Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  As the arrow left the elf’s bow – An elf! – Cheung shoved the distracting thought aside and played his ace: the black blade of his left kama, following a deft flick and twist of his wrist, flew from its haft to shatter like glass on the stone flags between him and his adversaries.

  All light left the chamber, as if the sun had been doused by a trillion oceans. No light shone through the grand windows. None whatsoever; ambient and direct light alike sucked from the world, as far as Cheung and, he knew, the others present were concerned.

  The theoretical map of the room, of his opponents’ positions, remained on Cheung’s retinas, captured there like the image from a circus trickster’s flash-slate, albeit captured far quicker than such a device could imagine, let alone perform.

  Boots discarded after the fight with the armoured man in the corridor, Cheung dashed right, near on silently running the circumference of the room with a speed that would beggar belief, if it could be seen. Only Legg could have bested it, Cheung mused. The surety of Cheung’s run lent itself, at least in part, to his faith in his ability, and the map-come-flash-image that remained of his vision. No light helped him, for there was none in the room, although that trick would fade in but heartbeats. What he saw of his path was in his mind, he knew. But those in the room didn’t. His passage was but a brief wind and shush of feet and clothes, if that. And no man or woman, no matter how well trained, could react to that sound with any level of martial prowess.

  Cheung neared his mark in his head. He, of course, couldn’t see Barrison’s expression or reaction, but he could guess at it. Shock and confusion, fear and a loss of hope, perhaps. Cheung took no pleasure in that.

  Maille shushed in a metallic way, unlike Cheung’s clothes and feet, and plates of steel scraped, none of them near to him or moving fast enough to stop him. Preparing his remaining kama for its final kill, for Cheung’s final kill – the fear of that forced from his mind; the fear of never seeing the Caravaneers again or tending his succulents, forced away for threat of staying his hand despite his imminent death whether he succeeded or not – Cheung slowed but a fraction, bent his leading knee and leapt towards the dais that the King stood upon, kama raised and already arcing down for the kill. I’ll make it quick, Cheung thought, as a homage to the benevolent King of Altoln. It’s all I can do—

  A thudding, concussive and, a moment later, sharp impact of something shocking hammered into Cheung’s side, spinning him mid-air and striking him hard into the join between wall and floor. He heard the clatter of his kama leaving his grip. He felt the agonising pull of something protruding from his side as it snagged during his impact and subsequent collapse. Confusion accompanied the pain coursing through him; agonising pain both in his side and deep within.

  The blackness of his eyelids lightened all of a sudden, so he could see the pale haze and thin red lines of blood vessels before him. Blinking, light blinding, Cheung heard voices, muffled to the rushing in his ears. He reached for the snagging in his side and found a wooden shaft there, slick with hot, wet blood. It could be nought else and the immense pain confirmed it. He tried to curl up, tried to move in any way he could to decrease the horrific pain that wracked his body.

  ‘The elf…’ Cheung managed through gritted teeth. Realisation of that, of the slight noise his run had created, therefore giving him away, struck him moments before his consciousness flickered and threatened to fade, surely leading to his inevitable, but slow death.

  And more importantly, his monumental failure, after all he had been through.

  All for nought, Cheung thought before the end, albeit in the weakest sense. All for nought.

  Chapter 48 - Tumultuous and bleak

  ‘Longoss?’ Coppin looked across to the big man. His eyes were closed, but his chest was heaving as he sucked in lungful after lungful of air. His eyes flickered behind his lids and he snarled, grunted; whimpered even, whilst he slept.

  ‘Best let him sleep,’ a white robed cleric said, ‘despite it being fitful to say the least.’

  Coppin looked to the handsome young man. He blushed when she took him in. Her leg was showing to the thigh, wrapped around the blanket as it was, to regulate her temperature. Coppin hid it so the man could relax, more than for her own comfort.

  ‘And how are you?’ he asked, crossing the room to her.

  ‘In pain,’ she said. ‘Especially when I move.’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘It is to be expected. You are lucky—’

  ‘To be alive, yes. I’m sure I am.’ She’d snapped at him and immediately regretted it as he rocked back at the unexpected tone. ‘My apologies, Master…?’

