by J. P. Ashman
I’d be surprised that cargo’s still rolling around if it weren’t in Dockside, Fal thought, knowingly.
Owned by various ship crews, guilds and surely even local gangs, the owners of the cargo controlled all manner of ways and means to pay back thieves, otherwise the produce would've been taken long ago.
Fal stopped as he reached the centre of the square and took a good look about the shadowy scene for any onlookers. It was clear. Taking a deep breath and wiping his face once more, he pulled the wine bottle containing the potion from his canvas cloak, which whipped out on the strong wind before he pulled it back close around his body with his free hand.
Despite his visual scanning of the square, the constant noise around the harbour masked any sound that could've warned him of the two figures stood atop large crates behind.
The men dropped towards Fal and hit the ground with the grace of oxen. The smaller of the two managed to land on his feet, albeit awkwardly, whilst the other landed heavily on his shoulder after his leg gave way, right where Fal had been standing.
After heaving the other to his feet, the smaller man pulled a cudgel from his sodden, tatty cloak and started to advance slowly. Grimacing, the other pulled a crude looking dagger from his belt with his good arm and followed his young partner's actions, slowly starting towards the man they’d attempted to jump upon.
Fal’s blade was held out behind him, hidden by his cloak which danced wildly in the strong wind. Shrugging off his hood he stared at the two men, snapping his water-filled eyes from one to the other. He still held the bottle tightly in his wet hand. In fact, it was the bottle that had saved him, along with the oil lamps surrounding the square, which rocked back and forth in the wind, causing shadows to jerk about all around them. If not for the bottle held up, Fal wouldn’t have seen the reflection of the men as they leapt from the crates behind him. Surely noticing Fal’s facial tattoos, the two men hesitated in their advance, looking at each other questioningly.
Ahh… you noticed, you bastards.
Seeing his marked face could have been enough to put most thugs off, but these two seemed determined, and moving to the left, the younger of the two motioned for the other to flank to the right.
Seeing no point in ceremony now, Fal threw the bottle to the ground at the feet of his closest opponent, keeping the lad back long enough to draw a bone handled seax knife from his boot with his now free hand.
A flash erupted as the glass bottle exploded on the stone floor.
Lightning was Fal’s first thought – for the briefest of moments, before remembering that the bottle contained the potion.
Both attackers jumped back at the flash, which gave Fal his chance. Rushing at the larger man, Fal brought his heavy blade over in a controlled overhead chop aimed at the man’s injured shoulder, water flicking from the blade in an arc over Fal’s head.
The man jerked his shoulder and arm back to evade Fal’s blade, and grunted in pain at the sudden movement, giving Fal the opening he needed from the feigned attack. Fal swiftly hopped forward and thrust the tip of his seax through flesh and ribs. The big man cried out louder, and before he could drop his dagger and bring his good hand up to the wound, Fal had pulled the seax free, moved past him and turned about to see the remaining thug swinging at him with his cudgel. Jumping back, Fal threw his falchion around in a sideways parry that connected with the oncoming weapon. Immediately switching his momentum, he stepped in close, knowing there was little danger from the smaller man’s blunt weapon without a swing behind it. The young man tried to back away, but Fal was upon him, his seax drawing a deep red line across an outstretched arm, causing the lad to drop the cudgel and pull back further.
Fal’s forehead connected with the bridge of the wiry lad’s nose, flattening it to his face and decorating his wet clothing with blood and claret. The momentum of the thug’s attempted back step, along with Fal’s impacting head and the rain swept stone, sent the lad crashing over backwards into a pile of small crates.
Fal, looking around quickly to make sure there were no more attackers accompanying the two men, caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye.
Turning to see what the fresh threat was and wiping the rain from his eyes with the back of his left hand, Fal saw the same ghostly shadows he’d seen earlier that night in Tyndurris. One of the closer shadows seemed to hover over the larger of the two men, who rolled on the floor, clutching his chest and groaning. The shadow looked straight at Fal, although no visible eyes were apparent, it was more a feeling of someone, or something, watching him. Almost as soon as he'd seen it, it descended into the man on the ground.
