by J. P. Ashman
Effrin’s fearful quest of the woman revealed a very painful but fixable wound in her side; through her side, from front to back. Effrin winced. He felt rather than saw someone appear beside him.
‘Master Cleric?’
Effrin turned to the crossbowman. ‘Fetch my supplies from the saddle. And make haste.’ The man nodded and rushed away. Effrin wished he’d entered the tavern with his supplies to start with, but the unknown dangers inside, the two masked assassins Morton’s men had faced, meant he’d had to enter prepared for a fight, rather than to save lives, although that’s what he needed to do now. As his hands shifted across his patient’s abdomen, Effrin froze. ‘She’s carrying a child,’ he whispered, and swallowed hard. He dared not probe further for fear of harming the tiny life inside her womb. It was so very small and vulnerable – maybe even at risk from the assassin’s attack – but pushing in with his power could end its mind, if not its physical life, that he knew. Effrin licked dry lips and shouted again for his supplies.
‘How fair the others?’ he asked of the men-at-arms crouching by those they’d come to relieve.
‘Two of the big ugly bastards are dead, the inn-keeper near as damn it, as is the witchunter.’ The young man spat as he said the latter. ‘As for the ear-less brute over there,’ he shrugged, ‘fuck knows how, Master Cleric, but he’s breathing.’
As the lad said the words, another of Morton’s men shouted in surprise as a bloody hand shot up from the ear-less one and took hold of his maille coif, pulling him down to face gold teeth.
‘Woah!’ Sir Merrel shouted, rushing in from the back of the tavern, one of his men holding his sword. Sir Merrel held both gauntleted hands out to the sides to show he was no threat and approached the ear-less brute, whose eyes darted about the room like a cornered animal. He gritted those gold teeth, his breaths paining him, as was the action of holding a struggling man as big as himself – that man pulled a dagger from his belt, but at a command from Sir Merrel, he reluctantly threw it across the floor, cursing as he heard it clatter, his eyes watching the now growling man who held him firm.
‘We’re here to aid you,’ Sir Merrel said, patting the air, ‘so release my man and we’ll have someone see to your… considerable wounds.’ Sir Merrel balked at the bloody mess of the man, clearly realising most of the blood was indeed his.
‘The fucking masks?’ Ear-less said, searching the faces staring at him, some snarling, most shocked.
‘Dead,’ Sir Merrel confirmed, as Ear-less’ eyes found the red-masked assassin’s bolt-punctured body, which resembled an archer’s training dummy.
‘And the bitch? Terrina?’ Ear-less demanded, turning back to stare at Sir Merrel.
‘I ended her. Out back.’ Sir Merrel lowered his arms to his sides and hung them from his plated belt with iron-clad thumbs. ‘Now let my man go and let us help you.’
Effrin looked past the scene to the front door. He saw the crossbowman with his supplies and waved him over. The man had been gawking at the situation.
As the crossbowman crossed the room, Ear-less tracked him, ducked a little to look under the table that stood between him and Effrin, and howled in renewed agony. Effrin knew it to be separate from the man’s wounds.
‘Coppin!’
The soldier who’d been held by Ear-less was pushed back as the brute made to rise, stumbled and fell forward, crying out as he hit the floor, coughing blood by the end of it all. No one moved to assist him, likely for fear he’d turn on them. The men watched on, Sir Merrel too as Earl-less crawled across the floor leaving a dark stain like some horrific gore-trailing slug. His breathing sounded like a stuck boar’s.
Effrin looked down. ‘Coppin, is it? Coppin, can you hear me?’ he said into the woman’s ear. ‘Linen on the wounds, now. And press hard,’ he said to the crossbowman. The man drew linen from the pack he’d been cradling and got to it as Effrin, ignoring the sound of the crawling man, reached into the bag to clean his hands. ‘Boil some water and be quick about it,’ he shouted to anyone who’d listen. He heard Sir Merrel delegate the task to someone. ‘And help that poor man,’ Effrin added, eyes on his patient. There was a pause. He heard the shuffle of feet.
‘Get off, ye bastards,’ Ear-less said.
‘She’ll be well if you let me work,’ Effrin said, loud enough for the man to hear. ‘Coppin will be fine!’ he reasserted. ‘Now let Sir Merrel’s men aid you. Let them!’
