Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  Cheung watched smoke lift, merging with the grey sky. ‘We part ways soon, you say? I am glad.’

  ‘As am I, Cheung. As am I.’

  A buzzard called from high above as the horse walked its two riders towards the growing inn. That call was joined by another. Cheung’s eyes widened when he looked up to see five of the raptors circling their position.

  ‘They will hang there, hoping for scraps from the people at the inn,’ Dignaaln said, looking up, along with Cheung. ‘The gibbet tree opposite often bears them fruit.’

  Cheung looked back down, and over to the mountains again; better that than Dignaaln’s back. ‘They’d do better flying along the road to Stonebridge. I leave more fruit in my wake.’

  Dignaaln turned and smiled, but said nothing.

  They moved on, coming closer to their parting. The inn was sprawling, with outbuildings, stables and a barn. Goats and chickens walked the surrounds, and a pond stretched out alongside the inn like a poorly designed moat. By the flat waters sat a boy, pole and line in hand. The child looked up to the road as they closed in, then back to the end of his pole; it was no strange sight, horses bearing two riders; horses bearing armed and bloody men. Even a golden horse like the palomino.

  Cheung glanced opposite the inn, to a tree with more ropes than foliage. Two corpses hung there, picked clean. A murder of crows sat watching the new arrivals, but even they seemed unimpressed, and continued to bicker and squabble over the remains hung out for them.

  Dignaaln pulled up to a tying stump, paused and waited for Cheung to dismount. The assassin didn’t see the wry smile on Dignaaln’s face as the black blade of a kama pressed cold against Dignaaln’s exposed throat.

  ‘We are parting here, Dignaaln, but it is I who will ride on, and you who will find other transportation.’

  Dignaaln made to talk, but the blade prevented it; his smile remained, unbeknown to Cheung.

  The boy watched now, fishing forgotten. Many people came to the inn, some fought during or after their stay. Few did it before they even entered, before they drank. Despite the situation, Dignaaln was aware of the boy’s eyes on them. He was aware, to a certain extent, of the boy’s thoughts on the scene. He suppressed a laugh but not the broadening of his smile.

  Sighing dramatically, Dignaaln stretched his arms wide as his passenger drew the sword at his hip and threw it towards the gibbet tree. Crows took to the air, their complaints numerous.

  ‘Now climb down and fetch your sword,’ Cheung said. ‘And know this, Dignaaln, should you—’

  ‘Fear not,’ Dignaaln interrupted, noticing the sudden space to talk he was given by the subtle shifting of the blade at his throat. ‘I am a mere emissary, Cheung. I am not foolish enough to tackle an assassin, even if it costs me my valuable steed.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m glad to hear that.’ Cheung let Dignaaln climb down, and shuffled forward into the saddle proper.

  Dignaaln watched the scarred assassin and laughed. ‘Oh, I am not. Your feelings towards me, your saviour, are not—’

  Cheung’s booted foot lashed out and Dignaaln fell back. ‘I grew tired of your voice the moment I heard it.’

  Before Dignaaln could rise, the dust of the road did just that. Hooves struck earth and the white and gold of his horse left with the assassin he had been sent to guide back on track. A smile was all Dignaaln offered; a smile through the blood about his mouth. He looked across to the fisher boy, who found sudden interest in the pond once more.

  My work is done, Dignaaln said to another; far away to the south-west, in Orismar. After a pause and no reply, he rose effortlessly. And on I go. On to my next thankless task.

  Dignaaln wore his smirk like a mask as he retrieved his sword, walked over to the inn and pushed his way through the door.

  Chapter 16 – An unlikely duo

  The high-low call of buzzards mixed with the complaining of crows as Legg stumbled along towards the inn at the side of the road. The sun was disappearing behind the forest of The Marches, but there was enough light for him to see half a dozen horses tied up outside. He looked over to the gibbet tree opposite the inn’s door, shuddered, then moved to and entered the inn itself.

  It was dark inside. A fire-pit in the middle of the room gave off more light than the clay oil burners on each table, but it was the shadows that won out around the edges, their darkness impenetrable. Closing the door behind, Legg turned back to the people looking at him with more than a little suspicion in their eyes. Yellow light played on those faces. Legg took in every one, for there were only a dozen, sat in the light, anyway.