  ‘Morri. This is my infirmary. In Dockside. Master Effrin had you brought here, for we were the closest to, well…’ Morri smiled. Coppin returned the smile. ‘How’s your…?’

  ‘Tummy?’

  Morri’s lips pulled in tight. He nodded.

  Coppin shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say with the pain from me side as it is.’

  Nodding, Morri made a soft sound of acknowledgement. ‘May I?’ he said, holding out his hand. Coppin hesitated and Morri pulled his hand back. ‘I can summon a female—’

  ‘No!’ Coppin said, a little too quickly. ‘No, it’s fine.’ She took a breath and relaxed.

  Morri breathed on his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Apologies, but they’ll be cold.’ The room did indeed have a chill, despite the glowing hearth in the corner and the calm summer’s night. Hands warmed, as much as blowing and rubbing can warm hands, Morri leaned forward and slid his hand beneath the blanket.

  Coppin tensed then forced herself to relax.

  ‘This may feel… uncomfortable,’ he said as he pressed his fingers about her abdomen.

  Sucking in a breath and clenching her teeth, Coppin thought the man needed to reassess his meaning of discomfort and replace it with pain. Not only did her stitches pull and her wound throb, but sharp pains flared within her when the cleric pressed tender areas.

  ‘Tell me if it—’

  ‘Hurts? Yep, it does,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Here?’ Morri asked. Coppin shook her head. ‘Here?’ She managed a no. ‘Here—’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, more a breath than a word.

  Morri pressed again, brow creased.

  ‘Yes!’ Coppin said, louder.

  The hand stayed there, pressing but not prodding; uncomfortable this time, not painful.

  Coppin didn’t know what to think. What to feel. Fear? She should do, by all rights. Fear for the potential loss of her baby… The thought of the thing sickened her. The thought of losing it didn’t. And that sickened her more.

  ‘Cheeky fucker!’

  Pain shot through Coppin’s wound as she jumped and tensed. She saw Morri jump too, a moment before big hands took him by his robes, hauled him off of her and literally threw him across the floor.

  Morri cried out, in surprise it seemed rather than any pain.

  Coppin cried out in pain and surprise, and anger.

  Longoss cried out in severe pain and outrage.

  ‘Longoss!’ Coppin shouted.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Severun asked, stirring from his slumber.

  Boots pounded through the corridor beyond the door.

  ‘Ye bloody fool!’ Coppin said to Longoss, who was doubled over, blood spreading through the bandages he wore in several places.

  Morri was quick to his feet and quick to help the man back to his bed, despite what had happened and despite the danger Coppin feared he was in.

  ‘He were checking the babe, Longoss, ye dumb shit!’

  Longoss spun on her at that, then to the cleric trying to heft him into bed. ‘Truly?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Morri managed the word through grunts of effort. Longoss was leaning on him fully.

  ‘Oh, Longoss,’ Coppin said, shaking her head. She heard Severun mutter something, saw him stand and move to help Morri. She also saw the cleric flinch as Severun brushed past him to take Longoss’ oth
er arm.

  ‘Sorry,’ Longoss said through gold. He was clearly in a lot of pain. A lot of self-induced pain after his actions.

  ‘You’ve split most of your stitches,’ Morri said as they settled Longoss onto his bed.

  Longoss cursed several times, more so as two guardsmen barged in, short-swords drawn.

  ‘You’d need more than that for me, boys,’ Longoss said, eyeing the men.

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Coppin snapped.

  Morri waved the men away. They reluctantly followed the silent order.

  ‘How’s the baby?’ Longoss asked Morri.

  Morri flinched. He looked from Longoss to Severun and on to Coppin. ‘I…’

  ‘Spit it out, Morri,’ Coppin said. She surprised them with her tone. She didn’t surprise herself. Tell me it’s dead and we can be done with it, she thought.

  ‘I can’t be sure—’

  ‘Use magic or whatever,’ Coppin said, eager for the news in ways she hated.

  ‘He can’t,’ Severun answered. ‘He could do more harm than good, it being so tiny and all.’