The sounds of grunts and curses and scuffling stopped.
‘She carries a babe…’
Effrin barely heard the words through the sobs that accompanied them. ‘I know and I can’t do anything about that here and now, but unless you want her to die…’ Effrin’s eyes closed and he began to open himself to her; to her feelings and pain and the damage within and without, ‘…you’ll be quiet and let me be.’
‘What’s your name?’ Effrin heard Sir Merrel ask, quietly, soothingly.
‘Longoss. And I know you know that already, Sir Merrel.’ Longoss’ broken voice held anger once again, to accompany the fear and grief.
‘I was merely making sure you still had your wits, Longoss,’ Sir Merrel said, amusement touching his tone more than the mirroring of Longoss’ anger.
Effrin felt the exchange rather than heard it. ‘Longoss is with us,’ Effrin said and sent to Coppin all in one, ignoring the rest. ‘Longoss is here and you’re going to be fit and well, I promise.’ He spoke the words for the big man’s sake, rather than Coppin’s, for she’d heard it within; within her mind, her heart and her soul. She found peace from the pain as cells bonded, flesh and skin knitted. It would take a lot from him, but Effrin couldn’t in good conscience do any less for the woman, despite knowing he had others to attend to. As if reading his very thoughts and fears, for those lying dying about him, Sir Merrel gave a set of fresh orders.
‘Get to packing and binding the survivors’ wounds, you fools! And as soon as it’s done, get them out of here and get them to the nearest infirmary.’
Effrin heard the shifting of feet on wood, the scrape of plate and the shush of maille.
‘There’s resistance, in parts, Sir Merrel,’ a soldier said from the doorway.
‘Then get the fuck out there, man, and take whoever’s lulling around doing nothing. Teach the bastards what you know; what I taught you. Let them die knowing the Lord High Constable of Altoln sends his violent regards.’
Raised voices in renewed high spirits and the men ran from the tavern.
There’ll be far more blood spilt this night, Effrin allowed himself to think as the worst of the damage within Coppin was repaired. She’d been lucky more than anything, or the assassin unlucky, if there was a difference. If it mattered.
‘Do you need your battle mage?’ Effrin asked, eyes closed. He heard Sir Merrel sigh from right behind.
‘Probably, but you need her in here, don’t you?’
Effrin nodded.
‘Rough Paul,’ Merrel shouted.
‘Sir Merrel?’ came a rather effeminate voice from over by the witchunter.
‘Go fetch our witch—’
Effrin winced at the term.
‘—and tell her Effrin needs her.’
‘Understood. Oh, and Sir Merrel…’ Rough Paul started.
‘Go on.’
‘I think the witchunter lives.’
‘Then hurry the fuck up, man.’
Footsteps left the tavern and Effrin heard a shout from the lad, although it didn’t sound like it’d come from a lad.
‘She’ll be here shortly,’ Sir Merrel said. He was closer now, leaning over Effrin, likely to watch.
‘Space, Sir Merrel, if you please.’
Sir Merrel shifted away. ‘Of course. I’ll be outside.’
Effrin nodded and opened his eyes. He shifted those eyes to the crossbowman and nodded. ‘You can let go of her wounds.’
The crossbowman paused before doing as he was told. It was clear he expected blood to spring forth once more, but none came. There was ple
nty about Coppin’s midriff and the crossbowman’s hands, and more smeared here and there, but no more leaked from her wounds.
‘Clean your hands and stay with her,’ Effrin said, throwing the man a cloth before moving around the table towards Longoss. He felt light headed, dizzy even, but swallowed it down, shook it off and made to crouch by the big, bleeding man, who’d allowed two pairs of hands to staunch the flow of blood. He looked deathly pale, but when Effrin tried to check his wounds, Longoss slapped him away.
‘The others… first… me last,’ he said between dangerously slow breaths.
Before Effrin could protest, Sir Merrel’s battle mage appeared at the door, calling his name.
‘There’s injured about,’ Effrin called back to her. ‘See to them if you will.’ She acknowledged and rushed to the inn-keeper, bypassing the witchunter, Effrin noticed. Longoss clearly did too. He made to speak but Effrin shoved a damp cloth under his flat nose. Longoss was out cold before a word passed between golden teeth. Effrin noticed the two men either side of Longoss relax. ‘Keep the pressure on his wounds,’ Effrin said. ‘I’ve made it harder for him, to make it easier for us. But I don’t like it, so don’t let him or me down, understand?’ Both men nodded.
