Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  Both Coppin and Longoss nodded as they continued to stare at Egan.

  Sighing hard, Egan rested his head back against the wall. ‘We’re running out of time,’ he said, eyes on the dank ceiling.

  ‘There’s time yet,’ Longoss countered whilst standing.

  Egan’s head lowered as he looked to the man. Fresh blood trickled from his nose.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘I was the one who helped warn the authorities, witchunter,’ Longoss said, slapping a hand against his chest.

  ‘I know that! Hence why he and I are here, for Samorl’s sake. But what more do you know? We were given no specifics.’

  Gold shone as the big man smiled. ‘Might have learnt me some more about it all, whilst the three of us have been cocking things up for Poi Son.’

  Coppin chose that moment to go and retrieve some water for the two bound men.

  ‘And that is?’ Egan asked.

  ‘All in good time,’ Longoss said, ‘all in good time. We’re to talk to Keep before deciding what to do with you two.’

  Egan’s head dropped backwards and once again hit stone. He didn’t even wince.

  ‘I’m glad we found ’em,’ Coppin said, whilst bending to pour water into Egan’s open mouth.

  ‘And why’s that, lass?’ Longoss poured himself an ale.

  She allowed herself a smile. ‘It means Sears made it out of Dockside alive.’

  Longoss’ clay jug stopped before it reached his mouth. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, before quaffing it in one. Gold shone when the jug lowered, and both of them shared a look of genuine relief.

  Egan felt no relief at all. In fact, all he felt was a vulnerability he was unused to. Both for himself and, with surprise, for Severun.

  ‘Are we in agreement?’ Keep said, looking to Coppin and Longoss, the latter for longer. Both looked to one another then nodded to Keep.

  ‘I don’t like it, but ye seem to think it’s the only way?’ Longoss said.

  ‘Aye lad, I do. Now, go see it done and I’ll tend the bar. I’ve been out there less and less lately and folk will talk. Now go.’ Keep turned and moved out into the tavern proper, his booming voice drowning out the patrons’ din.

  ‘Who’s to do it?’ Coppin asked Longoss. The man took a deep breath.

  ‘You,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘I don’t trust ’em enough as it is, so I’d struggle to keep me head about me. I’ll come with ye though.’

  Coppin nodded and moved for the stairs. Longoss caught her arm, firm but painless.

  ‘Be careful though, wizards are dangerous folk, and with a witchunter as a companion… well…’ he screwed his face up, scars creasing, and shook his head. ‘…I ain’t ever seen the like. Be careful.’

  ‘I will.’ She reached up and placed a delicate kiss on his lips. ‘I’ve more to live for than ever, Longoss,’ she said before turning for the door.

  Longoss’ contented, gold-less smiles were rare, although lately they’d made appearances more often.

  Coppin heard him following a few steps behind. I’ve come a long way since you saved me, she thought, the kiss lingering on her lips. I dread to think where I’d be now? Dead, probably, or worse. For there is worse. But I hope you know, Longoss, how much I’m with you, for you, and not out of gratitude for what you did, although I have an abundance of that too.

  She opened the door and peered down into the shadow-filled cellar. The two men remained, although the wizard was awake and their conversation quick, muffled; heated. They both looked up, both relaxed when they saw it was her.

  I hate that, Coppin thought. I hate that the sight of me relaxes men, rather than keeping them on their guard, as does the sight of Longoss or Keep.

  Longoss’ words came to her, his advice, to use that fact to her advantage. She nodded to herself, imperceptible to anyone watching, but nodded all the same. That nod came as those words met with the face of the wizard looking up at her. He was powerful, of that she was sure, but he seemed, pleasant. He seemed harmless to look at. Oh, he was tall and she imagined with his grandeur and robes anew he could emit an intimidation few could match, but right there, he looked harmless. As do I. But I’m not. Not anymore.

  Coppin descended the stairs and weathered the stares with an obvious air of caution, fear even, although she felt less of it than she had when she opened the door. They have no idea who I am, what I’m capable of, she thought as she reached the bottom of the cool cellar and smiled meekly. And that is my power. Their eyes drifted past hers to take in Longoss, who appeared at the top of the steps, all anger and tensed muscle.

  Oh, he won’t kill ye, Coppin thought, but I will, if ye put a foot wrong.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, voice soothing, ‘let us discuss what we’re to do with you, shall we?’

  Both men rocked back at the flash of gold above and behind the woman.