  Morri was nodding before Severun finished. Morri crossed to Coppin, sat on the side of her bed and took her hands. She pulled them back and set a hard look on the man.

  ‘Get on with it,’ she said, as cold as she’d ever heard herself be.

  Morri nodded. ‘I cannot be sure, Coppin, but I think your baby survives. I would like to call on a midwife for her opinion, but I think—’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Coppin slumped back in her bed and rolled away from the prying eyes. Thanks for ruining my recovery. She blocked out the stream of questions coming from Longoss’ gold mouth. She shuddered and wept at the thought of what was to come. She seemed to be the only one who didn’t want the coming of the monster within. And in that realisation, she made her decision. Whether they helped her or not – likely not – she would head to Mother’s as soon as she was fit. She would head there and search there and find the whatever-it-was that would rid her of the beast growing inside her. She would wash herself of its taint; of him. The Grand Inquisitor.

  ‘Where’s Coppin?’

  Severun sat bolt upright. He’d been sleeping, but the panic in Longoss’ voice snapped him awake. He looked around, found Coppin’s empty bed. He looked around again, saw Longoss crashing out the door and into the corridor beyond. He’d been wearing linen shirt and braes and bandages, nothing else. Severun climbed to his feet as confusion gave way to a vocal challenge by the duty guardsmen. He rushed to leave the room as he heard threats, thuds and the crashing of metal on wood. Reaching the corridor, he saw Longoss bracing himself about the torso with one arm, leaning against the wall with the other, the two guardsmen laying slumped on the floor at his feet; one unconscious, the other holding his hands up, panting – blood marring his flattened nose.

  ‘Longoss!’ Severun shouted, a hint of magic worked into the name.

  Longoss turned and eyed Severun warily.

  ‘Back to bed. Now!’ Heart racing, Severun held firm his air of authority and tall stance as Longoss approached, passed him and climbed back into bed. Severun called for Morri, again, a little magic laced in with the shout, before moving to Longoss’ side. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, eyeing the empty bed beyond Longoss.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Longoss admitted, shaking his head and looking up to Severun. ‘I woke and she was gone.’

  Where is that boy, Severun thought of Morri. ‘Morri!’ he shouted over his shoulder. Back to Longoss he said, ‘I’m sure there’s a reasonable—’

  ‘I don’t want reasonable!’ Longoss shouted. ‘I want Coppin. Or at least to know where she is.’

  Severun made to speak, but Longoss burst into a raging torrent of accusations and threats, all aimed at Morri. ‘That pretty faced cunt.’

  At the worst possible time, Severun heard – over Longoss’ rant – people approaching. He turned in time to see Morri enter, a messenger in the royal livery at his back. The man held a wooden tube that held more than parchment, Severun knew. He recognised the thing. He’d designed the thing. He held out his hand for that which the messenger bore, at the same time as reaching out his other and pressing it, palm first, against Longoss’ face. The man collapsed to the bed and Severun felt the magical drain of the action. He remained weak, but this couldn’t wait for Longoss to calm down. And he wasn’t even sure the big man would calm until they knew exactly where Coppin was. He pushed his own worry for Coppin to the back of his mind and snatched the communication from the messenger, who dutifully stood, back straight, awaiting a response.

  Morri watched with bated breath, despite the fear he’d shown at Longoss’ rage. Severun glanced at him, knowing the cleric understood what Severun held, and, whilst the sounds of Morri’s staff helping the downed guardsmen reached Severun, he opened the wooden tube and looked through it like one would a telescope.

  Severun staggered. Morri moved to catch him but Severun had dropped to one knee before Morri took his arm. The messenger was but a heartbeat slower in his assistance of Severun, who they helped onto his bed, swinging his legs up as he dropped back against his pillows, head shaking from side to side in disbelief.

  ‘What is it?’ Morri asked, fear flecking his tone and features.

  Before an answer left Severun’s lips, a moan came from the other side of the room. Morri turned to look upon Egan Dundaven, who was stirring, arms moving, legs writhing and tangling in his covers. The cleric looked torn through indecision as he awaited Severun’s words.

