by J. P. Ashman
‘That’s impressive to say the least,’ Fal said. ‘I knew mages could live longer, Master Orix told me actually, but I had no idea Lord Severun was so old.’
‘Hey!’ Errolas laughed. ‘You are hardly making me feel like I’m in the middle of my prime here, gentlemen!’
All three laughed before Errolas finally answered Sav’s forgotten question about why Severun wouldn’t want revenge for what the church had done to his parents. The returned subject swiftly dispersed the group’s mirth.
‘I imagine Lord Severun was deeply affected by what he witnessed all those years ago, Sav, and some people – yes, I can understand – would grow up with it eating away at them, driving them to seek revenge where others, Lord Severun in this case, are affected in quite the opposite way. He is clearly terrified of the Samorlian Church and at the thought of being burnt alive.
‘What puzzles me, however, is why he’d use arcane magic in the first place, which is a sure way in this kingdom, in fact the only way, where the law states you must be executed through the use of fire. An ancient and archaic law but not one I would normally argue with since the users of arcane magic are usually twisted, evil creatures, no matter where they hale from.
‘Lord Severun, however,’ Errolas continued, ‘does not strike me as such, and I do believe, as you say Fal, that he meant well, by unfortunately doing a great deal of wrong.’
Both Fal and Sav nodded and the room, once again, fell almost silent, except for the muffled voices in the room below and the occasional shifting of feet outside the closed, but not locked, door.
The quiet of the room was shattered a moment later as the door swung in and crashed against the wooden bench running right up to the stone arch of the doorway.
The door had been opened by a sergeant-at-arms in the King’s livery – a crowned, white caladrius with sword grasped in its talons, was woven onto the man’s short, red and blue halved surcoat. He wore a quilted gambeson under the surcoat, covered by tightly-knit, riveted iron links forming a short-sleeved maille hauberk which covered his torso and hung down to just above his iron knee cops. His head was covered by a maille coif and sallet helm, its point riding low at the back to protect his neck. Simple plate gauntlets sat atop maille mitons, a far simpler design than the expensive and sought after Sirretan fingered gauntlets worn by the wealthiest knights and lords. The sergeant’s tanned leather boots were short and his legs were covered with a pair of woollen hose, one red, one blue, worn opposite to the colours of his liveried surcoat, which was secured with a brown leather belt, from which hung a long dagger on one side and a simple arming sword on the other.
He was an impressive sight indeed, especially considering he was only a sergeant-at-arms and not a knight. In normal circumstances Fal would have wished for such fine armour himself; which would surely cost him far more than he would earn in a year or more. It was the man’s face, alas, not his armour the trio now stared at, for the sergeant wore a stern expression indeed.
‘Sergeant Falchion?’
Fal stood as he answered. ‘Aye that’s me. What’s happening?’
‘I’m Sergeant Grannit of the King’s Guard. The Lord High Constable, through Sir Merrel, has bid me deliver this message to you.’
‘Go ahead, Sergeant,’ Fal said. His fear for what that message would be brought bile to his throat.
Sav and Errolas stood now and walked to stand beside Fal as the palace sergeant delivered his message, read from an unrolled scroll bearing the waxed seal of the King.
‘King Barrison wishes to offer you all, but especially Sergeant Falchion, his gratitude in your actions this day.’
Fal and Sav looked at one another, brows rising and the hints of a smile playing across their faces as the sergeant continued.
‘He wishes you to know that Lord Severun and Master Orix have praised you all for your actions both on Kings Avenue, and Sergeant Falchion at Tyndurris, for confronting Master Orix and escorting Lord Severun to the palace, although King Barrison understands and believes both men came in of their own free will.’
Fal nodded.
‘King Barrison also wishes you to know that the Samorlian witchunters responsible for the attack will be dealt with accordingly, as will the Grand Inquisitor of the Samorlian Church.’
Fal smiled all the more to himself at that announcement.
‘It has, however,’ the sergeant continued, and Fal’s face dropped at the tone, ‘with the King’s deepest regret, been declared that Lord Severun has been condemned to death at midday tomorrow, in Execution Square, by way of fire, as is the rightful punishment for the use of arcane magic within Altoln.’
