Black Cross

by J. P. Ashman

The masked head tilted as the man looked her up and down. She looked down at herself, at the stains of blood on her night dress and then looked back at the man, who slowly entered the room.

  Turning to look at the bloodied bed behind her, heart racing, Elleth moved to it and sat down, giving in to what was to come, but hoping whoever this man was would make it quick.

  He stood in front of Elleth now, looking down at her, the mask hiding his features and expression as he spoke in a surprisingly soft tone. ‘I’m going to ask you a question, girl, maybe more than one and I need you to be honest with me.’

  ‘Or ye’ll kill me?’ she said flatly.

  The mask turned briefly and took in the gutted man on the floor. Looking back to Elleth, the man nodded before responding. ‘Did Longoss do that?’ He jerked his thumb towards the corpse.

  Elleth simply nodded.

  ‘Did he talk to you whilst here?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he would do that,’ Elleth pointed to the dead man, ‘to any man who beat on me.’

  The mask tilted again, before nodding ever so slightly. ‘Interesting,’ he said eventually. ‘Well, I won’t beat on you girl,’ he said after a moment’s pause, ‘I give you my word.’

  ‘So did Longoss.’ Elleth heard the man swallow at that and her spark of hope returned as she realised he feared Longoss.

  Checking over his shoulder suddenly, the masked man asked, ‘Where is he now?’

  Elleth shrugged.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Doing things to please me next time he’s here.’

  He laughed. ‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same Longoss here?’

  Elleth opened her mouth to answer, but the man held up his hand.

  ‘Did he mention anything about what he does to make money? About any plans he has?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you. Now answer the question and quit stalling. He isn’t coming back here for you, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether he is or not, I’ll be dead before he gets in this room, so there’s no point telling ye any more.’ It was unnerving not seeing any reaction to her words. She’d got so used to seeing men’s anger, but this, this mask made it almost impossible to read the man stood in front of her. She expected him to react to what she said, but he just stood there, staring at her. He crouched suddenly and that made her rock back a little.

  Face to face with the blank mask, she couldn’t help but notice his grey eyes through the oval holes, eyes so like her dada’s. Elleth suddenly had to fight back the tears again and she felt her eyes moisten at the thought of her dada, the thought leading on to her mamma and brother.

  ‘I’m going to ask you one last question.’

  Elleth breathed hard as the mask came closer, its elongated tip almost pressing against her chest. His eyes didn’t blink as they bore into her.

  ‘Did Longoss swear anything else to you?’

  What a strange question? She didn’t quite know what to say, but found herself nodding.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘He swore to me he wouldn’t kill,’ she whispered, without really intending to.

  The mask moved away suddenly and looked up to the ceiling, and then the man stood, before bursting out laughing.

  Elleth flinched at the outburst and then again as he dropped back into a crouch in front of her.

  ‘You have no idea what you’ve done, do you girl? He’ll keep that promise, you know that? The stupid bastard will keep that promise, because he never breaks his word. Never! You’ve just killed him.’

  Elleth’s heart sank as the words hit her. All of what Longoss had said to her came flooding back in that moment and the sincerity in his voice; his eyes as he'd given his word to her, twice, struck her far worse than anyone else had ever done.

  Why? Why did ye do that for me? He says I’ve killed ye and his eyes don’t lie. Ye would have saved me, truly, but I’ve just killed ye by making ye swear to me and by telling him that ye did. I didn’t even put up a fight, I was so ready to die, but I didn’t think of you… Longoss, I am so sorry. Elleth couldn’t stop the tears then and she let them flow freely as the masked man stood again, grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet, before turning her round to face the bed.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered into her ear, his mask pressing against the back of her head.

  Elleth did as he asked.

  ***

  The small chapel stood on the edge of Hinton. It had a spire no taller than a large oak tree and a small bell that hardly ever rang. As the trio of black-clad men crossed the golden field of rape seed, heading towards the iron studded door of the chapel, its small bell rang in what could have been misconstrued as a warning signal. It was in fact a coincidence that the approach of the men had coincided with the marriage of a young couple.