  Severun watched, stunned as he was by what he’d seen and heard and felt through the magical device the royal messenger had delivered. ‘We failed,’ he whispered, as Morri move about Egan with haste.

  ‘My lord?’ the messenger asked, stepping closer.

  ‘I need help here!’ Morri shouted, looking to the door and back to Egan, who was thrashing.

  Severun’s heart pounded in his chest, in his ears. His stomach twisted and bile burnt his throat, the back of his mouth and, without warning, he turned his head and threw up between his bed and Longoss’.

  ‘Severun!’ Morri shouted, at the same time as the messenger gasped and stepped away.

  Another cleric rushed into the room, a small spattering of blood on her robes from the guardsmen outside, no doubt. She was accompanied by the one with the broken nose, short-sword drawn, and two assistants. ‘Master Morri?’ she said, before rushing to aid Severun.

  ‘You two, here,’ Morri said, trying to pin Egan down. ‘Guardsman, you’re not needed,’ Morri added, without looking. The man snarled at Longoss’ sleeping form before storming from the room.

  ‘We failed,’ Severun said to the female cleric mopping his mouth and feeling his forehead. ‘We failed,’ he repeated as she attended him.

  ‘What’s wrong, Severun?’ Morri said from his side of the room.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Severun breathed, mind swirling and whirling and pounding at the thought, at the implications and the how and the why of it.

  ‘Who?’ Morri demanded, half listening and half concentrating on questing through to the struggling witchunter his assistants held down.

  ‘Barrison,’ Severun breathed, looking up and locking eyes with a turning Morri. ‘King Barrison,’ he confirmed, tears filling his eyes. ‘Our King is assassinated!’

  ‘Samorl save us,’ the messenger said, unaware of the message he’d carried from the palace.

  The room fell silent, but for the moans and groans of Egan Dundaven. That struck Severun, as he saw his friend in distress. He nodded, towards the man as the cleric beside him fell away, hands to her mouth. As the two holding Egan looked back across at him, eyes wide, faces ashen. As he locked eyes with the cleric held in such high regards within the guild, his former guild. ‘What is it?’ Severun managed, nodding again at Egan.

  Morri licked dry lips, looked from Severun to Egan and back. ‘It’s as we feared, Severun. Our ministrations have failed. His blood remains poisoned,’ Morri said, reeling from the h
orrific news Severun had given them.

  ‘From the assassin’s blades?’ Severun forced himself to ask, mind a blaze of questions and fears about Egan and Barrison, and Coppin.

  Morri nodded. ‘From the sewage smeared upon them.’

  ‘What more can you do, Morri?’ Severun asked, the question seen by Morri more than heard as Egan cried out in pain.

  ‘Nothing,’ Morri said, tears filling his own eyes as the cleric next to Severun sobbed. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered, slumping to the stool besides Egan’s bed. ‘He’s warded against me, somehow. By his order or… I don’t know what,’ Morri admitted, eyes lost in some awful place Severun – all of those present – likely wandered too. ‘I can’t heal him with magic—’

  ‘And it’s too late to do anything else,’ Severun finished. ‘It’s too late to save my friend.’

  Morri looked across at Severun, sorrow, regret and an anger aimed inward, plain for Severun to see.

  Severun braced himself against the hurt and the pain and the shock of it all and nodded to the young man; nodded his assurance that he knew there was nothing Morri could do. That he knew it wasn’t the cleric’s fault.

  Because it’s mine, Severun thought. It’s all mine.

  Epilogue

  ‘I never met Barrison, but I liked what I heard,’ Longoss said to Severun, as they looked out from the door of the infirmary they’d spent far too long recovering within.

  Severun had held Longoss back, through various means, for several days, which seemed to blur into one in the infirmary, but he was ready now – according to Morri. Severun wasn’t sure if the man was ready mentally, to face what they might find out there in Dockside. As well as everything else, Severun railed at himself for not chasing after Coppin the morning they’d discovered her gone. The morning he’d learnt of Barrison’s death. He heaved a sigh and glanced at Longoss, his one remaining companion.