  Chapter 21 – The Tri Isles

  With incredible strength, two score hobyahs heaved their war galley forward, it’s bladed prow slicing through the choppy sea as the brutish hobyahs pulled at their oars, attempting, as ever, to reach their reward. Tull, the goblin dangling off the stern of the ship, squirmed. He looked at the hungry mouths of the oar pulling beasts, all of whom heaved themselves towards him, or so they thought. He knew the futility of their eager actions, but it didn’t make the eyes locked on him seem any less scary, any less deadly. The hobyahs heaved on, pulling their oars to the sound of the only human crewman, who called ‘Pull’ in his monotonous tone. Even if Tull had dangled over the prow, the hobyahs’ rowing would never have brought them any closer to him, but from the stern? That made it all the more hilarious… to the admiral anyway, not to the goblin who hung there; not to Tull.

  ‘Pull pull pull pull,’ Charlzberg called as he climbed from beneath his awning. ‘Pull pull, all of you pull,’ the goblin admiral continued, ‘and soon you’ll get to eat poor Tull!’ He erupted in a high-pitched laugh, to which most of the crew followed suit. All except the ‘pull’ calling Bosun, and the dangling Tull.

  ‘Where’re we about, helmsmen?’ Charlzberg asked, as he approached the Ptarmigan twins, both of whom wrestled with the tiller. Charlzberg winked at Tull, who now hung motionless, his scrawny arms folded across his bare chest. He refused to wink back, or smile, and so looked past the admiral and on to the rows of hobyahs staring hungrily at him.

  Admiral, pfft. He has two vessels and dares call himself admiral.

  Charlzberg removed his tri-cornered hat and scratched at the off-white wig beneath, before replacing the hat and impatiently tapping his foot on the grubby deck.

  Ha! Tull thought. Even the twins ignore him.

  ‘I said where’re we about?’ Charlzberg screeched, causing Bosun to miss a ‘pull’ and the hobyahs to do the same. The twins jumped in unison.

  ‘Ah, well, Admiral…’ Brother said, looking to his sister for help. Sister shrugged and looked away, seemingly tending to the workings of the tiller, although Tull knew nothing needed tending.

  Charlzberg filled his pallid green cheeks and released the breath quickly, again and again, his head beginning to visibly shake.

  ‘Uh oh,’ Tull whispered. ‘He’s gonna blow.’

  ‘Northbound!’ Spyde shouted from above.

  Charlzberg, fists clenched, looked up to the black-clad goblin clinging to the middle of the netted sail.

  Tull rolled his eyes as he hung and swung and watched on. We might be somewhere specific if the rotting admiral used canvas as a sail, rather than a damned fishing net.

  Spyde pointed past the prow. ‘Land, Admiral. Land, I say!’

  Charlzberg shook some more. He hissed before shouting, ‘What ripping land, Spyde? What land? That’s what I wanna know from you, you freak bully bastard!’ A high-pitched keening came from Charlzberg’s clenched teeth and he crouched as low as he could go, before shaking with the purest rage. The keening built whilst everyone winced, and when it seemed he couldn’t go any more without taking a breat
h, Charlzberg jumped up and screamed like a banshee. Bosun stopped his calling, the hobyahs stopped their rowing, and cringed on their benches; all hands cringed. All, that was, except Tull, who sniggered at the impressive tantrum.

  Looking up once more, Charlzberg bared his filed-flat teeth and tilted his head so a corner of his hat rested on his bony shoulder.

  Spyde pointed again. ‘Tri Isles, Admiral. We’re towards the Tri Isles as planned.’

  Charlzberg took a deep breath and nodded. He glanced sidelong and up at Bosun, who returned to his droning call. With a groan from both the hobyahs and the galley itself, they shifted towards the mountainous island and the gargantuan weighing scales that reached from the horizon to touch the sky.

  ‘Bird!’ Spyde shouted, and all eyes lifted as he scrambled across the giant net to retrieve the tangled tern, squawking as it thrashed in panic and fear.

  ‘Mine!’ Charlzberg demanded, to Spyde’s poorly hidden dismay. ‘All the cats are gone. I’m eating no more fish or rats, you all hear? No more! If there’s to be no cats until dock, birds it’ll be for me.’ Pleased with himself, Charlzberg ordered a signal sent to his second boat, which trailed somewhat behind the galley. After that was done, he had Spyde bring down the throttled tern, which Spyde handed over reluctantly. Snatching it without a word, Charlzberg returned to his awning and slid beneath, followed by the audible crunching of bones.

