Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘That’s for Blanck!’ Terrina screamed back, eyes wide behind the mask.

  The fight was leaving Longoss, despite his gritted teeth and attempts to struggle, to roar and to best the bitch beneath him. He’d been through hell before, alongside Coppin against the gangs and assassins in Dockside, and against this very bitch and her bastard brother, not that long ago. But he’d had Sears’ potion, in-between and after those arduous bouts of violence. Now? Now he was exhausted from trying to keep up with Terrina’s speed and… strength, for she was stronger than her frame suggested, he realised, as they struggled with one another on the floor. His exhaustion was mental as well as physical, from the revelation of Terrina and Rapeel’s return and the distracting thoughts of Coppin and the child she held within. His thoughts were stolen by Coppin and what was to become of her and her child as the brutal tumbling ended with Terrina above him, his hands on her impossibly strong stabbing wrists. Fresh lances of pain shot through him as the second stiletto slid into his side, under his ribs and up into a lung. The next breath grated and stung, stabbed at him as bad as the stilettos. Terrina screamed things at him from above, but the holes in the sides of his head failed to hear what she was saying. All he could do was focus on Coppin’s face in his mind as his vision blurred and darkened. The next breath lanced and the next stabbed, followed by more of the same despite those breaths slowing. He had no idea how his friends faired with Rapeel; the sounds of shouting and smashing had faded quicker than Terrina’s din of a voice.

  Longoss had no idea how he himself fared in it all as the lights went out and the sharp pains dulled, fading to nothing. All he wanted to do was think of Coppin and their child as it all came to an end. I would have loved you both. Pure bliss overtook him at the thought.

  Severun screamed at Bronwen’s assaulting laugh. Each concussive bark of the dreadful sound railed against his mind and soul like the cannons of the dwarves. Loud bangs, launched from her very will, caused Severun to stagger back, which struck him all the more. To stagger was to be corporeal. His eyes flickered open and a blur and a rush of vision took him, as did the grating screams and shouts and curses in the dull room he sat slumped in. ‘No,’ he whispered, eyes finding the bodies of Keep’s two men. Keep himself. Severun turned his head and took in Egan, who desperately fended off the red masked assassin. And on to Longoss who lay struggling beneath a slip of a woman in an old-blood stained white mask. He heard shouts, victorious shouts, from outside the tavern and realised with horror that Bronwen had not only knocked him back, but in doing so had dropped his shielding. He almost stood. Almost surged to his feet to throw himself into the fray and protect his friend.

  Friend… yes. Egan Dundaven was his friend.

  ‘No!’ Severun said, his defiance finding new resolve. ‘No…’

  He slumped once more, eyes closing.

  ‘No!’ Severun screamed into Bronwen, finding her shadow as easily as he finally found his other harasser. Bronwen’s presence faltered at his return, yet rolled out a wave of amusement, condescending in tone and colour and sound in a way only one of her and Severun’s abilities could recognise and realise.

  ‘You think you can best me, Severun? You’re a fool if you do.’ Bronwen’s soul expanded, like an explosion of the filthiest, rotten will imaginable. Well, apart from the other one, the worse one; the recent realisation of that one was less staggering now and more… useful.

  Severun smiled within, and without, to her, as far as she would see and feel and sense it anyway. Bronwen hesitated, or rather her soon to be devastating expansion halted.

  ‘You are my better in these arcane things, Bronwen,’ Severun projected. ‘But not His!’ Severun launched that last at her and at the same time lowered certain defences, completely, opening himself to an assault he’d been holding off for a long time.

  Since the scroll. Since the plague.

  Bronwen screamed as the gargantuan black mass of horror surged into Severun, through and out of his mind and soul and… everything, enveloping Bronwen in a terror she couldn’t comprehend; in an arcane power she could not defend against, being that she had no idea it existed until right there and then. There’d been no warning. No building of suggestions and schemes and hints and nudges like Severun had suffered and forgot and remembered and fought against and accepted and denied. Unlike Severun and the gradual studying of the scroll, Bronwen was struck with the full will of the thing: the full rage and assault and malice of a great black dragon, previously held at bay and now deflected away from that which it truly desired: Severun.

