by J. P. Ashman
Everyone was alright, physically, but far from alright with regards to leaving the town to fend for itself.
‘We need to make for the bridge,’ Gleave said, pointing the way, just as a hail of fire arrows struck the buildings around them. People screamed and dogs barked, one ran into the street and was struck by an unseen, unlit arrow that killed it instantly.
‘The horses… our weapons,’ Sav said, his voice utterly dejected, ‘they won’t have been taken across yet.’ He too had witnessed farms overrun by goblins, had witnessed what they did to people, to children, and he fought against the memories as the thought of leaving these people behind weighed on him tremendously.
‘I’m staying,’ Starks announced. ‘I can man the wall with my crossbow, it’s far better for the town’s defence than in the field.’ He looked around for someone to agree, to give him leave to run to the wall; to aid the men who were screaming orders and crying out in pain. They were easily heard, even from so far away.
‘No,’ Correia said, surprising Starks. ‘You were assigned to me and I want you with us. You’re a brave soldier, Starks, and I might not be one to normally say it, but I feel safer with us all together. That means you too.’
Starks might have felt pride if he didn’t feel so torn between the group and the town he so wanted to defend. In the end he merely nodded, resigning himself to a mission he'd accepted back in Wesson.
The warning bells changed suddenly, rang faster.
Gleave cursed and looked about the group. ‘They’re in!’ He took a step forward to scan the streets towards the wall.
‘Surely not already?’ Fal mirrored Gleave, searching the flickering orange light of the streets for signs of none human movement. The occasional townsperson ran past, some with buckets of water, but the fires were spreading too fast for that now.
‘The Earl of Beresford is in Wesson,’ Correia said. She too was scanning the darkness. ‘He was there with a large contingent of men when the King ordered the quarantine. It will have seriously depleted the garrison here,’ she explained, answering the question of how the goblins could have breached such a well defended town. ‘We need to move to the bridge and quick.’
‘We need our weapons,’ Sav protested, and Correia hesitated.
‘To the armoury then. It’s near the bridge anyway. Hurry!’ she shouted, after looking back down the street they'd travelled. She’d seen a man with a water bucket run between two buildings before being hit by a fire arrow in the back. The arrow had come from ground level.
‘Shit! Move, quick,’ Gleave shouted, and the group bolted with nothing but knives and daggers in their hands.
Mearson led the group past the inn they’d been heading to, down a side street and out onto a wider street. They looked down it, away from the bridge and towards the wall where they saw strange looking dogs running in and out of buildings not yet alight.
Over a dozen ashmen ran into the street further up from the group then. They set their long spears towards the wall. One row stood, whilst the others knelt in front, creating a linear schiltron across the street. A crowd of goblins, the tallest no more than four and a half feet, came screeching round a corner from the direction of the main gate. The goblins loosed their small, wood and bone re-curve bows and three of the ashmen in the defensive line dropped immediately, one rolling and crying out from the arrow embedded in his leg. The other two were dead.
The goblins, small as they were with beady eyes and greasy pock marked skin, bared their crooked teeth at the ashmen before surging forward. Many of them leapt without any sense of self-preservation onto the bristling wall of spears. Several were skewered, but more came on, throwing hand axes and loosing their short arrows at point blank range. The ashmen fought well, but without shields to defend against the missiles, they took serious losses. After using their spears to kill the first wave of goblins, the half dozen ashmen who still stood drew axes, short-swords and small maces, ready for the next group that were even now charging down the street, howling like banshees.
The goblins stopped then as a line, throwing insults and missiles alike at the remaining ashmen. Laughing and pointing, jumping up and down, they suddenly howled to the sky as a dozen pigs appeared, pushing their way out from the centre of the goblins. Not wild boars, but simple farm pigs, squealing and kicking as a handful of goblins prodded them forward with crude spears of their own.
The pigs, which had the light of the burning buildings glistening off their wet hides, charged forward to escape their tormentors. The ashmen, as nervous as they were at the loss of their companions, looked to each other in confusion.