  ‘On we go, ye pimpled pricks. On we go!’ Spyde shouted, moving to the centre of his web, and Bosun called ‘Pull’ as Tull squirmed some more.

  Not long after the crunching of bones had ceased, Tull contemplated the Tri-Isles before him, albeit upside down.

  Hundreds of white cubes filled the steep side of the mountain, the buildings’ blue tiles flecking the white like a mosaic. Solid towers rose from amongst the cubes, with conical roofs coloured to match the rest of the city’s rooftops. Thicker smoke than the majority rose here and there, from bakers and taverns and inns, and Tull salivated at the thought of what that meant.

  ‘Pull.’

  Charlzberg appeared from his awning and adjusted his hat. He turned his shaded face to the hulking bosun, and sneered.

  ‘Pull.’

  ‘Enough!’ Charlzberg shouted. ‘Enough, enough, enough!’ He flung his arms about and stamped up the deck towards the blunt-faced man. ‘They’re pulling, ye piss. They’re pulling and I’m having enough of the pull pull bloody pull.’

  ‘Pull.’

  Charlzberg screeched up at Bosun, who paid Charlzberg little heed, even when the goblin threw his tender fists against the man’s stomach.

  ‘Ouch,’ Bosun said flatly. ‘No, Admiral, please. Please don’t. Pull. It hurts so bad.’

  Tull, dangling from the stern, watched in utter disbelief as Charlzberg continued to pound on Bosun’s abdomen. Rolling his eyes at Charlzberg’s grunts of effort, Tull decided to squirm vigorously, in case the banks of rowing hobyahs lost interest in him and started to get mischievous ideas whilst Bosun was slightly distracted.

  ‘Ouch. No more,’ Bosun continued, as Charlzberg shrieked and continued to punch him. ‘Pull.’

  The Ptarmigan twins by the tiller winced at the commotion.

  ‘Someone needs stop this before he gets hurt,’ Sister said.

  Brother turned to her, confused. ‘Bosun?’

  Sister laughed. ‘No, silly. Charlzberg.’

  Brother chewed his rubbery lips and nodded.

  ‘Pull.’

  Another scream erupted from Charlzberg, this one in triumph, as Bosun finally went down, slowly; casually. Spyde looked on from above, half tangled in his web-like sail as the man being bullied laid down on the deck and feigned injury.

  ‘Enough, Admiral,’ Bosun said. ‘You’ve hurt me bad. Ouch. Pull. You’re too much for me, Admiral.’

  Standing with one boot placed triumphantly on Bosun’s broad chest, Charlzberg looked to his crew, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Pull,’ Bosun said from his prone position.

  ‘You see, bastard-shits?’ Charlzberg shouted. ‘See what I unleash when you disobey me?’

  ‘Pull.’

  ‘Such wicked fury to behold, Admiral,’ Spyde said from above. ‘But moving on—’

  ‘Care, Spyde.’ Charlzberg glared up from beneath his ridiculous dwarven hat at his navigator. ‘Take care now. I have more left in me. I hardly tire, you know?’

  ‘Pull.’

  Nodding, with a vacant expression, Spyde cleared his throat and went on. ‘Apologies, Admiral, but we’re coming close to dock. The port’s pilot is approaching, with troops aboard. Should we not run up the whites?’

  Charlzberg, foot planted on Bosun still, licked his cold-sore infested lips and nodded. Without a word, he removed his foot from the man saying ‘pull’ and made for the twins at the tiller.

  ‘Up with the whites,’ Spyde shouted, and two goblin sailors attended to it.

  ‘Yes, on with it,’ Charlzberg ordered, once the white flags were already hoisted. ‘And you two piss puddles, guide her in nice this time, eh?’

  The twins froze as Charlzberg turned to them, suspicion in his eyes. They’d both muttered nasties, but neither thought he’d heard them.

  ‘Pull.’

  Turning back to face the prow and the incoming pilot, Charlzberg continued his ridiculousness. ‘Take her in nice, Ptarmigans, as I said. Not like last time we were here.’

  Neither twin dared explain that the pilot was inbound to come aboard and guide the galley in himself, as it had been last time, and the time before, and… They said nothing. Not through fear of Charlzberg’s pathetic wrath, Tull knew, but through fear he’d talk some more and hang about on deck for the affair. Thankfully though, as soon as they acknowledged him Charlzberg returned to his awning and scurried beneath it, leaving the rest to his capable crew.

