by J. P. Ashman
No one replied to that, they just considered the implications of not reaching Ellis Frane in time.
Bollingham was the first to speak. ‘I’m surprised all this is happening for one man anyhow. Not like the nobility to push the boat out like this to save one bloke, is it?’
Biviano snarled. ‘And is that wrong, that we’re actually doing that for once?’
‘No,’ Bollingham said, holding up his hands, ‘course not. It just ain’t, is it, mate? One of us trapped and nowt would happen is all I’m saying. A royal scribe though…’ Bollingham believed he didn’t need to finish and so left his meaning to sink in, but Biviano wasn’t having it.
‘He may be one man, Bolly, but he’s been fucking stretched and gods know what else. He looks like he’s been seen to by the bloody Three, think on that.’
Bollingham grimaced at the thought.
‘Apart from that,’ Biviano went on, ‘those bastards have been raping and torturing young girls and whoever they damned well want and it’s that, not Ellis Frane poor bastard, that the constable is having us march to fix, get it?’
‘Aye, Biviano, I get it.’
Effrin put a hand on Biviano’s shoulder after glaring at Bollingham to keep his mouth shut. ‘He’ll be alright, Biviano.’
‘Sears?’ Biviano looked sidelong at Effrin.
‘I meant this Ellis Frane character, but yes, Sears too.’
Biviano nodded, although not all that convincingly.
‘Where’s Gitsham and the hound?’ he asked suddenly, looking about the guard room again.
‘Who gives a—’
‘Out,’ Effrin interrupted, and Bollingham flicked him two fingers, ‘not sure where, he just took off all of a sudden, led by Buddle.’
Biviano scratched under his arm, wincing again as he did so and nodding all the while, before moving off without a word towards his own bunk, where he picked up his short-sword and wet stone.
Effrin’s eyes followed Biviano, and Bollingham knew the cleric well enough to recognise the concern on his face.
‘What’s up, Effrin?’ Bollingham asked, as the sound of Biviano sharpening his blade added to the noise of two dozen guardsmen preparing for a fight.
‘Nothing,’ Effrin said, before moving back to his bunk too.
Liar! Bollingham closed his eyes and tried to ignore the thought of a faceless stranger being tortured by an inquisitor.
***
Beresford’s armoury was empty, with no soldiers and very few weapons. Most had probably been handed out to the town militia as the bells first rang, but luckily the group’s weapons had been thrown in a corner and wrapped in linen bundles. Mearson pulled them open and handed out the various swords and bows, as well as their quivers full of arrows and Gleave’s hand axe, as the din of a town being sacked assaulted their ears. More people screamed and loud crashes signified the collapsing of roofs as the goblins ripped their way through Beresford with vicious enthusiasm. Some men-at-arms, archers and ashmen still stood against them, but they couldn’t hold the high numbers of goblins back as they ran through the streets, dragging cowering people from their homes and butchering others where they found them.
A dog barked and then yelped just outside the door. Gleave, who'd just left the armoury, popped his head back through the open door, clearly worried.
‘They’re close, hurry,’ he shouted over the increasing noise of the people trapped on the bridge near to the armoury.
The towns folk’s rush to cross the bridge had stopped the soldiers on the far side from coming to aid their comrades. As the group buckled and looped their weapon belts and strung their bows, the last of the town’s soldiers and militia on the western bank fell to the onslaught creeping even closer to the bridge full of people, and the armoury where the group were finally ready to move on.
Gleave made way as Sav, Starks and Errolas piled out of the armoury into a savage scene. The whole area seemed ablaze and the sound of crackling fire, weakened wooden beams breaking and now horses crying out as the stables caught fire was deafening. People pushed to try and force their way across the bridge, causing others to fall from the sides into the cold water quickly flowing down from the spring melt in the mountains. A line of ashmen with a couple of archers at either side made a rough defensive line by the bridge, hindered by small groups of people who pushed their way past the spears and into the panicking crowd.