  Allowing it to pass through and leave him completely, one enemy consuming another, Severun smiled, his lips twitching as if a nervous tic had taken hold. Bronwen had saved him, unbeknown to her, and to Severun until that very moment. A moment where he had genuinely decided to sacrifice himself to destroy her utterly and to deny the beast that had beckoned him and controlled him, from time to time.

  Eyes open once more, Severun stood effortlessly to his full height and took in the taproom with his eyes, ears and every other sense available to him. For he was back. Severun was Severun once again, whole and pure and un-accosted from a distant land.

  Flexing his fingers and turning to take in both masks at once, Severun unleashed his previously restrained power in full.

  Chapter 40 – Betrayal

  Poi Son grunted and stumbled as Pangan manhandled him down the alley.

  ‘I said it’d be a fucking trap,’ Pangan said, dragging Poi Son from the screaming, pleading, grunts and groans; from the acrid smell of the arcane and the static that accompanied it.

  ‘And we sprung it.’ Poi Son spat after the words. The taste the impacting spell left in his mouth was foul. He hated her magic. Bronwen’s. He wasn’t fond of magic in general, but hers had always felt, smelt and tasted filthy. ‘Like the woman herself.’

  ‘What?’ Pangan said, pulling Poi Son into a faintly illuminated doorway.

  ‘She took my bait, Pangan.’ Poi Son grinned.

  ‘I thought we were here for Longoss and his chums?’ Pangan breathed hard and his words were forced because of it.

  ‘Oh, we are, Pangan. We are.’ Poi Son retrieved an invisible-in-the-light lute string. ‘But we’re finishing the guild war at the same time.’

  Pangan filled his cheeks and released the breath he’d held in one go. ‘Could’ve told me.’

  ‘I just did.’

  Pangan went rigid, Poi Son could feel it in the darkness, could feel Pangan’s muscles tense as he threw his hands up to the cord around his neck and fought to stop it tightening; fought to stop it closing his airway or slicing into his flesh.

  Poi Son clenched his teeth as he worked. He said nothing as he arched his back and pulled on the string wrapped painfully tight around his gloved hands. Pangan’s choking grunts filled his ears, that and the thud of his own quickened heartbeat. Poi Son had never understood the need to offer conversation before and whilst attempting to take someone’s life. He knew plenty of assassins who would do so. He managed to breath a laugh as he fought to keep Pangan’s back arched. He knew many of his own assassins who did, or had. It was a waste of time and a risk. If you want someone dead, get it done. Leave the blabbing for afterwards if you must, for the bragging or the requesting of another contract. Ironically, he knew Pangan felt and operated the same way as he. Or had.

  Pangan tried to kick backwards, but missed Poi Son’s knees. He tried to stamp. Again, he missed his mark and Poi Son’s feet remained planted, unhindered in their superior stance. Poi Son was taller than Pangan, which helped. He could arch his back and lean further, pulling Pangan to the tips of his toes as Pangan tried to relieve the pressure and pain upon his throat.

  Poi Son jerked once, twice, pulling and crossing his hands and arms, trying to finish the job as quickly as possible. After all, he didn’t want his old friend to suffer unnecessarily.

  Pangan’s booted feet scrabbled for purchase, the scraping sounds filling the doorway and downing out – on an
emotional level – the continued cries of pain and denial coming from the wounded and dying assassins further up the alley. Poi Son’s men, and girl, the lot of them. But there was more at stake here. Much more. His new master… he shook his head at the word. New employer, had strict instructions: it had all been there in the blood-ink. The mark on Barrison wasn’t enough. Dignaaln had been clear in his request and Poi Son intended to carry it out to the full. His guild depended on it. His guild. Not Bronwen’s or Alden-Fenn’s. Not Pangan’s or Terrina’s or Rapeel’s or Bill’s. No one else’s but his. A clean slate, that’s what had been called for and that’s what Poi Son wanted, needed.

  Pangan thrashed, choked and Poi Son felt the hot wet rush of arterial blood as his string finally sliced through Pangan’s throat. The thrashing fell away to a judder and a shudder as Poi Son lowered the dead weight of his former right hand man to the ground. Now he could talk. Now he could risk a word or two before moving on, for now the job was done. Or rather the start of it.