Fal shook his head. Lords no, what have you done my King? Severun, I’m so sorry. This is too much…
Sav ran his hands through his hair and return to his seat, whilst Errolas’ emotions were hard to see, but Fal believed he was no less shocked and saddened.
The room seemed to fall silent for a brief moment, a moment that felt like a lifetime, before Sergeant Grannit continued.
‘Master Orix, however, has been ordered to work with his clerics to combat the plague effecting Wesson. King Barrison has ordered the city quarantined and no one is to enter or leave Wesson from this day until the King orders otherwise. After the plague has been destroyed, Master Orix will be confined to Tyndurris for the rest of his natural life as punishment for his part in this tragedy.’
Fal felt as if he was receiving blow after blow and he had to force himself to listen to Sergeant Grannit as the man continued to read from the scroll.
‘The Lord High Constable has ordered Sergeant Falchion to report back to Tyndurris, as there are fears the citizens of Wesson will blame the guild as a whole for the plague. Therefore, greater steps for security are needed during this uncertain time. The Altoln border scout, Sav, is to assist Sergeant Falchion with security at Tyndurris, and the Elf ranger is asked to advise King Barrison and Altoln, as an ally, in this time of need.’
Errolas lifted his drooping head to look at the sergeant-at-arms. ‘Am I to accompany you to King Barrison now?’ he asked, clearly taken aback by the request.
‘If you will, master ranger, yes,’ Sergeant Grannit replied politely.
Errolas looked to Sav and then to Fal.
‘Go on,’ Fal said, ‘do what you can to help us, for we’re all trapped in the city with this plague now, and anything you may be able to help with will be needed. We’ll see you again soon I hope.’ Fal grasped Errolas’ outstretched hand and Sav stood, walked over to him and wrapped the elf in a huge hug.
‘Come to Tyndurris when you can,’ Sav said, and Fal noticed tears in his friend’s eyes; they’d been there since Sergeant Grannit had announced Severun’s fate.
‘I will scou… Sav,’ Errolas said. After one last look at his two friends, Errolas followed the armoured sergeant out of the room and down the passageway.
As soon as their friend had left with Sergeant Grannit, Fal and Sav were escorted from the room by two more men-at-arms in the King’s livery, all be it far less armoured than their sergeant. The soldiers led them down a curling staircase to the base of the drum tower, before exiting through a small door onto a large open courtyard where they directed Fal and Sav to the main gate. There stood a palace coach, waiting to take them to Tyndurris.
As the two friends climbed into the large, armoured coach, the driver told them he'd heard a rumour the sickness sweeping Wesson was in fact a plague, one caused by an arcane wizard and as far as he was concerned, it was only a matter of time before someone burned in Execution Square and the riots began. Fal clenched his teeth and along with Sav, said nothing to the driver, who merely shrugged, climbed up onto his seat and cracked his whip.
The bulky coach set off down Kings Avenue towards Tyndurris, which loomed in the darkening sky as a deep red sun sank low towards the sea on their left, bringing the terrible day closer to its end.
***
With nothing but torches and candles to light the long guard roo
m, it was hard to make out the embroidery on the garment being handled, and so, eyes squinting, Effrin pursed his lips and then, finally, shook his head.
‘No?’ Bollingham said, sitting back on his bunk and scratching the back of his head in frustration.
‘No,’ Effrin confirmed.
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
‘Just, because?’ Bollingham held his hand out and Effrin threw him the garment.
‘Yes, just because.’
‘Ye can’t be saying that mate, what’s yer reason? I think she’d love it!’
‘Oh yes?’ Effrin said, moving across to his own bunk and dropping hard onto it. ‘Well you would, you’re trying to sell me the damned thing and for five pennies. You’re a thief not a city guardsman.’
‘Ha! That’s a good one,’ Bollingham said, holding both of his hands up. ‘Ye got me, cleric, ye got me good. Take me to the magistrates now before I leave the city.’
