team of scribes and ensured me that all in the palace are loyal. And I trust him in that.’

  ‘In that?’ Ward asked, knowingly.

  Another gulp of wine and the goblet met the table. ‘He’s having troubles at home. His team tell me. He fears he is being watched, followed even.’

  ‘Could he be?’

  Morton moved his head from side to side. ‘It’s possible. He escaped them, after all, albeit by our hands. They won’t like that, the witchunters. They�
�re disbanded, but as you said, they’ll still operate. Equally it could be in his head, after what he went through. I’ve seen such a thing before, more than once, from trauma physical or witnessed.’ Ward made to speak, but Morton waved it away. ‘I’ve not the time nor resources to solve Brisance’s problems and those of all the men and women alive.’

  ‘Not one man?’

  ‘Yes, one!’ Morton said, voice rising. ‘Barrison, my bloody King and brother-in-law is that one, Strickland. I have a duty to see him safe and well. Ellis Frane, the scribe, will do what is needed to see we have no adders in the nest. My men will do what is needed to ensure one doesn’t easily slither into that nest, and my peers and below will do what is needed to hinder if not stop one of those shites getting across our borders from Eatri!’

  Ward raised both hands as guild members around the room looked over. He also noticed two armoured knights appear in the doorway. Morton waved a hand above his head without looking and his retainers repaired to the hallway.

  ‘Apologies, Ward,’ Morton said eventually, back to rubbing his face. ‘It’s all getting a little much.’ He laughed. ‘Even for an old wolf like me.’

  Ward smiled. ‘I do understand. It’s not that long ago since my own nest was an unknown entity, with arcane magic being enacted above my very head, in the chamber I now reside in.’ He shuddered before going on, the thought of what Severun did too much to bear. ‘We do what we must when faced with difficult circumstances. You have a lot to think about and a lot to do. All you need do is ask, and I’ll help in any way I can.’

  Morton clasped his hands and looked up, an intense stare replacing the weary look.

  ‘Do you have men out there, Ward? On the borders? Men or women; mages, working or experimenting or whatnot?’

  Ward took a deep breath and nodded. ‘The guild does, yes.’

  ‘I need them, Ward. Barrison needs them.’

  Ward’s slow nodding continued.

  ‘Have them search the ports of Lake Beddoe. Have them search riders and the camel trains and Caravaneers, beyond the borders if they must. I’m having ships searched when they dock in Wesson, but put word out, tell your mages what to look for. Even if it’s to let us know the assassin has crossed the border, so we can flood our own roads with men. If I do that now, send armed men here and there before I even know there’s a foreign assassin in Altoln, I’ll have barons marching on barons for a swift land grab. I’ll have earls harrumphing and putting their own men on the roads, those men fighting one another for no other reason than pride and prejudice.’

  ‘Will,’ Ward said, using the Duke’s first name like he did only rarely, like he did when he really wanted the Lord High Constable to listen to him. ‘Will,’ he said again, as Morton made to talk on, ‘I already have.’

  Chapter 2 – A deadly race

  A pony trap raced past the crawling caravan, followed by another, then another, with at least four lads sat on the benches of each trap. The drivers were flanked by recurve-bow and spear wielding youths with faces set stern. Something was amiss.

  Opening the cab’s door and leaning out as much as he’d expect a priest to dare, Cheung tried to see the front of the column, to where the pony traps were heading.

  ‘Don’t be worrying none, Priest,’ Jevratt shouted down from the vardo’s ramparts above. ‘The lads’re racing. There’s nowt in it. No danger.’

  Cheung waved an acknowledgement and ducked back into his cab. Closing the door, he drew the cloth across the window, removed his gloves to reveal the scars beneath, and rested his head back against the board.

  Racing… Cheung stared at the caged chickens opposite. Yet they wear their war-like expressions. He heard two more traps rattle past, down the other side of the vardo. Not once have I seen the boys smile and yet Jevratt and his kin do nothing but. The armoured caravan guards around the Caravaneers’ camp on Lake Beddoe sprung to mind and Cheung smiled to himself. Now it’s the boys that seem like guards, whereas Jevratt and his bare-chested lads? Cheung grunted a laugh. He sighed after that and closed his eyes, tracing the scars of his face and head with a finger. Who am I to judge them? I’ve seen these men and boys’ prowess with their fists and feet, and it’s impressive.

  And if we’re attacked by someone that doesn’t want to fight in a dirt-drawn ring? Cheung drew in a long breath and held it. I’m not sure how they’d fair against a real foe. He let the breath out slowly. Measured. Controlled. His right cheek rose from another smile. And yet they’ve lived as nomads for centuries. You don’t survive such a life without being able to defend yourself.

  A sudden clucking from the chickens opened Cheung’s eyes. Ah, eggs. He left his thoughts behind as he helped himself to breakfast.