  ‘Welcome,’ the inn keeper said, from behind a table-bar. He tapped one of the barrels on the table and held his other hand up, fingers rubbing together.

  Legg patted his torn and bloody braes down and shook his head, eyes moving across the faces looking his way. He noticed hands on belted knives and other weapons. Chest bare, but for the blood and dirt, Legg felt very out of place, and vulnerable. Running from Collett and the others seemed right at the time. He’d wanted to catch Priest and Dignaaln. He wanted to punish them both; Priest for his betrayal and Dignaaln for his… what? Legg shook his head, opened the door and walked back through. He heard stools scrape as the door closed behind him, but made nothing of it.

  What did Dignaaln do to me? Legg thought, legs softening below him. He staggered forward and fell against the tying stump. Horses huffed and shifted as he slid down to the floor.

  The weight of what had happened washed over Legg. Images flashed before him. Sights mixed with smells of smoke, sweat and shit. Familiar faces fell as he watched on, through his mind’s eye. Flames licked up and family members screamed, their deaths running through his head, faster and faster. Belcher, gone. Endell, gone; Peens, gone, Tollimer gone, Brommel gone Jenn gone Uncle Couig gone…

  ‘Dead… all of them, by my hand.’

  Legg’s breaths came fast, eyes moving rapidly from side to side, heart thumping in his chest. Cramp hit like a claw digging away at the back of his left leg. He rolled sideways and doubled up, leg stretching and bending as he worked through the pain and sobbed shamelessly, tears marking the earth beneath him. I let him charm me. I walked with him and watched him turn men on men with his words alone in Stonebridge. I watched him open the gates to the bridge and I led him into our camp. I should have warned them… Fingernails caught on stones as Legg grasped at the earth about him. I killed them all…

  As the warm breath and bristles of a horse brushed the side of his face, coming to rest and nuzzle, a door opened and six men walked out, hobnailed boots scraping. The horse’s head moved away as swords were drawn.

  Legg failed to move. Failed to accept his life was worth moving for.

  As the men moved forward, the last light of the dropping sun back-lit the forest opposite them.

  ‘I see no more,’ one man said.

  ‘There’s always more Caravaneers,’ another said, bitterness tainting his voice.

  ‘The message was clear.’ This one was well spoken, his tone commanding. A knight? ‘The assassin travels with the Caravaneers.’

  ‘So we question him?’ the first asked.

  Legg could hear it all, but failed to move; he didn’t even attempt to.

  ‘Aye, we need to know what’s happened to his caravan.’

  ‘Gentlemen?’

  Legg’s eyes opened. Dignaaln!

  ‘Mind yer own, traveller.’

  ‘No need to be like—’

  ‘He said mind your own business and you’d do well to listen, sir,’ the well-spoken one said. ‘We mean you no trouble, so go back into the inn.’

  ‘I think I may be able to assist, good knight.’ Dignaaln’s smile was clear in his tone.

  Legg turned his head and saw the immaculately dressed emissary, framed by the dark doorway of the inn and lit by fading, orange sunlight as the door closed behind him.

  ‘Listen, go back—’

  ‘Wait,’ the knight said, holding his hand up to his man. L
egg looked at the knight and his men-at-arms. ‘What do you know, good sir?’

  Legg caught the white of Dignaaln’s smile and the gleam of steel being drawn.

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ one of the men said, moving forward.

  ‘Run,’ Legg tried, but his voice caught and broke. The knight turned to him as his man closed on the smiling emissary.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said run!’

  The last slip of light caught on steel as it cut the air before Dignaaln. The soldier before him fell without a sound, dead before he hit the ground.

  There was a surge of movement, of boots on stone, blades held out, others held high. The knight turned to see his men charge the smiling swordsman.

  They each fell in turn, as quickly as the first.

  Breaths came hard for the knight following that. Face lined, teeth bared and eyes narrowed, he turned and moved to his horse. The beast snorted as he swung up into the saddle. Steel cleaved rope and the knight deftly guided the animal around the tying stump as the killer of his men stepped forward.