‘You can’t leave the city, it’s quarantined and you know it, they’ve just announced it not a moment ago,’ the young cleric said, whilst plucking obvious bits of black fluff off of his white robes.
‘Quarawhat?’
‘Quarantined, Bolly, locked down, closed, shut—’
‘Aye, I get it ye posh git, we don’t all get schooled ye know.’ Bollingham held the black garment to his nose and smelt it audibly. ‘Mmm… still smells of her.’
Effrin’s eyes widened as he sat up in his bunk and looked across at the man opposite. ‘Its second-hand?’ he asked, before screwing his face up in genuine disgust at Bollingham’s grinning nod. ‘And here I was thinking you were bad enough for wearing those green pantaloons.’
‘He better be bloody joking, Bolly?’ Biviano said, as he stumbled into the guard room, a clearly dazed Sears leaning heavily on his shoulder.
‘Cheers Effrin, ye prick,’ Bollingham muttered, before realising Sears was injured and not drunk. He jumped up to help his two fellow guardsmen, the cleric close behind him.
‘Put him on my bunk, quick,’ Effrin said, whilst pulling the ruffled sheet off to reveal a relatively clean straw-filled mattress below.
Biviano and Bollingham lowered Sears onto his back and Effrin swung the big man’s legs up onto the bed. ‘How long has he been like this?’
‘Too long,’ Biviano said. ‘He was slipping to and fro on the way here, muttering shit as usual.’
‘Stabbed?’ Effrin asked, fingering the hole in the big man’s maille hauberk, where something had split the links and pushed them through the padding below.
‘Small crossbow bolt. He pulled it out himself.’
Effrin shook his head and crouched down to a small chest by his bunk. He opened it and rummaged inside before pulling out bandages and a pair of long nose pliers.
Bollingham screwed his face up. ‘He was shot in Park District?’
‘Aye,’ Biviano said, crouching down to be level with his unconscious friend, ‘bastard witchunters believe it or not.’
‘Samorl’s hairy balls,’ Bollingham said, looking from Biviano to Sears’ wound and back.
‘Ye could say that, Bolly, there were two of ’em,’ Biviano said, laughing at his own joke, before turning back to Sears. ‘He gonna be alright, Effrin?’
The cleric was working on the wound, pouring something Biviano thought smelt like pig shit onto it, before reaching messily in with long nose pliers as he replied. ‘Yes, he’s healing already in fact and I’m yet to perform any healing spell, but I need to get any broken maille links out first. You give him something, Biviano?’
Biviano shrugged and changed the subject. Effrin wasn’t surprised.
‘I need Gitsham and his hound?’
‘Ye take a knock to the head man?’ Bollingham rapped his knuckles on Biviano’s kettle-helm and Effrin smiled. ‘No one can ever be arsed working wi’ that man and his mutt. Flay me, but working and talking to him’s like trying to get blood with a stone.’
‘From a stone,’ Effrin said, whilst holding his hand over Sears’ wound and closing his eyes, satisfied he'd removed all the broken links.
Bollingham nodded towards the cleric. ‘He’s been schooled, ye know.’
Biviano smiled before pressing, ‘So, where is he?’
‘Gitsham?’ Bollingham said. ‘Out and I don’t know when he’s back in.’
‘Good,’ Effrin said, opening his eyes to look at Biviano, ‘because this one,’ he nodded at Sears, ‘and you, need rest before you go back out, and especially if it’s to do the sort of thing I can only imagine you two would be doing after something like this.’
Biviano shrugged. ‘Whatever ye say, cleric. We can wait for Gitsham here, rest up and when we’re ready, see what his hound can find. We won’t act until we have something the captain can take to the magistrates, officially like.’
‘Well good luck to ye both,’ Bollingham said, moving back to his bunk and picking up a black garment of questionable description which he pressed to his face, ‘because,’ came his muffled voice, ‘ye be going wi’ out me, Biviano me boy.’
‘Ye scared of the Samorlian’s, Bolly?’