  Although Master Couig’s snaking caravan hugged the road besides Ghauni Forest, rather than venturing into the Toye Hills, the old caravan master shuddered at the thought of what lived out there. He knew Jevratt and the other guards would be extra vigilant on this stretch of the journey, but couldn’t help squinting to the north himself. He hoped he didn’t see anything, but if they were out there, he’d feel better knowing he’d seen them as soon as possible.

  ‘Are ye well, uncle?’ Legg appeared and climbed up next to Couig, his young eyes locked on the horizon like his late father’s brother.

  Couig turned and winked at Legg. ‘Aye, me boy, I’m well. Nervous, but well.’

  ‘Adlets?’

  A sniff and a nod.

  Sudden singing came from further back along the caravan and Couig cursed those responsible.

  Hissing, Legg turned on the bench and stared back, trying to see which vardo or cart it came from. A group of boys rumbled up the side of the column on a pony trap, faces set stern whilst singing the solemn nomad song.

  ‘I’ll hush ’em—’

  ‘Leave it, Legg. Let ’em sing. If adlets were to know we were about, they’d know. A trap of noisy turds wouldn’t change that.’

  The pony trap came alongside and the boys looked up to the caravan master and his nephew. None said a word, but the singing stopped and the trap raced off ahead.

  ‘We have scouts out a-ways,’ Legg said, seeing his uncle’s eyes locked north once more. Couig nodded and smiled, although it was half hearted.

  ‘You’ll feel better when we’re at Grounding, won’t you?’

  Couig reached across and squeezed Legg’s hand, eyes on the hills to the north. ‘I always do.’

  The boys in the trap came racing back towards the caravan from a bend in the road, hidden by the trees of Ghauni Forest, faces still set as if to murder, as always, but Couig braced himself all the same. As the lads clattered back down the caravan without a word, he released the breath he’d held and rubbed at his running nose.

  ‘If only the little bastards would act like they’re not going to war for once, my nerves might settle a bit.’

  Legg smiled and nodded, although he didn’t speak, squinting as he was at a point on the horizon.

  ‘How’re ye fairing after that bout with Belcher?’ Couig asked, wanting the subject changing. ‘I heard ye gave him a run for his coin?’

  Moving his hands to his ribs, Legg grimaced. ‘Hardly. Bastard had me, as he always does.’

  ‘He’s a big lad,’ Couig said, re-assuring one nephew over another.

  ‘Doesn’t stop Jevratt from one-punching him.’

  Couig laughed at that and turned to Legg. ‘Nothing would stop Jevratt one-punching any man, and you know it. Ye got to fight against yerself, not the opponent.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Ye keep trying to beat Belcher, but ye haven’t beat yerself.’ Couig tapped his temple with his index finger and laughed again as Legg looked on, confused.

  ‘Listen, me boy, ye got skills, ye got good skills, but ye tell yerself, every time, that Belcher’ll win. Ye tell yerself enough and it’ll be the truth. And it has been!’

  Legg looked back to the horizon.

  ‘Ye get me? Eh? Ye get me?’

  A
nod.

  ‘Ah, come on, don’t be giving me the silence now.’

  Legg stood.

  ‘Ye jumping vardo for that? It’s the damned truth—’

  Couig stopped as he saw the look on his nephew’s face. A look followed by a called warning from several guards at once. As he turned his head to the Toye Hills, Couig’s heart began to hammer a beat. All the more when he saw what approached.

  An empty pony trap crested the nearest hill, one of its two wheels damaged and wobbling, the piebald pony leaking blood from an obvious wound on its flank.

  More shouts and curses followed as two traps raced out towards the injured pony.

  ‘Stop them!’ Couig shouted, standing alongside Legg, reins gripped tight.

  Legg shook his head and strung his recurve-bow. ‘It’s too late. They’d never make it back…’

  A haunting howl announced the arrival of scores of hound-like humanoids as they crested the hill near the pony traps.

  ‘And I’m not sure we will, either.’

  Eyes wide, Couig turned back to face the rest of the caravan. ‘Onward!’ he shouted, as loud as he could. ‘Onward! A fighting run to Grounding!’

  A roar of agreement and of shock and anger followed as the adlets charged down the hill and crashed into the traps and their grim-faced boys.

  Chapter 3 – Resonate

  Men screamed and adlets howled, arrows thumped and the dead voided their bowels.

  Master Couig’s caravan continued on towards its goal, Ghauni Forest to the left, death to the right. Pony traps ran the line, the lads riding them, launching arrows and spears and stones from slings. The majority of those missiles struck true, although the adlets hit by them often continued, thick skinned and frenzied as they were.

  ‘Come on, me beauties, keep yer pace,’ Couig called to the oxen before him. Despite their size, the beasts of burden could shift when he wished them to.

  A couple of cuir bouilli clad adlets loped across in front of the oxen and round to Couig’s left. Before he could react, they leapt up at him, canines bared.