by J. P. Ashman
‘Yes, yes. Understood.’ The sergeant rolled his eyes, waved his hand and turned away, muttering to himself.
As the sergeant flagged down the nearing riders, the assassin he had clearly been ordered to search for nodded his thanks to the performer putting flute to lips. The lead jongleur smiled at Cheung as they continued as a troupe, through the brief cessation of rain allowed them beneath the huge gatehouse. Once through the tunnel and into Wesson proper, another jongleur began to sing, high and loud.
Our troupe passes gargoyles and ancient stone
We play for our fortune, be it silver or gold
Singing and juggling until the crowds do come…
‘We play our tune on the road and run!’ Cheung sang the words without thinking, and his stomach lurched, twisted and spun; the troupe cheered, leapt and tumbled, and to the canvas tavern of the Coach and Cart Inn they did run.
***
‘He never turned up,’ Longoss managed. He was drowsy, vision blurred and hearing stranger than normal. Coppin lay on the cot next to his, unconscious but purposefully so, the clerics told him. She was equally as drugged up as Longoss, but with something else to help her fall into a deep sleep which would help her recover, or so they said. Longoss wasn’t sure whether the clerics in the infirmary wanted to delay the potentially horrifying news her consciousness would bring; does her baby live? He’d asked them to test, to quest. He’d asked them to bring midwives in if their magics couldn’t do the trick, but they ensured him that all would be for nought if Coppin’s wounds weren’t allowed to mend. The cleric on the scene, Effrin, had done well. The young man’s peers had told Longoss so, as had Sir Merrel. Longoss snarled at the thought of Morton’s cunt-captain. Longoss had no clue as to whether any of it was true or not, or whether Sir Merrel was having Longoss told these things merely to keep him calm; to keep him from leaving his bed in a fit of rage; rage he felt surging from time to time, within. A burning sensation. A pressure that built and swelled and threatened to break free whenever Longoss thought of how wrong it had gone; how much worse it could’ve been.
‘Poi Son,’ Longoss whispered. He looked across to the tranquil form of Coppin under her white linen sheets. So peaceful. So calm and beautiful. ‘He didn’t come,’ Longoss said again, louder.
‘Who didn’t?’
Longoss looked the other way, stitches pulling from the movement. Pain flared despite the drugs, but Longoss accepted it all for his failure in both protecting Coppin and destroying the Black Guild. ‘Poi Son,’ he said to Severun.
Severun nodded. ‘He was likely about, out there,’ Severun said, eyes on the sleeping witchunter opposite him. ‘He was likely orchestrating it all from some rooftop or other, if what you’ve told us of him is anything to go by.’
Longoss sighed and lowered his head to the pillow. Such luxury. He hated it. He wanted to be out there, searching for Poi Son now that the majority, if not all, of the bastard’s assassins were dead.
‘You worry about one man, Longoss,’ Severun said, looking to him, ‘but we succeeded, my friend. We destroyed the Black Guild and thwarted whatever agenda it was playing at.’
Longoss was shaking his head before Severun finished. ‘We failed, Severun. We destroyed much of it, or rather Morton’s men did, and you may have cut one of the three bastard heads from the beast – and I’m impressed at that, to say the least.’ Longoss looked again to Severun and shone gold. The smile faded as quick. ‘But Poi Son is left. And Alden-Fenn.’
Severun grimaced. ‘I’ve heard tell of that man.’
‘There’s little man in him, I’d say.’
‘And that coming from you?’ came another voice.
Both men looked to the door. Severun visibly tensed. Longoss tried to sit up and snarled at the combination of pain and visitor.
‘Greetings, my lord Yewdale,’ Severun managed.
Will Morton nodded to Severun and moved into the room, hand on the hilt of his sheathed bastard-sword. ‘Severun,’ he replied, pointedly dropping the former lord’s former title. ‘Longoss,’ he added, his teeth gritted as much as the man he addressed.
‘Lord Bastard,’ Longoss growled.
Morton’s steel pouldrons scraped as he shrugged. ‘I can’t say I didn’t expect hostility from you, lad.’