  The groom’s father, a local farmer called Mickel, stood proud as his son took the hand of a beautiful young woman from Hinton. He'd known the girl’s father all his life and it pleased him to know her family was well liked in the village.

  It was annoying then, when the small chapel’s door swung open and a tall, hard looking man removing a wide brimmed hat strode into the ceremony unannounced. The bride and groom turned as the stranger sat on a stool at the back of the chapel and waved them on, as if it was he, not the bride-to-be’s father that was giving her away.

  Mickel turned back to the front and pushed it from his mind, happy again to see the frail old priest bless his son and new daughter. The ceremony ended with a cheer from the gathering, and two small children ran giggling down the aisle, throwing bluebell heads as the newly married couple strode down the aisle after them, their faces beaming at all who'd witnessed their joining.

  Horler Comlay stood, bowed and smiled, although the expression was not obvious, appearing more as a grimace than a smile. The bride curtseyed to the stranger and the groom offered a quick bow as they passed, their postures tensing slightly as they saw the Witchunter General’s rapier at his side. Both of their fathers nodded as they passed, their faces set like stone. The rest of the guests hurried after them, out into the sunlight and away from the chapel as fast as they dared without looking suspicious to the two witchunters who stood outside the arched doorway.

  Horler walked casually up the aisle towards the old priest. ‘Good day, Father..?’

  ‘Farrely. Good day to you too,’ the priest greeted, his arms open wide to welcome a brother Samorlian.

  The two embraced, although Horler had to bend almost double. The old priest beckoned for the Witchunter General to follow him through a small door into a back room. Upon entering, Horler was amused to see how fast the elderly man had crossed the room and collected two goblets, and was even now reaching for a dusty bottle.

  ‘Would you care for some elderflower wine, General?’ Father Farrely asked, and Horler was even more surprised his rank had been so obvious to the little man. He could easily have been a normal witchunter; he wore no symbol to advertise otherwise, yet the priest, who was pouring the wine into both goblets before Horler could accept or decline, had noted it with ease.

  ‘Thank you, father,’ Horler said, as he took the goblet. The priest motioned for him to be seated on a rather grand looking chair whilst the old man sat on a very basic stool, swatting away any attempt Horler made to swap seats.

  ‘How may I be of service to your order, General? I take it this isn’t a social visit?’ Beady eyes raced around Horler’s face as if reading him like a book and Horler couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Nothing would escape you now would it, father? I shall be frank. I respect you far too much not to be.’

  ‘I expect nothing less, General. This is my chapel after all.’ He grinned then, revealing several missing teeth.

  ‘My men and I are in need of horses. Hinton unfortunately had none for our use and we are on a desperate mission to track
down and apprehend a group of dangerous arcane mages.’ Horler added an ominous tone to the latter. Well, not exactly mages…

  The old priest didn’t seem surprised at all and merely shrugged before asking a totally random question which threw Horler completely.

  ‘How’s the old goat at the cathedral in Wesson these days? Still overweight and in need of some good hard work I’m sure our Lord Sir Samorl could prescribe?’ Again Father Farrely grinned at Horler, who couldn’t have expected anything like what he’d just heard.

  Does he mean Corlen or the Grand Inquisitor? I assume the latter, that he’s referring to my order. Horler found himself smiling back; his usual instinct to threaten or strike whoever might have insulted the Grand Inquisitor immediately draining away under the amusing grin of the old man.

  ‘Now now, Father Farrely, it’s not my place to say. If you’ll please advise me on my predicament, I would like to be on my way, to capture those whom Sir Samorl would want capturing, and leaving you to the work you must surely have to do after such a lovely ceremony.’

  The priest’s grin slipped slightly at the realisation the General was serious about not wanting his time wasting. He sighed openly.