‘I’m not sure the inn-keeper will make it whether I continue with him or not,’ the battle mage said, for Effrin to hear.
‘Move on,’ Effrin replied. It pained him to say it, but they needed to work on those who could be saved before those who likely could not.
‘Burn my soul…’
Effrin turned, saw the battle mage crouching by Lord Severun. ‘Ah, yes,’ he managed, ‘there is that.’ He met her eyes. Wide eyes. ‘Do what you can for him,’ he said, nodding to her. She swallowed and nodded back, and Effrin knew exactly what warred within her. She’d been out there battling arcane mages of the Black Guild, just to be pulled in here to try and heal an arcane mage, formerly master of her own guild.
‘He’s fine.’ She spat. ‘Unconscious but fine,’ she added, and with an ironic choice, crossed to the witchunter. ‘As for this one,’ she said quickly, no compassion in her words, ‘he’s already gone.’
Rough Paul started. ‘I thought…’ He’d immediately returned to the witchunter and had been pressing his gloved hand to the man’s back: a hatchet wound that’d gaped and leaked blood before Rough Paul had pressed his hands to it.
The mage flashed Rough Paul a look Effrin didn’t miss.
‘Sir Merrel!’ Effrin shouted.
Sir Merrel strode into the tavern and lifted his chin to Effrin.
‘Have a word with your mage, Sir Merrel. For me.’
Sir Merrel frowned and turned to the woman. She scowled at Effrin, stood and barged the knight from her path through the door. Sir Merrel looked to Rough Paul, who shrugged, hands pressed to the witchunter’s bloody back. It dawned on Sir Merrel and he cursed aloud, looking to Effrin.
‘My apologies, Effrin, on her behalf.’
‘Save it,’ Effrin said. ‘Just have someone who might be able to save that man do so, and fast.’ Effrin turned back to Longoss’ multiple wounds, drew in a deep breath, fortified himself against the loss of energy he’d suffered whilst healing Coppin and forged on, questing into Longoss as Sir Merrel shouted for his sergeant-at-arms to attend the witchunter.
Chapter 42 – And that is that
Poi Son skirted around assassins from both his and Bronwen’s thirds of the guild. He had no intention of entangling himself in the fights throughout the streets and across the rooftops. Colourful flashes, bursts and beams lit the night as Bronwen’s mages fought Poi Son’s assassins and street-assassins. Poi Son knew he would lose most of his followers. More so, he hoped Bronwen would lose all of hers. After the night was done, all he needed do was plan for Alden-Fenn’s return. He shook the thought away and stowed it in the back of his mind. For now, he needed to remain focused. Focused on surviving and, if luck was with him – and a lot of experience and skill – find Bronwen herself whilst she was no doubt distracted in dealing with the powerful mage inside the tavern; it was said the man was none other than the former master of the Wizards and Sorcery Guild, Lord Severun, back from the dead.
A scream from the next street startled Poi Son and he berated himself for his wandering mind. Focusing once more, he ducked into a black doorway, the sound of boots on stone closing. He waited until the wearer of those boots passed, then continued on his way.
‘Crossbows on me!’ Poi Son heard a man shout. He didn’t recognise the voice, but when he peered into a broad street and saw the man, he knew he was one of his own. The swordsman ran away from Poi Son’s position, three others with him, cradling crossbows as they ran. They reached a corner under a lamp and fell to the ground, lifeless. Just like that. No sounds, no hesitation, just dead.
‘Bronwen,’ Poi Son whispered. It was either her or one of her inner cabal, to drop four men so easily. Climbing quickly but not hastily, Poi Son reached the roof, checked his surrounds and moved towards the corner where his men lay dead.
A flash lit the sky, emanating from the tavern to his right. Poi Son knew that to be a renewed assault on Severun’s shielding of the tavern. If it was indeed the wizard inside, with Longoss. Why would he help Longoss? Ah yes, Poi Son thought, the Duke of Yewdale sticking his oar in because of my mark on his brother-in-law, King Barrison.
Someone howled in pain, which stood out since the cries and screams had lessened. This final battle would have been ten times worse had the plague and Longoss’ actions not taken their toll on the Black Guild. The light show from Bronwen’s mages was sparse now, either from lack of her followers or lack of Poi Son’s. He hoped for both, although the hope felt alien to him.