  ‘Assassin!’ the knight accused, pointing his sword forward, his snarl lost to the darkness. He turned to look down on Legg. ‘You brought this filth upon us.’

  Legg stood, wearily, and nodded. ‘I did, aye…’

  The knight looked back to the approaching killer. As he dug his heels in, he heard one last thing.

  ‘But he’s no assassin.’ He’s much worse.

  Muscles bunched and stretched and powerful legs propelled the knight towards his quarry.

  Dignaaln dropped as the horse reached him. Out came his arm, sword an extension of his limb and will. Horses’ legs gave way to steel. The beast screamed and the other horses stomped and pulled at their tethers, one breaking away and fleeing into the night.

  Dust lifted as the destrier collapsed and slid past Dignaaln, its spraying blood covering the emissary’s boots and hose. The knight rolled forward, head over his horse’s thrashing neck. His maille hauberk did little to protect him as the blood-slick sword punched through the surcoat covered links and padding, finding vital organs within.

  The horse continued to thrash and project its guttural scream and blood alike.

  Fresh tears smeared Legg’s face as he looked on. Finish the horse, damn you. Finish it!

  Dignaaln stood. Eyes met.

  Dignaaln wiped his blade on the dead knight’s back, which bucked atop the struggling horse’s neck. He sheathed his sword and smiled at Legg, before walking back into the inn to the sound of equine screams, his clothes immaculate once more.

  ***

  ‘You cannot be serious, my lord,’ Severun said, pacing the palace chamber the Duke of Yewdale had invited him to.

  Egan Dundaven grunted. ‘I’m not fond of the idea myself, wizard.’

  Severun spun on the former witchunter, a snarl pulling at his top lip.

  ‘Master Dundaven, I will have your silence,’ Morton said, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. ‘Severun,’ he added, looking to the former lord, ‘Egan Dundaven has sworn his allegiance to King Barrison, and me. As, may I remind you, have you.’ Severun made to speak, but Morton held his hand aloft. ‘You dislike what the Samorlian church has done.’ Severun clenched his teeth, stole a sideways glance at Egan and nodded. Morton smiled. ‘It wasn’t a question, Severun. So too do I. But…’ he crossed to a chair and dropped into it before rolling up his linen sleeves. ‘Nor did I particularly like what you did to this city.’ He looked back up to the source of Wesson’s recent plague.

  Egan smirked.

  Severun opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  Morton smiled and absent-mindedly traced one of his facial scars before clasping his hands together.

  ‘So it is,’ Morton said, to them both, ‘that we come to this. You two, together, working as one.’

  The two men before the Duke scowled.

  ‘Now, you know what we ask of you—’

  ‘And King Barrison knows this time, does he, my lord Yewdale?’ Severun said, eyebrows raised.

  Egan frowned and turned to Severun, then back to Morton, who sighed.

  ‘We’ve been through this, Sever—’

  ‘Lord—’

  ‘No.’ Morton shook his head, expelling a breath. ‘No, Severun, you lost that title.’

  Egan smirked once more.

  ‘Your recent actions in that park were necessary,’ Morton reassured, eyes locked on Severun’s. ‘Those two individuals needed burying, for all our sakes, but Barrison needn’t ever know by whom, despite what you told the two of them that night.’

  Egan frowned again, his confusion clear.

  ‘And it’s none of your business what we talk of,’ Morton said, finger pointed at the former witchunter. Despite their failings, they were your own archbishop and Grand Inquisitor, and Severun best keep his killing of them from you, for both your sakes.

  ‘But this, what you ask of us?’ Severun went on. ‘Barrison knows about this?’

  ‘Of course he bloody does,’ Morton said, exasperated. ‘The bastards have sent someone to kill him, made of him a mark to be struck off. He may be benevolent, our King, but he’s no mewling fool. He wants the Black Guild bringing to account.’

  Both men nodded at that.

  Well that’s a start, Morton thought. He rose from his chair and crossed to a small door. Opening it, he turned back to the unlikely duo.

  ‘By gods above, below or wherever, I wish you well with this, gentlemen. I wish you success and I wish it fast. Yesterday was too long to have waited for news on Barrison’s assassin.’