  ‘Very well, General, we all have our own paths to take and yours must be leading you somewhere important indeed for you to need to tread it so quickly. Go back out of the chapel and head north for an hour or so, maybe less with your long legs. There you will find a farm. I say a farm because it’s made to look like one, but it’s not. Within that farm is the best chance of finding the horses you need, maybe even more men should you need them.’

  ‘What is this place you speak of?’

  Father Farrely shrugged and then drained his goblet in one go, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I don’t know what goes on there, General, I’m not a scout. What I do know is they pass this chapel on horseback often and the locals don’t go near. If they are brigands then maybe a visit from you will not go amiss. If they are goodly folk though General, be warned,’ the old priest slammed his goblet down suddenly and the small table next to him shook. He pointed a bony finger at the dangerous man in front of him before continuing. ‘I will not tolerate bloodshed in my parish for the sake of horses, arcane mages or any other cock and bull witchunter wild-goose chase. We may share the same faith, but that doesn't mean we share the same views on that faith. Do I make myself clear, General?’

  Horler rocked back in his seat as if struck. It had been a long time indeed since anyone had dared raise their voice to him and yet, although frail and hardly able to defend himself, the old priest had done just that. After a brief moment, Horler merely stood, raised his goblet and then drained it in response, unsure what else he could do. He gently placed the goblet on the table, nodded his thanks to Father Farrely and left the small chapel, unsure whether to laugh or curse.

  Once outside, without a word spoken to his men – who knew better than to ask where they were going – Horler Comlay set out for the place where he would shortly be acquiring horses, by whatever means necessary.

  ***

  The cell was cold and damp despite the warm spring day outside, and the man lying on the floor grunted as a heavy set guard kicked him in the ribs, forcing him to roll over and curl up in a whimpering ball.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Sir Bullen ordered. ‘I don’t think he knows any more. Take him back down and bring up the next one.’

  The brutish guard turned to face the young knight leaning against the cell’s door frame. ‘We could torture him properly sire, he’d talk then, I swear it.’ The guard prodded the prisoner with his foot.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure we could and I’m also sure he’d talk… about whatever we wanted him to. I’ve told you before, torture, to the degree you’re talking about anyway, is pointless. Push a man too far and he’ll swear blind he’s a dog if it will stop the pain. No, I don’t see the point. We’ll give them a thorough questioning, the fear of torture should get the truth from their lips and… well, this one needs to go to a separate cell from the others now doesn’t he? Otherwise he’ll tell the others there’s no need to talk because we won’t torture them.’ Sir Bullen sighed and rubbed the back of his head repeatedly. ‘Find another cell for him, and tell the men in his previous cell this one’s been strung up.’

  The guard grunted as he lifted the stinking, flea-bitten man to his feet with one hand.

  Moving from the doorway, the prison’s Castellan looked on as the guard dragged the prisoner past and headed off down a gently sloping corridor. Pressing his hand to his mouth, Sir Bullen yawned. When did I last sleep? It seems an age ago.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor from the opposite direction as soon as the guard and prisoner had left. The well-dressed knight turned to see another guard walking quickly towards him, a worried look upon his face.

  ‘Milord,’ the guard said as he approached.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Sir Bullen replied irritably. There had been no rest since the prisoners had escaped, and even less since the disappearance of a Samorlian Witchunter General. Sir Bullen had been questioning prisoners from the lower levels ever since, and had received numerous letters and messengers from various lords of Wesson, all demanding to know what was going on in the prison.

  He had even – much to his annoyance, wishing he’d had it sooner – received a letter from the Duke of Yewdale himself, stating the Samorlian Grand Inquisitor no longer held any jurisdiction anywhere in the city, or kingdom for that matter, without the signed authorisation of a high lord or the King himself. Oh, how Sir Bullen would have loved to have waved that order in the face of Horler Comlay when he'd stormed through the prison before disappearing.

  The bastard’s lying dead in some prisoner’s cell I’d wager.