Gods below…
Quickly turning to the lad, half covered in broken crates and out cold, Fal caught a glimpse of another shadow disappearing into the younger man’s open mouth.
The wind remained strong and the rain swirled around the square. Other shadows followed the gusts, keeping to Fal’s peripheral vision and flying just out of his direct gaze whenever he turned to look at one. The shadows were rising up high with the winds. He looked all around the square, trying to catch a glimpse of one fully, but they were leaving swiftly, following the westerly wind to blow high and far out over the city, until all were gone and there was no movement at all around him, apart from the rain, swaying masts of ships and the squirming of the larger man on the ground close by.
Although he knew it couldn’t be anything sinister he’d just released, since his orders came from the guild master, he felt an unnatural chill on top of the wind and rain. He shuddered briefly.
Fal cocked his head as an unusual sound began to drift in over the din of the storm.
Singing?
Several voices in unison were audible, from further up Dock Street.
Sailors, he thought, on their way back to their ships.
Fal decided, against his natural sense of duty, to leave Market Square and the two men before the approaching group arrived.
Don’t bring attention to yourself. Nice, Falchion, great job.
Cleaning his weapons swiftly on the young man’s clothes before sheathing them, Fal slipped off into the shadows, away from the glow of the square’s swaying lamps. He took a roundabout route back to Dock Street and avoided the group of sailors heading down to Market Square. Suddenly hearing shouts instead of singing, he knew the sailors had come across his downed attackers. He wondered then if the group of men would call for aid or strip the two of anything worth taking, leaving them to the elements.
The latter I’d wager.
Despite that thought, he heard the sailors raise the hue and cry not long after.
Wet hood back up, wind and rain at his back, Fal strode on at a fast pace up Dock Street, beginning his long walk home, his mind full of questions.
He never noticed the figure watching him from a dark alley. The same figure that had witnessed him dispatch the two men and release the ghostlike shadows into the city.
***
Crouching down on the blood and rain-slick cobbles to examine the obvious wound on the dead man’s chest, the city guardsman spoke for the first time since arriving at the murder scene.
‘Sword thrust is what I say.’
‘What type of sword, Biviano?’ the second, much larger guardsman said as he wiped the collecting rainwater from his thick, red beard.
‘How the hell should I know, ye filthy lump? It’s a deep hole, it’s not sign posted,’ Biviano said, before standing back up next to his partner, rain dripping from the rim of his iron kettle-helm.
Frowning, Sears thumped the smaller man on the shoulder and despite the maille covered gambeson, Biviano felt it.
‘Ouch!’
‘How’d ye know it’s a sword thrust then and not a knife, clever dick? Ye didn’t look at it for long.’
‘Because it’s a bigger hole than a knife would cause. It doesn’t take much to work that out.’
‘Could’ve been a seax or scramasax?’
‘Nope, there’s an exit hole in
his back, and it’s the same size as the entry hole in his chest. So it’s a longer, thinner sword like a rapier or something similar. I’d wager on that!’
‘Fair point,’ Sears said. ‘Not a ganger then. Not in this district and especially not with a rapier.’
Biviano scratched under his kettle-helm as he answered. ‘Aye, someone with money methinks. We’ll have to find out who this man was and what business he was in. Well-dressed, pantaloons too, clearly piss stained despite the rain, but nice all the same. Ye don’t see them often do ye?’
Sears shook his head and looked up and down the lamp lit cobbled street, squinting against the wind and rain. ‘He was heading towards the park, but from where? No taverns back that way, not close by anyway, only houses and big ones at that.’
‘Wonder what shade of green they are when dry,’ Biviano said, still looking down at the corpse.
‘Eh?’