Sav, Starks and Errolas loosed their weapons as goblins raced down the street opposite them. As the two arrows and one bolt left the bows, both Errolas and Sav were knocking, drawing and loosing another shaft whilst Starks nocked the release mechanism’s nuts on his crossbow, put his foot through the loading hoop and hauled the cord back, lifting it to fit another bolt to the groove. The two archers had loosed, made their targets with deadly accuracy and nocked another shaft each on their hemp strings as Starks loosed his second bolt in time with the scout and elf ranger’s third. Eight goblins had dropped by the time Fal, Mearson and Correia left the armoury.
Sav and Errolas loosed again as Starks loaded and every time they did they scored a hit, dropping a goblin and sometimes knocking them clean off their feet. The bullish archers over by the line of ashmen did the same with their tall, immensely powerful war bows and yet still the goblins came on.
‘No way across, ma’m,’ Gleave shouted. ‘Bridge is blocked and all the boats have crossed already.’ He pointed to small wooden jetties laying empty by the river’s fast flowing waters.
Mearson looked back to the approaching goblins again. ‘Can we cross the river?’
Gleave shook his. ‘Too deep here, the current would sweep us away for sure and we’re wearing maille, mate.’ Gleave managed a grin as the realisation of that sank in with Mearson.
‘Oh aye, forget I said it will you.’ Mearson managed a nervous chuckle. Both men were seasoned veterans, but neither could see an immediate way out and they could see it in each other’s eyes. They set their jaws firm and looked to Correia for an order to attack or stay on guard, hoping she had the answer.
Before she could say anything, however, more than a score of goblins raced out from behind a nearby building and came straight at them. Three dropped immediately as Sav, Starks and Errolas planted shafts deep into them. Errolas even managed to successfully loose another swift arrow almost immediately after the first, which took the closest goblin clean off his feet, flipping him backwards into another that was running close behind.
Fal roared as he stepped forward and swung his falchion into the neck of an oncoming goblin, its head lolling as its body fell past him. Fal didn’t stop, taking another two steps forward, he pulled his seax knife from his boot and thrust it sideways into another goblin’s side as it tried to pass him and attack Starks, who was reloading his crossbow.
The goblin dropped at Starks’ feet and he kicked it in the head before lifting the weapon and loosing its bolt into the next goblin’s face.
Sav loosed another two arrows before throwing his bow back and drawing his short-sword, as did Errolas, his curved blade slashing across a goblin jumping at him, teeth bared and rusting cleaver held high.
Correia and her two pathfinders ran forward then, Mearson’s arm holding up just enough to parry a blow with his dagger before thrusting his sword into the attacker’s chest. Gleave punched one goblin in the face, smashing its jaw as he kicked out at another on his right. He sliced a deep red line across the one he’d punched and hacked into the other with his axe. Correia turned, quick stepped and spun as if in a dance, her curved blades leaving opened goblin stomachs and faces wherever they struck.
More goblins came down the street, their near-useless armour allowing the group to cut through them like a ship through water. Upon seeing the group’s success, the line of ashmen nearby ploughed forward, ramming their spears into oncoming goblins as the broad shouldered archers hung back a pace or two, loosing arrow after arrow. To draw a war bow was akin to lifting a prone man from the ground with one arm, and so the muscular sho
ulders, backs and arms of the two archers burnt under the strain of drawing their bows time and time again.
Goblin after goblin fell as they came on, either to a swift sword, arrow or a thrust of an ashman’s spear, but it was not enough. A horrific sounding horn blast erupted from the end of the street and the ground rumbled as the fire lit space filled with a mass of glistening, squealing pigs, some being ridden insanely by goblins wielding meet cleavers and axes. As they neared, the fire arrows flew and almost two dozen pigs lit up like a forest fire spreading out towards the defending men and woman. The people on the bridge that had begun to calm at the sight of the warriors to their rear panicked again, scrambling to cross the bridge, some even jumping into the cold, black water below.