  The guard who stood biting his lip in front of Sir Bullen looked worried, the Castellan’s mood not helping matters, and so Sir Bullen made a point of visibly relaxing before asking again, in a calmer voice, ‘what’s the matter Andrel?’

  ‘It’s the Samorlian Church, milord.’ The young guard shifted from foot to foot, nervously twisting his hand around the hilt of his sheathed falchion.

  Sir Bullen felt his temper rise again and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘What about them?’ he asked, as politely as he could.

  Andrel seemed to relax slightly before continuing.

  ‘Well sire… they’re here, at the prison gate.’

  Sir Bullen looked away for a second, brow furrowed, and then back again, not sure what he was hearing. ‘They’re here?’

  ‘Aye, milord.’ Andrel tensed again upon seeing his lord do the same.

  ‘Well who, the whole bloody church? What do you mean “they’re here?”’

  ‘About forty of ’em, milord…’

  You couldn’t count to forty.

  ‘…witchunters, warrior monks, the lot. There’s a Witchunter General asking for you personally. We told him to wait outside while I came to fetch you.’

  Sir Bullen swallowed hard. He was afraid of no fight. Well, that wasn’t true. No sane man was fearless before or during a fight. It was fear that gave them the energy, courage and strength to do what was needed, but Sir Bullen would never back down from one, he had proved that time and time again. Alas, the Samorlian witchunters were another matter, and he'd seen them in action in his home town years before. His father had called them in to deal with a werewolf when his own retainers had failed. The witchunter, a single man, tore the beast to shreds. Sir Bullen didn’t see it happen of course, but the man had brought it with him after he'd killed it, to prove the deed was done. It wasn’t that which had bothered the young man though. It was the family the witchunter had taken to the inquisitors afterwards, claiming they were in league with the werewolf. The family never returned to their home and were never seen again. Even his father dared not call upon the witchunter to explain himself, and it was his father’s fear that had scared Sir Bullen the most.

  ‘It’s different here,’ Sir Bullen muttered.

&nb
sp; Andrel looked confused, but didn’t dare ask what his lord meant.

  ‘The letter sent to me by Lord Yewdale, take it to the main gate immediately and await me there.’

  Andrel nodded swiftly before running back up the corridor.

  Sir Bullen set off at a fast pace and then hesitated at a junction in the corridor. Instead of going directly to the gate, he took a longer route via his chamber, where he ordered the guard by his door to help him on with his harness of armour.

  Blued steel pouldrons on his shoulders linked to articulated plate arms and fingered gauntlets. He pulled on a padded arming cap and his maille coif which the guard tied down to his coat of plates, now hidden beneath his knee-length, thick woollen surcoat. The surcoat was bright and the stitching was of the top most quality, bearing a black griffon rampant on a yellow field.

  The guard crouched then, and strapped on Sir Bullen’s articulated leg armour.

  Articulated plate was the most sought after armour from the master smiths in Sirreta, and all the lords and knights who could afford it – and even some who couldn’t – spent months of wages or loans on the custom made steel.

  Lastly, the guard fitted the young knight’s long, pattern stitched sword belt; with Sir Bullen’s scabbard hanging down from the left hand side. He sheathed the fine blade passed to him by his former liege lord, the last Castellan, and was finally ready. Ready to meet the force stood at his prison’s gate, and if needs be, to defend that gate, his men and his honour.

  Sir Bullen padded across the stone floor in soft leather boots, his maille rustling against his plate as he walked to the main gate. He’d ordered his room guard to follow. Having donned all of his wealth, there was no reason for his room to be guarded.

  I’ve a feeling I’ll need every one of my men for this encounter.

  ***

  It was a long walk through the streets from the Samorlian Cathedral to Mother’s, which lay in the heart of Dockside. The small group had avoided a patrol of city guardsmen upon Longoss’ request, much to the annoyance of Sears and especially Biviano, but both of them knew they needed to help the man rescue Elleth and they didn’t want to do anything to risk that, never mind finding out about the Black Guild’s latest mark.