‘Hence why ye came armoured.’ Longoss leaned out a little, to see around Morton; to see the two knights behind him. He accepted the pain the movement presented. ‘And with yer pups up yer arse, too.’ He slumped back in his bed, eyes locked on the Lord High Constable. He heard Sir Merrel grunt a laugh.
Morton managed a smile. ‘Can you blame me, what with the hornets’ nest we shat in? Or do you regret my acting upon that? Do you regret Sir Merrel marching into Dockside with his men and mine, losing the lives of many to put down a common enemy of ours, Longoss? Eh, lad? Do you wish, for old time’s sake, I’d not bothered? Because I did bother,’ he went on, before Longoss could answer. ‘I did and I have to expect potential reprisals on me and my own because of it. So yes, I am armed and armoured and shadowed by men I trust. So, string me up for it.’ He shrugged again and again steel scraped on steel. ‘Way I see it, I’ve done both you and Barrison a favour here. Although, in hindsight, perhaps Sir Merrel could have arrived a touch later. Let you bleed out or the masked bitch finish butchering you before saving the day—’
‘Saving the day?’ Longoss winced as he shot upright, eyes wild, fists balled and knuckles white. He looked round Morton once more, to Sir Merrel. ‘That what ye tell yer master, Merrel, ye prick? That ye’re some fucking hero?’
It was Sir Merrel’s turn to shrug. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, a wry smile on his handsome face.
‘The Three with the lot of ye.’ Longoss slumped back once more. ‘It’s no more than I’d have expected. Would that ye could’ve saved Coppin from her wounds whilst strutting around in fancy plate, acting the bastard hero.’ Longoss turned to take in Coppin, before staring up at the ceiling. ‘Would that ye could’ve killed Poi Son whilst ye were at it,’ he said, his former master’s face appearing smug before his hazy vision.
‘Perhaps we did,’ Sir Merrel said, moving alongside Morton.
Longoss’ head snapped to the two men. ‘Tell me!’ he demanded, eyes flicking from one to the other, their features blunted by the drugs that seemed to be taking him from the scene.
Sir Merrel brought his hands from behind his back – Longoss hadn’t noticed them there – and revealed a rondel dagger, the blade dark with dried blood. ‘One of my crossbowmen stuck Poi Son with this,’ Sir Merrel said, his grin now the smuggest thing Longoss had ever seen. It wasn’t like Sir Merrel, Longoss knew, but he had to assume the knight’s love of Longoss was as nonexistent as Longoss’ love for the knight. ‘And the man claimed to have shot him too, with a bolt from a windlass, of all things.’
Morton’s smile at that was genuine, his creased eyes gave that much away.
‘You believe it?’ Longoss pleaded.
‘The crossbowman is an old hand at such things,’ Sir Merrel confirmed. ‘He’s not a young bragger, although—’
‘Yes?’
‘He couldn’t know what Poi Son looks like,’ Sir Merrel went on, hesitating with the truth. ‘Nor did he see his assailant’s face in the dark alley where the fight played out.’
Longoss slumped back yet again, a frown stealing away his interest.
‘How could he possible know?’ Severun asked. He’d been quiet until this point, but he asked the question Longoss wanted to know.
‘He can’t, for sure,’ Morton admitted. ‘But the man they tackled killed four hard men. He garrotted two and drove the other two’s own daggers into their eyes. It happened quickly and all in the same alley as a young girl found, also garrotted. The bloody strings—’
‘Left behind,’ Longoss whispered.
Morton and Sir Merrel nodded.
‘And that’s Poi Son’s way?’ Severun asked Longoss. The former assassin nodded. Severun looked back to Morton and
his man. ‘But no body?’
Sir Merrel’s smile faded. ‘No body.’
‘That would be too easy,’ Longoss managed, the drugs pulling him down. He rejoiced at the pain Poi Son must have felt at being shot and stabbed. He rejoiced and hoped, and prayed of all things, at the slow death the man must surely be experiencing, maybe even now.
Elleth, Longoss thought, a warmth flowing through him, I think we got him. I think the bastard is dead. The room dimmed, the sounds faded. Now look over your sister, my love. Bring her and her babe through this, whether ye need take my life to do it or not, ye hear? Whether ye need to take a thousand lives to do it…
Longoss’ grasp on the room about him faded into unconsciousness; into a blissful emptiness and peace.