The pigs came on, leaving no building safe as they ploughed through opened doors and lit up the interiors. Some careered off down side streets, but most came towards the bridge and armoury, several dropping to arrows or the flames eating through their hides. Even the handful of goblins riding the beasts were alight now, screaming as they held on for dear life, seemingly eager to make the human lines before they perished. One fell to a bolt from Starks’ crossbow, but it was far from enough.
‘In the river. Take your chances, but strip your armour quick,’ Gleave shouted, as the group backed up rapidly towards the fast moving waters behind the armoury. They started to untie leather thongs and undo buckles on various pieces of armour that would surely see them drown if left on.
As the first pig reached the line of ashmen, it was impaled and pushed aside by two spears, but the next – goblin on its back – halted suddenly at the sight of the sharp spears, dropping exhausted to burn to death as its rider was launched forward, flames following, onto the ashmen in front. The crazed goblin, barely still alive, chopped down with two cleavers, one striking home and cleaving an ashman’s unprotected head in two.
As Fal turned to make for the river – trying to pull his maille up and over his head at the same time – he caught a blacker than black shadow pass across the side of a flaming building. A cloaked figure ran then, from the shadows and into the middle of the street. Raising both arms, the figure let out a sudden rush of energy that enveloped almost all the incendiary pigs charging towards them. The energy rushed around the street and enveloped almost everything else too. The ashmen were knocked from their feet and the light of it forced Fal and everyone else watching to turn away. As the reflection died on the water, Fal turned back and saw – once his eyes had adjusted – all the fires in the immediate area were no more, and in their place lay a white blanket of what looked like snow. Icicles clung from what was left of rooftops and frozen pigs and goblins alike scattered the street almost all the way down to the end.
The small number of remaining ashmen and archers climbed to their feet, shivering as their visible breaths clouded the air about them.
The people on the bridge cheered, jumping up and down and whooping into the night sky.
Fal looked to the others and saw Errolas looking back, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, whilst Correia winked at Fal. Gleave and Mearson laughed out, slapping each other on the shoulders and jumping along with the crowd on the bridge. Sav and Starks stood with jaws hung low, looking to each other, then to the hooded figure and back again.
Fal took a step forward and the figure turned, lowered his black hood and bowed slightly to the group by the armoury.
Fal gasped. ‘Lord Severun?’
Severun simply nodded.
Chapter 34: Hold The Bridge
Exley Clewarth felt deafened by his heartbeat, his breath rasping through his dust-filled throat and the slightest of sounds made by his shuffling feet whenever he moved. He slowly crept backwards bit by bit, straining his eyes to see anything in the lightless tunnel. The strange knocking sound had stopped and all was silent; any movement he made now assaulting his ears.
He started at a sound ahead of him. He couldn’t make out what it was, but he'd definitely heard something over the din of his beating heart. He waved his bloodied rapier around to the front, hoping he would hit anything that came forward before it reached him.
A loud crack echoed off the wall to the side and he jumped away from it, cursing as he crunched into the opposite wall. Another crack and then another as something skipped across the floor and hit his leg. He stumbled backwards and fell hard as a hail of small stones rained down onto and around him from further down the tunnel. He waved his rapier around whilst covering his face with his other hand, tucking his legs in and trying to make himself as small as possible. He cursed again as something sharp caught his bare hand, blood running warm as it dripped from the cut.
‘Away,’ he yelled, waving his rapier even more fiercely than before. He pushed himself to his feet as stone after stone struck him from head to toe. Exley dived backwards as a large rock crunched down in front of him, breaking into several pieces. How he’d known to move he had no idea, perhaps it was Sir Samorl looking down on him. He backed up further and further until he found the solid wall, where he felt vibrations running through the thick stone. He crouched again, giving up on his sword and instead wrapping his head in his folded arms, screaming for whoever or whatever was attacking him to leave him be.
The wall behind him almost bounced, time and time again. It felt alive as it vibrated and shuddered.
Without warning, the blade of a miner’s pick burst through the stone inches from Exley’s head. He looked sideways and rolled away from the metal spike as it disappeared back into the hole, a thin beam of flickering, yellow light streaming through.