From the line of goblins, two small archers stepped forward with fire arrows nocked on their bowstrings. They loosed their burning arrows at the pigs then and the creatures erupted into flames, squealing insanely as they bustled into each other, spreading the fire across the oil painted over their bodies.
The ashmen broke, running for the cover of open doors and side streets as the crazed animals crashed into buildings and ashmen alike, desperately trying to escape the searing flames blistering their skin. The houses nearby went up like bonfires and the soldiers and families within screamed as the goblins lurched forward again, laughing and howling to the sky in triumph.
The foul creatures smashed windows and doors, piling into the few buildings yet to catch fire on the street, but many more headed for the bridge.
Fal’s group, hardly believing what they'd just witnessed, ran on as fast as they could. They continued to follow Mearson, and eventually, as a group, burst through the door of the armoury by the river, but not before they noticed the crowd of fleeing people blocking the bridge to the other side.
***
Poi Son looked long and hard at the elongated white mask sat on the table in front of him. The mask’s wearer sat opposite him as a lithe woman in tight-fitted, boiled leather armour paced the richly decorated room.
‘Is he still in Dockside?’ Poi Son asked, still looking at the mask.
The female assassin stopped, her plaited golden hair swaying at her back as she turned on the guild master.
Without looking up, Poi Son nodded and said, ‘I take it from that look of annoyance at my question, Terrina, he is?’
‘Well give us some bloody credit. You did say have him watched,’ she said, before continuing her pacing.
The usually masked assassin opposite Poi Son failed to hide his amusement at the woman’s tone.
Poi Son looked up, one eyebrow raised as he began to pluck a single string on the black lacquered lute in his lap.
‘Well come on, Master Son,’ the handsome assassin said, folding his arms across his chest under the guild master’s gaze, ‘she’s hardly going to be pleased about this mark, is she?’
The plucking stopped.
‘You’ve both taken marks on fellow guild members before.’
Both assassins glanced sideways to one another briefly then, neither of them knowing the other had killed a fellow guild member before.
‘But, Longoss?’ the man sat opposite Poi Son said eventually, his head subtly tilting so Terrina was never out of his sight.
‘He refused a mark, an important mark.’ Poi Son resumed the plucking of his lute. ‘And that holds consequences.’
‘Aye, Master Son, for a street-assassin maybe, but Longoss?’ The male assassin shook his head. ‘No. One mark passed isn’t worth losing him over. He’s too great an asset to this guild and you know it.’
‘I would normally agree, Blanck, but this time I cannot allow it to go unpunished.’
‘So he’s offered to the both of us as a mark, just like that?’ Terrina said, moving behind Blanck, much to the man’s annoyance.
Poi Son shook his head. ‘To most of the guild,’ he said flatly.
Blank stood up then and moved away from the chair, clearly outraged, although both Terrina and Poi Son realised it was partly so he could keep the female assassin in his sights.
‘That’s unheard of.’ Blanck di
d well to keep the anger from his voice.
‘It’s bollocks is what it is,’ Terrina said.
Poi Son looked to both assassins whilst saying in a most serious manner, ‘The mark Longoss has turned down is of such a status, of such import to me – to this guild – that I need him and his companions silenced immediately. He was offered a second chance if that satisfies you both, but turned it down. Not only did he turn it down, but he threatened this guild and all of its members, you two included. So yes, I have offered the mark to all available assassins.’
‘You threatened his girl,’ Blanck said. ‘That’ll be why he threatened the guild. She was likely the first one to ever like the ugly bastard. Gods, she even managed to have him swear not to kill for crying out loud!’
Terrina laughed. ‘You killed the whore, Blanck, so don’t go bleating about threats made by Master Son to some bitch Longoss was shafting and paying to do so.’
Poi Son winced every time Terrina swore whilst Blanck raised his middle finger towards the woman, who mimicked licking it, to which Blanck couldn’t help but smile.
Poi Son twanged a string on his lute, bringing both their attentions swiftly back to him.