  ‘You shouldn’t have placed your loyalty in Bronwen, my old friend,’ Poi Son said, crouched over Pangan’s leaking corpse. He strained his eyes to see the face he knew so well, locked in a grimace as it was. Poi Son stroked the man’s head and shook his own. ‘This would have been hard for me if you hadn’t secretly backed her, Pangan. Then again,’ he said, standing and looking out into the black alley, sobs and groans and moans reaching his ears once more. ‘Then again, in doing so, in betraying me, Pangan, you made my betrayal of you an easy thing. Necessary it may be, but I had no love for this act.’

  Poi Son laughed to himself. ‘And here I am, waffling on to a corpse. What am I to do with myself?’ Shaking his head at it all, Poi Son dropped the bloody string and moved off into the darkness, certain Terrina and Rapeel would see to the rest.

  ***

  Terrina threw herself off Longoss’ bloody body as a stream of blue energy reached out towards her from the standing wizard. She knew it would’ve hit her were it not for the gift Poi Son had bestowed upon her and Rapeel. The gift of revenge and retribution.

  Launching into an arcing run, around tables, stools, benches and the body of one of the ugly bastards she’d killed, Terrina put a foot to a bench and launched herself into the air, towards the wizard who’d attempted to magic her to death. She’d seen Rapeel besting the witchunter, had seen one of his beloved hatchets moving at a speed the witchunter couldn’t parry, and had seen it thwack into the man’s black-clad back like a butcher chopping a carcass.

  Mid-air now, Terrina kicked out at the turning wizard, who’d struggled to track her speed with his bloodshot eyes. She came in from his periphery, outstretched foot connecting with his midriff, sending him crashing into a table where he struck the side of his head.

  Landing deftly on one foot before coming down into a crouch beside the dazed wizard, Terrina lashed out with her nearest stiletto, but the force of a wooden stool cracking off the side of her head knocked her to the ground beside the man before the knife found its mark. Anger flooded Terrina more than pain. She whipped her head around. Her brother’s mask obscured the view of her assailant. All she caught was a glimpse of black-smudged green hair before she was battered in the face, through the mask, with something solid.

  The sound of men shouting in the street followed the impact, then loud bangs and the shattering and splintering of wood.

  Another impact rocked Terrina and without her vision, impaired by the skewed mask, her strength and speed meant nothing. Lashing out with blades and kicking out to match, Terrina knew she bought herself the time to drop a stiletto and right her mask in time to see green and white liveried men enter the taproom and loose heavy, windlass crossbows at Rapeel. He’d charged the newcomers and in doing so took two of the three bolts to the chest. Despite his strength and speed, the bolts punched him backwards, the back of his head striking the floor a moment before his torso and trailing legs. Terrina screamed. It was full of rage, rage enough to allow her to ignore yet another blow from a wooden stool, which she caught hold of as it came down atop her. She yanked it free of the woman who held it, turning on and lunging for her with the remaining stiletto. The green haired bitch turned to run as men shouted to her, warning her that they didn’t have a clear shot. Terrina heard more men enter, clattering as they were, through the detritus of the tavern, to get to her.

  ‘He’s getting up!’ one of the men-at-arms shouted. Terrina knew it to be Rapeel and couldn’t help but grin beneath her mask as she took hold of the green bitch’s hair, yanking her back to the floor as her stiletto slid nice and easy into her side, albeit at an awkward, hastily driven angle which had the tip punching out of the bitch’s back.

  As the weight of Longoss’ whore dragged Terrina into a crouch, her hand gripping the hilt of her weapon, Terrina heard a guttural scream from behind, followed by more shouts and curses and the clashing of steel. She grinned again, then sucked in a breath as something struck her back, sending her tumbling over the woman she’d stabbed. She lost grip of her stiletto and growled against the pain rolling away from the new danger caused; the tumble snagging the bolt jutting from her back, snagging and pulling on it, flaring an agony within her that she’d not felt since her previous confrontation with Longoss; since the bastard had carved her and her brother up.