***
Cheung paid the jongleurs to get him through the gatehouse, nothing more, and they kept their end of the bargain. He thanked them, changed clothes again and moved on. The jongleurs told the truth about wanting to perform at the palace, but theirs was not an effective method of entry. For that, Cheung needed stealth and cunning… or, something a little too obvious to be of concern to the palace guards.
He travelled along large avenues, late in the day. The crowds that travelled those avenues were enough to allow his inconspicuous passage. A rain fell once more, causing rivulets to work their way through the maze of cobbles beneath his soft-soled boots. Satchel tight at his side, he moved along with the rushing folk beneath the trees, hood up, as most did whenever it rained. The palace loomed in the distance, a formidable structure hidden behind a rain-hazed veil, hiding the mark, the man; the King that Cheung sought. Tall houses and trees continued to line the avenue, which led Cheung to a small square before another impressive gatehouse, this structure of a lighter stone than the one he’d passed through to enter the city. Braziers flanked the outside of the gates, as well as the ramparts above. Palace guards huddled around the hissing flames, rain tinkling on helmets whilst waxed cloaks allowed run off to add to the puddles at their booted feet.
Cheung never expected to simply walk into Wesson Palace, but nor could he have planned his entry before seeing the place for himself. The memory-like images in his head were not enough. Subtly moving to and hiding in fast darkening shadows, the sun retreating towards the large naval buildings down the hill, Cheung crouched and watched the guards and their routines. He would find a way in, although he doubted it would be that night. What was one more day after all he’d been through and done to get this far?
***
‘You did well, Severun,’ Morton said, realising the filthy shite of a man lying next to Severun had passed out. ‘To take Bronwen down, after all the years your guild secretly hunted her.’
Severun nodded, eyes shifting to Egan Dundaven’s unmoving form, opposite. ‘It was not easy, my lord, and I may have lost much in my absence from the fight within the tavern.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Morton said, stepping closer and drawing Severun’s attention, ‘you did your King a great service, you and Master Dundaven.’ Morton looked across to the severely injured man. ‘They tell me the hatchets the masked fuck used were soiled in sewage?’
Severun nodded once, swallowed visibly.
‘I’m sure they’re doing all they can for him, despite his—’
‘His past doesn’t come into it!’ Severun said, voice raising. ‘His actions since his time with me; his actions as a man, a good man, are all that matter. His actions—’
‘Or yours, Severun?’ Morton tilted his head, awaiting a reprisal for his interruption and comment.
Severun straightened in his bed. He breathed heavily and levelled a look at Morton that told the Duke all he needed to know of the man he’d know, although not all that well, for years.
‘You’ve changed.’ Morton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Something happened in that tavern, didn’t it?’
A sad smile played across Severun’s face. ‘It did indeed, my lord. It did indeed.’
Morton looked sidelong to Sir Merrel, who shrugged. Turning back to Severun, Morton waited.
‘My lord, I believe I shrugged off a presence that has been trying – and succeeding at times – to enforce its will on me since…’
‘Since?’ Sir Merrel asked, his intrigue equal to that of Morton’s own.
‘Since I purchased the scroll that caused the plague.’ It pained Severun to say the words out loud. It pained yet relieved him to tell someone; anyone. Morton could see it in the man’s eyes.
Morton moved to the bedside and knelt; his leather boots and harness creaked and his steel poleyn offered a dull thud as it met the wooden floor. ‘Tell me,’ Morton whispered, leaning in. ‘Tell me who, how and why, Severun.’ Morton heard the shifting of boots on wood and plate on plate behind him. He waved his chamois gloved hand over his shoulder and, reluctantly he knew, Sir Merrel and Sir Fell left the room. The door closed behind them before Severun spoke.
‘The plague was intended. My naivety and greed for the arcane power it offered, no matter how genuine my reasons for—’
‘Severun,’ Morton warned, wanting facts, not apologies or excuses.
Severun took a breath. ‘It isn’t a who that sent that scroll, my lord. It isn’t a nation or a faction or—’
‘The Three?’
Shaking his head at the reasonable suggestion, Severun continued. ‘It was a dragon, my lord.’ Severun stared into Morton’s eyes at the revelation. He wanted it to sink in and Morton knew it, but was struggling to let it.