  ‘Or assassins,’ Egan interrupted.

  Severun’s eyes widened and Morton took in a lungful of air and nodded. Letting it out he said, ‘Aye, there could well be more than one. Of that, I will await what you find.

  ‘Good day to you both.’ Morton left the room, wondering, but briefly, whether he should have told them what Ward Strickland had just told him; the assassin is coming from Eatri, and he’s already crossed the border.

  Chapter 17 - Palomino

  The animal lacked any sense of loyalty, to Dignaaln anyway. For Cheung, the palomino did whatever he asked. If events leading up to that point weren’t weighing so heavy on him, he might have enjoyed the ride. As it was, his mind was torn in two, between what had happened and what would happen. His warring emotions nearly led Cheung into a party of Altolnan soldiers on the road. It was the horse that saved him, or them, perhaps. The golden horse walked off the road, Cheung in no mood to stop it. Now, the two of them rode under heavy branches, following seldom used, overgrown forest tracks. It was tough going.

  The palomino pushed through low branches, many of which snagged on Cheung’s robes in their attempt to pull him from the saddle. He did little to fight it, little to avoid the scratches those branches inflicted upon his face and hands. More than once the two of them came across startled deer and even a boar. Cheung made no move to ride the animals down, despite his hunger. It would likely be impossible anyway, but with what was to come, he knew he should be trying to build his strength, trying to catch food. He hadn’t even foraged, and carried no supplies.

  What is to come? he thought, ducking a thick branch. I have lost the conviction I once had, or rather it comes in fits and starts before leaving me just as quick. But have I gained freedom? Cheung laughed bitterly. Hardly. I have lost my way, that is the truth of it. I have lost my way physically and mentally. My time with the Caravaneers…

  The next branch caught Cheung by surprise, nearly taking him from the saddle. He cursed as colourfully as any Caravaneer.

  Was I ever their friend? Does it even matter? I journeyed with them for one purpose, for an outcome I need not know more about other than the need to see it done, for my masters. ‘For myself.’ He shook his head. Perhaps I should be wanting to know why they want this latest mark attending to? I have blindly followed, always, but now I question. Cheung snarled. Where is my control, my calm? Where is my
resolve? I am weakening, becoming something I am not, something I cannot be. I am as inconsistent in my thoughts as a… I can’t even think of a bastard analogy.

  Strange words flowed from the scarred lips of a mouth previously unused to much else. Cheung recited a phrase uttered countless times. Its meaning was unknown to him, but that was the point. He didn’t need to know, he only needed to recite. The breathless string of words flowed into one, the mantra relaxing, calming. When it finished, he felt warmer, despite the chilly evening air. He straightened his back, clenched his teeth and nodded along with the movement of the horse.

  I need think no more of this, of anything, until the morrow. A fresh perspective is all I need. I am as I was, yet I am more. I have grown… and perhaps that is what’s needed for me to succeed; the masters forever have their plans, and I am but a part of them.

  It was dark now, the forest filled with eerie noises and the hoot of tawny owls. Whenever he heard the birds call to one another, his mind drifted back to their large cousin as it flew silently above him outside the camp, moments before its warning of the adlets’ assault. He thought, with regret, of the great bird’s demise at the hand of the adlet raiders. Cheung shuddered at the image of that instant, and all the images that came with it.

  The palomino stopped, threw its head up and down several times and lowered itself to the ground.

  ‘You want me off?’

  Flinging its head sideways, Cheung took the answer for what it was and stepped off the saddle.

  ‘I can’t see well enough to undo the saddle, your bridle… any of it. I’m not experienced with such things, alas.’

  A soft whinny and the head lowered to a floor invisible in the murk.

  I thought horses slept on their feet?

  The animal huffed and stood, its tail flicking against Cheung, before settling once more.

  ‘Don’t stand on me in the night.’

  A snort and a shake of the head.

  Cheung gingerly moved around in the blackness until he found a tree and slid down to its base. Clutching his satchel and attempting to clear his mind, he stared into the night of the northern most tip of The Marches, until exhaustion took him.