‘No mate, I’m scared of the plague and I ain’t leaving this damned room until it’s gone, orders or no orders, otherwise I’d be right with ye both.’
Biviano nodded, knowing it to be true. His eyes suddenly widened as Bollingham’s words sank in. ‘Plague?’
‘Aye, that’s what they’re saying the illness that’s been knocking about is,’ Bollingham confirmed.
Biviano looked to the cleric, Effrin, for real confirmation.
‘It’s just been announced, to us at least.’
Biviano stared at Sears and the cleric working over him, before sighing long and hard. His mind was racing as he climbed onto the adjacent bunk and laid back. ‘Wake me if owt changes, Effrin, or if Gitsham comes in.’ I need to process what you both just said.
‘Will do,’ the cleric said.
‘Will do,’ Bollingham muffled.
Chapter 17: Quarantine
The sun was close to setting on the horizon as it lazily dipped its bottom edge into the calm sea, bathing the capital city of Altoln in a hazy red glow. Thousands of starlings flocked together, swiftly twisting and turning to create ever shifting clouds as black as night, before suddenly falling to roost on the large warehouses along Harbour Way.
Several large bonfires had been lit throughout each of the city’s districts, their columns of deathly black smoke reaching for the reddening sky. Anyone unfortunate enough to be within the immediate area of those bonfires could smell the stench of burning flesh as city guardsmen threw corpse after corpse onto the raging pyres. The guardsmen wore scarves over their faces in a feeble attempt to reduce the choking, acrid smell the burning bodies released. Others used brute force to keep families and neighbours back as their recently deceased relatives and friends were taken from their homes and thrown unceremoniously onto the fires.
Wesson’s firefighters doused thatched roofs with water throughout the city in case burning embers landed on the highly flammable rooftops, and cart men brought piles of bodies from the infirmaries where many had been kept, awaiting funeral services that would never take place. Those infirmaries now closed their doors to anyone not infected, those with other ailments being directed to makeshift infirmaries in volunteer’s houses.
Word had got out and spread fast that Wesson had the bubonic plague. Although most citizens did all they could to help the authorities, there were a great many who took the opportunity to vent whatever anger they had towards Wesson’s City Guard.
Units of guardsmen were issued with shields as well as their usual batons to protect themselves and their colleagues from thrown missiles or actual attacks. The City Guard was well-trained in riot tactics and mounted men-at-arms patrolled the streets in small groups, ready to be called to aid should their colleagues on foot need it, which they frequently did.
The two great gatehouses of Wesson were closed, their portcullises dro
pped and their wooden gates firmly shut and bolted. Signs were hammered to the wooden gates informing travellers, merchants and visitors that Wesson was closed to all; anyone found trying to enter, leave or aid anyone in either would be arrested and hung for their efforts. Many had tried to flee when they heard the gates were being closed, but a shield wall of heavily armed men as well as crossbowmen had been placed across the roads leading through both gatehouses.
The King’s navy took care of closing the port. Marines were positioned throughout the wooden jetties from the naval fort to Wesson’s cliff-side prison. The King’s men had their work cut out keeping large groups of sailors from their ships, but trained and experienced in pirate hunting, the hardened marines held their lines against the lesser armed and armoured sailors, who only half-reluctantly returned to the taverns and brothels.
King Barrison also released his most heavily built ships – cogs in most cases – which were ordered to blockade the mouth of the harbour, to stop any ships who attempted to make a run for the open sea. Messages were sent to any vessels attempting to return to Wesson, King’s ships or otherwise, that the city had been locked down and they were to try and make port elsewhere until contacted.
It was during the first deployment of King’s marines that Captain Mannino had realised – partly through having their movements followed – that the two guardsmen who’d visited him had been investigating more than murders alone, whether they knew it yet or not.
‘How'd ye mean, cap'n? Ye think there's more to all these murders about the city?’ Hitchmogh asked.
‘Not quite how I put it man, but aye, there’s more to this plague too. I’d wager Sessio on it.’
The first mate’s eyes widened and he rubbed his stubbly chin, and rubbed it a good while before pushing for clarification from his captain.