Poi Son neared the roof where he suspected Bronwen or one of her assassins to be and felt an immense pressure lift within his head. He wasn’t aware, fully, of its presence until it abated. A portion of him balked at all that was happening, of all he had instigated within his guild, and without. He thought of the King, of the mark on the King and the—
Multiple boots on stone. The cacophony of it struck Poi Son and he shook away his thoughts and fears, realising how vulnerable he was. Men approached in numbers, from the south, heading towards the tavern if the echoes of it didn’t deceive him. City Guard? No, he thought, Yewdale’s men. Swallowing hard, Poi Son crept forward and peered over a ridge on the roof.
Bronwen! The woman’s presence startled him, although he wasn’t surprised the arrogant bitch was alone. She likely thought her powers allowed her some form of protection or alarm should anyone approach. But no, there she was, sat cross legged and rocking, eyes… wide open. Poi Son stared at the woman who stared at the tavern. As if called for, the slow-moving clouds shifted in such a way that the moon’s silvery light beamed down and illuminated the mistress of the guild. Poi Son saw her every feature… every slack feature. Bronwen’s jaw hung open, a string of saliva dangling from her bottom lip. Half of her face drooped, slack and lifeless, the other half as it should be, haggard as ever, but set in place on her cheekbone. Her hands lay by her sides in uncomfortable positions. She didn’t look like she was meditating or communicating with her cabal, as Poi Son thought she might be when he came upon her. She looked… dead from within. He knew her to be alive, for her rocking motion gave that away, but apart from that… Poi Son took a deep breath, held it and climbed down to her level.
I’m creeping into a trap, he thought and feared, a determination not all his own pushing him on; the pressure in his head was there once more, although weaker than he remembered, now he seemed able to think about it. Before he could think on it too much, the will exerting itself on him settled and became comfortable, as it should be. Poi Son smiled and relaxed. He sauntered now, which wasn’t like him if he’d been of a mind to consider his actions. He reached Bronwen, crouched and waved his hand before her face. Nothing. No reaction. She merely sat there, rocked and dribbled. It hurt Poi Son to see his guild partner and biggest rival so.
As the
sound of men-at-arms shouting, hacking and smashing through wooden doors and shutters reached Poi Son, he casually took out a fresh instrument string and, without a word, because a job should be done, not waffled about before-hand or during, strangled the life from Mistress Bronwen of the Black Guild. As easy as that. No fighting back. No shaking or shuddering. The woman rocked as Poi Son shut off the air to her lungs. She flopped forward, string sliding around her bloody neck as she went.
Poi Son watched as the robed body tumble off the roof.
A cry went up from below. Shouts. Barked orders and a thick siege ladder struck the top of the roof, the sound of armoured men climbing it.
‘And that, dear Bronwen, is that. The guild is mine. Well, almost,’ Poi Son said, before turning and fleeing the scene, Alden-Fenn’s brutish, tattooed face looming at the back of his mind.
Chapter 43 – Bolts, blades and strings
Poi Son watched one of his assassins, one of the last – not that there’d been many left, what with Pangan’s betrayal leading to Bronwen’s explosive magic in the alley opposite the tavern. Poi Son watched the man, loose fitting robes, cloak and hood, fall to a crossbow bolt which thumped him forward and off his feet. Poi Son watched from his hidden position as three men-at-arms in the Duke of Yewdale’s colours reached the squirming assassin, only to hack into him with falchions and axe.
‘As long as they’re finishing Bronwen’s lot off as well as my own,’ Poi Son whispered to himself. Or so he thought.
‘Master Son?’
Poi Son froze at the sound of the girl-watcher’s voice. He composed himself, turned to the shadows and smiled. ‘My dear. I thought I’d lost you to Bronwen’s magic in the alley. Thank Samorl I was wrong.’
‘But…’ she sounded hesitant, scared even. ‘You said you hoped—’
‘Traitors, my girl. There were traitors in our midst. It is them of whom I speak. Now…’ Poi Son stepped towards the girl and found her shoulders with his gloved and blooded hands. He pulled her in close and turned her to face the body of the latest assassin to fall. Yewdale’s men had already moved on. ‘How fair we, my young watcher?’