‘A dragon?’ Morton moved back, screwed up his face so his scars and lines deepened; the scar that ever pulled his lip into a snarl did it more so. His frown looked like a scowl more than anything else – he felt like a scowl was necessary. Was Severun testing him? Was he mocking him?
Severun nodded once. The fear and realisation of all that had been going on was plain for Morton to see. Not only that. There was a freedom about Severun’s face. An ease despite his obvious worry for his new-found friends who lay, potentially dying, about him.
‘How—’ Morton began.
‘The fight with Bronwen,’ Severun explained. ‘She was besting me, my lord. I’m not embarrassed to say. She was using her arcane against the rules and barriers my own guild has built and set in place over millennia; both within our teachings and our minds. She knew that, hence why she’s always bested us as a guild, as a hunting force. We have failed to catch her because she plays by no rules to our many.’ He offered a wicked smile. ‘But I’ve played by her lack of rules before, my lord, as you well know.’ His smile fell away to a look of disgust, in himself. ‘We all know where that lead…’
‘Severun?’ Morton prompted. Too close to truths now for the wizard to digress.
‘Yes…’ Severun shook away his melancholy. ‘I realised the shadow that pressed on my soul… for wont of a better term to explain such things to someone—’
‘Go on,’ Morton said, frown returning.
‘Well, my lord, my defending against her assault pushed me to my limits. I had to try and draw on everything, you see. Everything. And in doing so, I finally knew…’
‘Knew what?’ Morton leaned in.
‘I knew I was not alone. In here.’ Severun tapped his head with one long finger. ‘I knew the dark will trying to impose itself on me. I knew I had been unwittingly defending myself for months, or for the most part, since my purchasing of the scroll. I knew, my lord, I was fighting a battle on two fronts. So…’ he smiled.
‘Yes? Go on.’
‘I dropped my defences to the shadow that had already been there when Bronwen attempted to destroy my defences, and me. I allowed it in… and through.’ Severun positively beamed now.
Morton knew the genius of it all was lost on him, but nodded for Severun to go on, eager to find out the truth of it all; he knew he had to let Severun tell his tale to get there, so gritted his teeth and let him get on with it.
‘Through,’ Severun said again. ‘Through me and into her. Into Bronwen. Well,’ Severun grinned,
‘it was my hidden assailant that destroyed the Mistress of the Black Guild, my lord, not me. Or not me alone. And in doing so—’
‘You were freed,’ Morton said, the simplicity of that part finding him.
‘I was freed.’ Severun’s expression fell to one of guilt and sorrow. ‘I was freed and bound in one. Bound to the horrors I unleashed on this city and its people, my lord Yewdale.’ His eyes fell away to memories, Morton was sure.
‘Lord Severun…’
Severun looked up at that.
‘…you already felt sorrow and guilt for what you did, I knew that. I wouldn’t have allowed you into my service if I thought you didn’t.’
Severun smiled weakly. ‘I did, but not as I do now. Not as I do… as me, my lord. The real me. The real Severun Allarance.’
Morton found himself smiling back, sympathetically. Before he knew it, he’d wrapped Severun’s closest hand in his own. ‘I am glad for you, my lord Severun. I am glad, but…’
‘But the dragon?’ Severun smiled, mouth and eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘Let us talk of him. Let us talk of the legendary horror we call Crackador.’
Chapter 45 – Scars before the mark
Rain fell in sheets now, following the wind that swirled about the square outside Wesson Palace. The braziers flickered, spat and hissed as the guards stood about them stamped feet and clapped hands.
An orange and red inferno filled the sky to the west, lighting the underside of tumultuous clouds, which ended over the sea to allow the low sun to cast its long shadows, pointing the way for the clouds overhead; the clouds emptying their load would soon pass over and leave the city to dry overnight.
A cart creaked and groaned as it approached. Waving without cheer, the elderly driver brought it to a stop in front of the closed gates.
‘Evening, lads,’ the old man said, pulling his wet hood back a little so they could see his face.
Two of the four guards came forward. One spoke to the driver whilst the other uncovered and rooted through the cart’s loaded sacks. He took a green apple, threw it to the other and took one for himself.