  Another bolt struck as Terrina began to stand and it threw her forward onto her stomach. She screamed in both outrage and pain. She heard feet shuffling, men moving her way. She managed to get her feet under her and ran. She ran through a door and ran through a kitchen. She cried as she ran, pulled things from tables; plates and bottles and jars. She heard them smash and heard her pursuers curse. The pain was rolling through her, taking her, threatening to force her to the ground so she could curl up and cry and cry. Terrina barged through a door and even that hurt her shoulder, the dull impact of it. She felt slower and slower as she ran. She’d left the soldiers behind, but her run became a stumble, as one does when trying to stop a run down a steep hill. Reaching the alley behind the tavern by crashing through a shuttered window with the last of her enhanced speed and strength, Terrina thumped into the opposite wall and collapsed. She felt the stone beneath her, the dirt atop it as her senses heightened to her surroundings and to the two bolts protruding from her back; slicing up her insides as they had been her entire flight.

  Terrina thought of Blanck and wept, her screams falling to pained sobs, eyes and nose streaming. The agony from the bolts was too much. She kept her back to the sky, scared of knocking the shafts on floor or wall. She heard men reach the back of the tavern, turned her head and saw them climbing through the opening she’d created with her body.

  Terrina watched as two of them approached, moonlight catching the shine of maille, plate and swords. Knights, she thought, at least of the lead man anyway, his surcoat down to his plated knees. I’m to be hauled back to his bastard liege lord.

  Crouching before her, the knight lifted the blunt visor of his helm and looked upon Terrina, a wry smile creeping across his handsome face. She sucked in a painful breath and felt it judder out into her brother’s mask.

  ‘The red bastard’s dead!’ a man from inside the tavern shouted. ‘You got the other mask yet, Sir Merrel?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s got her out here,’ the man-at-arms behind the knight confirmed.

  Terrina flinched as the knight, Sir Merrel, reached out a gauntleted hand. He pulled the mask from Terrina’s face and held it there, between his knee-cops as he crouched, eyes widening whilst taking in her scarred face.

  ‘Would have been worth a fuck before she got those scars,’ the man-at-arms said, crouching next to Sir Merrel, who grimaced.

  ‘Now now, young Si, no need for that,’ Sir Merrel said, his previously wry smile replaced with a sympathetic one.

  It was all Terrina could do not to collapse to the floor as she held his stare. She saw two more men climbing through the window, heard one of them muttering about having the door opened for them. Then she was choking. Choking on
her own blood as Sir Merrel pushed a dagger into her side, casual as you like. Terrina felt the dull press of it, the cold iron reaching inside her to steel her life. Next to the myriad of feelings and pains and agonies she endured, the blade didn’t felt that bad, but she knew it to be the end of her. As she looked at the remaining sympathetic smile on Sir Merrel’s face, and heard the mutterings about her and the unimpressed looks those men gave – some of which cut deeper than any blade, considering her vanity before she’d received her facial scars – Terrina took in one final breath and wheezed it out as Sir Merrel slid his blade free and cleaned it on a white cloth.

  ‘Sleep now,’ he said, standing and turning away. And Terrina did.

  Chapter 41 – Effrin and Ear-less

  Coppin drew in breath after breath of the rank taproom air, tainted as it was with blood and gore, sweat and piss. The sounds around her of men shouting and cursing, horns blowing and armour scraping, assaulted her senses as much as the agony in her side. She couldn’t cry out, nor cry in general. All Coppin could do was suck in the next breath and press her hands to the bleeding wounds, front and back, as she’d been taught by Sears and Longoss…

  ‘Longoss?’ Copping shouted. She grimaced. Her head swam and her vision blurred as she looked about for her love. And when she found the big man’s motionless body, her vision faded and she felt herself fall.

  ‘Help me!’ Effrin’s heart raced as he dropped to his knees, hands outstretched over the bleeding woman. The cleric quested for the extent of her wounds, pushing away the incredulity that was Lord Severun’s unconscious form laying nearby – Effrin’s former guild master, who was supposed to be dead, although Effrin had heard rumours that he wasn’t.