‘Both of you listen,’ he said, suddenly sounding very dangerous indeed. ‘There is more than both of you can imagine riding on this mark, and as I just said, I need Longoss and his companions, whoever they are; whore, guardsman or god I don’t care, killed and killed yesterday. As you just said, he swore not to kill again and we all know Longoss’ word is final. So no, he is no longer an asset to this guild. He is a liability and nothing more. Do I make myself clear?’
Both assassins nodded their heads and neither commented on – then or at any time in their futures – how scared Poi Son had looked, despite his attempts not to, whenever he mentioned the importance of the mark.
‘We’ll find him,’ Blanck said, and Terrina nodded her agreement as she moved across to the table, lifted the white mask and threw it to her brother.
As the siblings were both leaving, Blanck turned and from behind his mask asked one last question. ‘Do the other masters agree on this, Master Son?’
‘They don’t know about this, nor shall they. Am I understood, Blanck?’
Was that fear in your eyes again, Poi Son? The white mask nodded, although the assassin behind it balked at the depth of Poi Son’s answer. How has he ensured that? Mind you, there’s no way either of us would betray a guild master, even to another, that’s a sure way to end up with a mark on your own back. His mind drifted to his new mark then, as he left the room and followed his sister down the corridor.
Longoss, you fool, you had it made in this guild, why throw it all away for a whore? We may not have told the old coot in there, but we know where you are old boy and we’re coming for you, whether you, or we, like it or not.
***
The goblin chief grinned as he strode down a wide street, before having two young, smoke blackened human girls thrust at his feet. He looked around at his bodyguards, and made a crude gesture towards the girls that they all howled and laughed at.
He was in his element. His tribe’s numbers had grown considerably as he’d travelled down from the Norlechlan Mountains just days ago; travelling fast towards this very goal. He remembered a most vivid dream then, of this very scene playing out before him, which proved all he'd been told was indeed true. A voice had boomed in his head, telling him to march south, amongst other things, and upon waking the next day, two whole tribes had come to pay homage to him. Where they'd come from he hadn’t bothered to ask. Why question a gift from the gods below? So he’d called the camp to break and march, to march for victory against the humans of Altoln.
They called him The Red Goblin, a simple but effective name, for he'd been born with crimson skin, unlike the usual greyish-green skin of his people. Thanks to that simple fact, he'd been revered as a chief sent by the Blood God himself.
As The Red Goblin stood overlooking the sacking of one of the largest northern towns of Altoln, he grinned and silently thanked the voice that had spoken to him in his sleep; the voice had since sent the emissary, Dignaaln, to him in person, a powerful emissary that had imbued upon him an incredible gift from his new master.
Master… He snarled as he said the word in his head.
He hadn’t relished the thought of serving another, not after his success as a chieftain, but he knew without doubt it was his new master that had allowed him to come this far; a master that asked only enjoyable things of him. A master none would deny.
Despite the latter, The Red Goblin laughed aloud, triggering more of the same from the goblins around him. His mirth came easily since the gifts he’d been given, and the pleasure he would take in carrying out the simple tasks his master required of him promised more to come.
Taking a deep breath and enjoying the smells of a dying town, the goblin chieftain thought back to his victory over the human army that had marched against him. He grinned again, knowing his master would be pleased with the outcome, as he would with the goblin horde ripping through the town of Beresford; murdering, raping and doing whatever they wished to its occupants.
Chaos is what he wants and chaos is what I do best.
The Red Goblin left his thoughts behind and nodded to the two young girls – who were crying hysterically and hugging each other tight at his feet – then to two of his personal bodyguards.
Two large hobyahs, encased in pieces of crudely forged, red iron plate, carried the screaming girls away to a large building near the breached gate, which The Red Goblin had taken as his own. Normally feared by goblins due to their size and cannibalistic tendencies, the chieftain’s hobyahs had been trained to protect him until death, and extremely loyal they were, especially since he'd started feeding them goblins that he suspected of treachery, or ones that merely annoyed him.