  As Bosun climbed to his feet and straightened himself out, Charlzberg’s head popped out once more. ‘Don’t forget to inform the rest of the fleet to prepare to make port.’

  ‘Aye aye, Admiral,’ Spyde called down. ‘Tull! Do us the honours, would you?’

  Tull nodded, swung about on his rope and spoke to the towed longboat behind.

  ‘Eh up lads,’ Tull said. ‘The pilot’s inbound.’

  The longboat’s trio of a crew looked up to Tull from their game of bones and nodded. ‘Understood,’ the closest of the three goblins said, before looking back to the game.

  ‘Fleet’s informed,’ Tull shouted back to Spyde.

  ‘Good, now wriggle some more, Tull. The hobyahs are slowing and Bosun ain’t calling.’

  Bosun jumped at the realisation he’d stopped, to look at the titanic set of scales rearing up out of the sea opposite the mountainside city they approached. The tips of those scales scraped the clouds above. Bosun couldn’t quite believe the enormity of the structure, that much was clear from his gaping mouth.

  Turning back to the rows of beastly hobyahs falling out of rhythm, Bosun said what he was paid handsomely by Charlzberg to say, ‘pull’, and the war galley glided on.

  Chapter 22 – The bells, the bells

  Spyde felt unsteady on the solid quayside. The stone underfoot hurt his feet, his ankles and his knees. If he’d thought about it and stopped himself before making the stupid offer to hunt for food, he would’ve been able to stay in his web of a sail. But as it stood, Charlzberg had used Spyde’s offer to order him off the galley as a companion, rather than a hunter.

  ‘I want something on the galley’s prow,’ Charlzberg said in his ever-whiny tone.

  Spyde rolled his eyes and glanced to the gaudily dressed goblin beside him.

  ‘Such as what, Admiral?’ Spyde asked, eyes back to the bustling square they set off towards.

  Charlzberg flung his arms wide. ‘For Squall’s sake, Spyde, I don’t know? I can’t be expected to think of everything.’

  Spyde nodded a quick apology as Charlzberg pushed past a couple of brutish sailors.

  ‘Like the Northfolk’s longships have, perhaps
?’ Spyde offered before Charlzberg could comment on the nodded apology Spyde had offered the affronted sailors. ‘Dragons and such?’

  Charlzberg puckered his lumpy lips in thought. ‘No, a woman. I want a carved woman on the prow. A mermaid or some such beauty.’

  Spyde frowned. ‘And how are we to pay for such an item?’

  A high-pitched whine started in Charlzberg’s throat. Spyde acted quickly.

  ‘It wouldn’t survive our next ramming action anyway, Admiral.’ Spyde sped forward and rounded on Charlzberg, hands held up placatingly as the whine built in volume and pitch. ‘It’d be such a waste, is all I’m saying. Such a glorious addition to your flagship, to have it destroyed when you next wreck your enemies upon our ram. Eh?’

  Charlzberg’s face was thunderous. His beady eyes narrowed and his flat teeth gnashed. Through those grinding teeth, he managed, ‘I. Want. One.’

  Spyde’s shoulders sagged and his hands dropped by his sides. He nodded. ‘I’ll make it happen, Admiral. One way or another, I’ll make it happen.’

  Without a word, Charlzberg pushed past Spyde, teeth bared in glee. Turning to follow, Spyde cringed as he saw Charlzberg’s new focus.

  ‘Mannino,’ Spyde whispered, before hurrying after Charlzberg.

  ‘Captain? Captain!’

  Could this be any more embarrassing, Spyde thought as he caught Charlzberg, who was fast approaching the renowned Sessio’s captain and, by the looks of it, the equally infamous Master Hitchmogh, Mannino’s first mate. Spyde allowed himself a smirk as he saw Mannino’s head sag before he composed himself.

  ‘Ah, Captain Charlzberg, how lovely to see you once again,’ Mannino managed, although he was clearly in a hurry. His grizzled first mate snarled by his side.

  Spyde tensed, ready for the inevitable tantrum that was bound to follow the incorrect title. It never came.

  ‘Actually, Captain Mannino,’ Charlzberg said, stopping uncomfortably close to Mannino and beaming all the while, ‘it’s admiral now, but you weren’t to know that, friend.’