‘The pantaloons,’ the smaller guardsman said, scratching again under his kettle-helm. ‘From the south aren’t they? I bet they’re quite fetching when dry; a real lady-puller.’ He stopped then suddenly added, ‘Damned sure I’ve got nits.’
‘They look like something a woman would wear under her dress.’
‘Not in Sirreta, big guy, all the rage down there.’
‘We’re not in Sirreta. Anyway, keep yer mind on the job will ye?’ Sears said, having a scratch under his own kettle-helm. Bastard’s got me doing it now.
‘Aye alright. So, we need a cart to take the body to the nearest infirmary. Let them have a look whilst we ask about. You stay here. I’ll go fetch one.’
Sears grabbed Biviano by his rain slick, maille covered arm and tugged him back. ‘You stay here and I’ll go for one, alright?’
Biviano sighed audibly and nodded, before flicking two fingers up at his large companion’s back.
‘Be back soon,’ Sears shouted over the wind, as he headed off up the street.
Take yer time ye big ginger get, I’m going to take me another look at this poor bastard’s pantaloons.
Chapter 3: The Report
The large chamber was dark, with only one window allowing insufficient light to chase away the shadows. As Severun closed the door behind him, he uttered an inaudible word and the torches and beeswax candles around the walls and furniture of the chamber sprang to life.
‘Take a seat, gentlemen.’ Severun gestured to two chairs over by his desk, which effortlessly slid out of their own accord to accommodate the man and gnome. Severun walked over and sat on his grand wooden spinning chair. Such chairs were extremely rare, and this was the only one Fal had ever seen. Trying to study the base of the chair to see how it turned so effortlessly, he realised all eyes were on him.
Shit.
‘Lord Severun, Master Orix… I’m not sure what to tell you, other than I did as you asked and released the potion down on Market Square, by the harbour—’
Before he could go any further, Severun cut in excitedly. ‘Did you see anything happen, sergeant? Were there any obvious effects, and were there any witnesses?’ Severun leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk, eagerly awaiting Fal’s reply.
Good questions and not ones I’m looking forward to answering.
Fal grimaced and hesitated before replying. ‘None that were in a fit state of mind to notice the effects—’
‘Excellent, tell us everything.’ Severun interrupted again.
Did he miss my meaning?
Fal went on to explain the events of the previous night, and to his relief and surprise, Lord Severun seemed to have no problem with the fight that had occurred, in fact he seemed quite pleased upon hearing that the shadowy spectres had actually entered the two men. Orix, however, fiddling with his beard, seemed to show no sign either way, apart from a frown when Fal said he’d left his attackers to the group of sailors, and again when he mentioned the shadows rising high across the city. In fact, after divulging what had happened, Orix failed to look Fal in the eye altogether.
'Excellent, Sergeant Falchion,' Severun said, clapping and then clasping his hands together. 'I appreciate your time and won't keep you any longer.'
Fal rocked back a bit at that. Surprised at the abrupt dismissal, he stood, inclined his head to both guild masters and left the room.
‘I told you not to worry didn’t I, Orix? All went well and we can await reports from your infirmaries,’ Severun said, enthusiastically. ‘There are definitely two affected already and it just shows it’s working as planned. Those two men might have killed someone had Sergeant Falchion not been their target, and now they will get their deserved punishment, do you not think?’
Orix shook his head, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. ‘I still don’t believe it's our place to be magistrate and executioner, Lord Severun. I’m a cleric… a master cleric, and my place is in healing and preventing suffering, not causing it.’
Severun smiled genuinely at Orix. ‘My old friend, you have a heart of gold and I admire you for your beliefs. I, however, have come to the conclusion over the years, that there are many in this city that do not deserve your worry, and certainly don’t deserve to be treated fairly. They don’t think about those they prey on, so why should we think about them? I assure you that the people in Wesson, be them humans, gnomes, half-elves or whoever, will be happier when the streets of Dockside become a safer place. Is it fair that one district suffers, while others live relatively safe daily lives? I think not.’