Rolling his shoulders and then snarling at those closest to him, The Red Goblin set off down the street and continued with his inspection of the town’s sacking. He smiled to himself as he witnessed the unfolding destruction and horrors his tribe was capable of, and wondered all the while what else his master would do for him as he continued to carry out the enjoyable tasks bestowed upon him.
***
The long guard room of the barracks was full of noise as two dozen guardsmen readied themselves to march on the Samorlian Cathedral. Many were sharpening blades or repairing damaged links in various pieces of maille, not wanting to leave anything to chance in a possible face off against witchunters and warrior monks.
Biviano was pacing the length of his bunk as he thought about Ellis Frane, Sears and everything that had happened. He hated himself for leaving the royal scribe behind and hated himself more for leaving Sears in Dockside, although he knew Sears wouldn’t be able to live with himself if they’d left Ellis completely, nor could he if he was honest with himself.
Hold on Ellis Frane. Hold on the both of ye.
He looked up then, disappointed at the small number of men available to them. So many had failed to report for their shifts and everyone in the room feared them dead or dying, be it from the plague or the recent crime wave.
‘I see ye’re still not moving,’ Biviano said to Bollingham, who was still lying on his bunk, but now wearing fancy green pantaloons – something Biviano hadn’t missed.
‘Nope, nor will I,’ Bollingham said, without raising his head from his thin pillow, ‘especially not to assault the bloody Samorlian Cathedral, ye crazy bastards.’
‘Nor to help Sears?’ Biviano prodded Bollingham’s bare foot with his finger after moving across to the man.
‘That’s not where ye’re going though, is it?’
‘No, but it’s helping Sears, by helping another.’
Bollingham spun on his bed and stared at Biviano, clearly confused.
‘Sears stayed on in Dockside on the understanding Ellis Frane would be rescued. He’ll be destroyed if he returns and we failed, Bolly.’
Effrin walked up to stand n
ext to Biviano. ‘He’s right and you know it.’
‘Don’t you start, ye posh prick.’ Bollingham dropped his head back to his pillow.
‘Too late,’ Effrin said. ‘We need you, Bolly, as much as I hate to admit it, but we do.’
‘Listen lads, ye know I’d be there, all the way, but this plague, there ain’t no fighting it is there? People are dropping dead all over the show and I ain’t one for dying from no plague.’
‘Is anyone?’ Biviano asked.
‘Ye know what I mean.’
‘No, we don’t,’ Effrin said. ‘People are dying all over the city, Bolly, in the damned palace of all places. Even Captain Prior has it, yet you think yourself safe in this shit-hole?’
‘Ooh, you’ve got Effrin swearing now, Bolly.’ Biviano grinned and Bollingham couldn’t help but laugh as Effrin looked at them both, far from amused.
‘Anyhow,’ Biviano said, ‘ye owe me for the pantaloons.’
‘What?’ Bollingham’s mouth hung open as his brow furrowed.
‘Ye knew I had me eye on ’em and ye took ’em from the infirmary anyway.’
‘I never went to the blasted infirmary.’
‘No, you had me bring them to you,’ Effrin said. Both sets of eyes turned to him.
‘Snitch,’ Bollingham muttered, as Biviano thumped the cleric on the arm.
‘Ouch! You’re not Sears and I’m not you!’
Bollingham laughed and both turned back to him. He changed tack quickly by commenting on how long Lord Stowold was taking.
It seemed to work.
‘Too pissin’ long,’ Biviano said, kicking Bollingham’s bed.
‘He has a lot to sort out for something this big and well, let’s face it, unheard of… taking on the Samorlian Church?’ Effrin took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Biviano cursed and took another look at the guard room and its occupants. ‘Maybe, Effrin mate, but the longer we wait for Lord Stowold to sign gods know what scrolls and shit for the scribes at the palace, one of their own is waiting for us to rescue him, before he’s gutted by the shite he’s hopefully stretching as we speak.’