‘General?’ someone called, muffled by the wall and the constant barrage of stones and rocks. One struck him on the side of the head as he let his guard down to shout back through the hole. He touched his cheek, feeling the wetness of blood on his fingers before shouting back.
‘In here, hurry!’ He started waving his rapier about in front of him again and his confidence grew; he’d heard Egan Dundaven’s voice.
‘Stand back, General,’ Egan shouted, and the Witchunter General leapt back as two more pick blades punched through the stone, letting more flickering torchlight escape into the previously light-less tunnel. Exley’s eyes began to adjust, taking in a faint outlined scene ahead and around him of a floor littered with stones, small crystal tipped spears and the bloodied body of a goblin-like creature.
‘Knockers,’ he whispered with vehemence, shaking his head as more stones clattered towards him. He was thankful there had been no one present to witness his distressed actions and now embarrassment.
More stones fell from behind Exley as a large hole appeared in the wall, letting a lot more light pour through, which caused the thrown stones to stop as the kobolds backed off down the tunnel. The small creatures knew they were no match for armed humans in low and narrow tunnels and so, in the time it took the large group of men to fully break through the wall, the kobolds had disappeared completely, leaving nothing but a stone littered tunnel floor and the corpse of one of their own behind.
‘General,’ Egan Dundaven greeted, as he squeezed through the man sized hole he and the prisoners had created. Egan had ordered Monks to take some of the prisoners and find whatever they could to smash through the wall, and to his delight the picks were what they'd found.
Exley scowled at the men. ‘What took you so long?’ he said, before breaking into a huge grin and slapping Egan on the shoulder.
‘It was a set up from the start, General. The large prisoner was no prisoner at all and had led us down here to be trapped.’
‘Makes sense,’ Exley said, looking at the crumbling wall behind Egan. He prodded tenderly at the cuts on his face as he continued. ‘I don’t think they would bother to build such a trap without a good reason, and so it is, Master Dundaven, I think we have found our way under the city.’
Egan’s eyes widened as he looked around. He reached back through and was given a torch that, when brought into the narrow tunnel, showed the runes Exley had felt before
the kobolds’ attack.
‘Do you know what they are?’ Exley asked, as another witchunter clambered through the hole. ‘Bring the rest, we may have found the tunnels,’ Exley said to the second witchunter, who shouted back through for the rest to follow.
‘I’m not sure,’ Egan said. ‘They’re old, very old, but I don’t know what language. I suspect they may be magical, perhaps allowing the reader to pass through? This could be an ancient, secret way in and out of Wesson’s original castle.’ He ran his fingers over the indented runes.
‘More over here, General,’ the second witchunter said, after taking his torch further down the wall, ‘this area here.’
Exley and Egan walked over to look at what their brother witchunter was pointing at. Sure enough, there were more runes of a similar design on another section of the wall.
Exley grinned and looked back at the prisoners who were coming through the hole, picks and shovels in hands.
‘Break it down,’ he ordered, pointing at the section of wall with the second set of runes.
‘There’re bodies over here,’ a warrior monk shouted, after venturing a little further down the tunnel. ‘Looks like two prison guards, killed with a rapier I’d say.’
Exley snarled. ‘Horler Comlay.’
‘He had them two guards show him the way through it seems.’ Egan nodded appreciatively. ‘Clever.’
Exley scowled at Egan Dundaven before snatching a pick off one of the prisoners and hacking into the runes and wall himself.
***
The star-filled sky above Eatri seemed depthless as Cheung looked up into it, listening to the cicadas surrounding him, their whispering song bringing a sense of calm before a storm.
Taking in a deep breath of the cool night air, Cheung finally rose from his cross-legged position. He twisted slowly to the left, then to the right, before bending double and touching a middle finger to the tip of each soft soled boot. His loose robes made no sound as he moved. Cheung smiled inwardly, enjoying the feel of the material on his pale skin; a stark contrast to his black robes and hair.