Orix sighed, clearly unconvinced, and slumped in his chair. ‘What about Sergeant Falchion’s report on the shadows travelling across the city? Maybe further than Dockside? They weren't supposed to stray further afield.’
Sitting back in his chair, Severun scratched his head. ‘Again, I wouldn’t worry about it, Orix, it changes nothing. It only spreads the effects throughout the districts. We'll just have to acquire reports from all the infirmaries and not just those in Dockside.’
‘Very well,’ Orix said. ‘I will have my clerics report to me directly regarding any unusual illnesses and deaths that occur in their infirmaries.’
Severun nodded approvingly and their discussion moved on to lighter-hearted topics, after all, they both knew the effects would take a few days to show themselves.
***
High up in a majestic, ancient building, dimly lit by beeswax candles and a thin, arched window, lay a circular chamber. The incense burning in the clay oil burners on the large oak desk couldn’t hide the musty smell from the years of dust that had gathered on the antique furniture. The large man wrapped in deep purple robes who sat in an old chair behind the desk, however, was accustomed to the smell. He clasped his hands together, fingering multiple jewel encrusted rings on stubby fingers. His breath rasped through a flat nose and his deep, penetrating eyes hung like lost souls under his wild eyebrows.
Another man stood in front of the large desk, waiting patiently for a response to the news he’d delivered. His hands mirrored that of the robed figure but behind his cloaked back, twisting a single silver ring around and around his middle finger.
The robed man slowly placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him, before replying in a broken voice. ‘It is as we have suspected for centuries then, General Comlay. The guild cannot be trusted with such power and position in the kingdom. Whatever they are planning, or have already released upon us, is an unforgivable crime. We must act upon this news immediately. We cannot pander to the moods and whims of the lords of Wesson or King Barrison any longer. If we present the news to them and leave matters in their hands regarding such dark conspiracies, we will all fall to a world of demons and nightmares before they decide to call upon a council; a council that will include the very traitors you speak of.’ The robed figure leaned back in his chair, which creaked under the strain, and clasped a hand around the lance emblem hanging from his thick neck. ‘I want you to order your men to watch over the traitors, General.’
‘I wouldn’t dare question you, sire, but we don’t have the resources to watch
them all,’ Horler Comlay said to the Grand Inquisitor. He moved his hands round to rest, one on the hilt of his rapier, the other on one of the two throwing knives sheathed across his abdomen.
The Grand Inquisitor scowled. ‘I don’t mean for you to watch every single one of them, General. I want your men to watch the highest ranks, the ones instigating this conspiracy against the kingdom. I also want you to watch the sergeant you mentioned. He clearly has a key role in this heinous crime.’
Horler’s thin lips curled up to one side. ‘Very well, sire, I will give the order to my finest and keep you updated. I take it we won’t be informing the King’s advisor, the Archbishop, of this?’
The Grand Inquisitor shook his head. ‘No. For too long we have abided by the laws changed by a king long since passed, requesting permission before acting and often losing opportunities because of it. We cannot afford the delay, or their blind questioning of our current evidence when faced with something of this scale. We will move in silence and strike when it suits us, not the King or his council. Our work will be done before they have chance to question us, and our results will speak for themselves, thus heightening our status in the kingdom once again.’
‘Very well, sire.’
‘Oh and General Comlay…’
‘Sire?’
‘You never mentioned how you took care of the merchant and his agent?’
‘Ah…’ Horler ran a hand through his lank, black hair before continuing. ‘I dispatched the agent in the street—’
‘And Joinson's employer, Peneur Ineson?’
‘Is dead, sire, but not by my hand.’
The large man’s eyes widened for a brief moment. ‘By theirs, General?’
‘Possibly, sire, there were no visible wounds on Ineson’s body.’
‘Very well’ the Grand Inquisitor said as he leaned forward in his chair, offering his hand to Horler, who bowed and kissed it.
‘You are dismissed, General Comlay.’
