by J. P. Ashman
Hooves pounding the cobbles and nostrils flaring, Biviano’s horse reached the cloaked man, who managed to jump to the side just in time. Not quick enough to avoid Biviano’s sword though, the flat of which caught the man on the side of the head, fracturing his skull and dropping him heavily to the ground where he lay still; unconscious or dead, Biviano would never know.
Gently slowing his horse, but hearing hooves coming up fast behind him, Biviano turned in time to see the green livery of the Earl of Stowold pulling alongside. The constable looked across to Biviano as he drew his maille aventail across his face, looping it over and fixing it in place on his bascinet. Retrieving his war-hammer from the saddle loop and pointing it ahead, Stowold shouted, ‘To the cathedral!’
Biviano couldn’t help but grin as the men behind cheered.
Many of the attackers had been ridden or struck down, and despite losing a couple of men, the rest of the guardsmen charged after their commander, weapons held high.
As the horsemen rode on, more attackers emerged, including a warrior monk who ran from a side street. He swung his heavy mattock at the knees of the nearest horse, which buckled under the impact, throwing the rider to the floor as the horse cried out in pain.
Effrin coughed hard as the wind left his lungs, and the pain of both of his palms burnt terribly as his skin was left behind on the cobbles he’d slid across. He knew he’d at least bruised ribs in the fall, but knew that to survive, he needed to move, and quickly.
As he managed to roll sideways, the heavy mattock that had unhorsed him cracked off the cobbles where his head had been. His heart thudded in his chest and still he struggled for breath as he looked upon the grimace of the man trying to violently steal his life away.
That grimace would haunt him, he knew, as it suddenly twisted into a sneer of disbelief and pain. A sword tip erupted from the monk’s chest. Blood spattered Effrin’s white robes as Bollingham’s face appeared behind the collapsing man, who dropped the mattock and pressed his hands against the wound. Bollingham’s sword disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and the monk slumped heavily to the ground.
‘We need to move,’ Bollingham said, looking across the street to where more cloaked figures were fighting with two mounted guardsmen. ‘Everyone’s riding on.’
Effrin nodded at his friend whilst painfully being pulled to his feet, and silently thanked Lord Stowold for forcing Bollingham to come along. Staring at his skinless palms, the cleric stumbled as Bollingham pushed him towards a chestnut horse. He looked back then and his stomach turned as he saw the dead animal he’d been riding, its face bloodied and its front legs clearly broken.
‘The bastards need pay for this,’ Effrin said with vehemence. He started as Bollingham burst out laughing.
‘That’s humans for ye,’ Bollingham said. ‘Ye can wipe out a bunch of folks, but one animal dies…’ He began laughing again whilst pulling Effrin up onto his horse.
‘It’s not funny, Bolly,’ the cleric said, whilst doing his best to hold onto the man in front of him.
‘No, Effrin, it ain’t, but if ye don’t laugh at it all, ye’d bloody well cry. Now hold on!’ Bollingham snapped the reins and the chestnut gelding shot forward, rocking the two men back slightly as it accelerated towards the Samorlian Cathedral in the distance. Another mounted guardsman fell in behind them as a couple of small crossbow bolts whipped past.
At the head of the column, the main doors of the cathedral grew larger as the riders approached at speed.
‘There’s a side door,’ Biviano shouted, noticing the main doors were unusually closed.
Stowold shook his head. ‘Main door, main door!’ he shouted, before roaring a battle cry, his war-hammer held high.
Risking a quick glance behind, Biviano wondered where Bollingham and Effrin were, but was heartened by the sight he saw; well over a dozen armed, armoured and mounted guardsmen rode hard behind him, their stern faces set and their weapons – some bloodied – drawn. Nodding with satisfaction, Biviano turned back to the cathedral and began to pull on his reins as the enormous building loomed high above, its stone grotesques and gargoyles staring back down at him.
Stowold rode his destrier up shallow steps to the double doors of the cathedral and hammered his weapon on the wood three times, denting it where it struck. ‘This is Stowold, Constable of Wesson. Open your bloody doors and bid me and my men entry, or we will enter by force!’
As the sound of hooves gradually quietened and the remaining riders arrived at the cathedral, Biviano looked across with concern as he noticed Effrin sat behind Bollingham. Effrin waved back and it wasn’t hard for Biviano to see the bloodied palms of the cleric’s hands.
‘No answer, Biviano,’ Stowold said, from behind his maille aventail. ‘It seems the Samorlian Church does not want us to enter.’
‘Perhaps ye didn’t knock hard enough, milord?’ Biviano grinned at the Earl, who laughed heartily.
‘Then I shall indeed knock louder, man. Wake the raping sacks of dung up.’ Stowold turned back to the doors of the cathedral and heaved on his destrier’s reins. The beast rose onto its back legs and snorted as it smashed its two front hooves into one of the doors. The guardsmen – who'd moved into a defensive semi-circle around the steps – cheered as their commander had his warhorse pound on the doors again and again. Although the oak doors splintered on the surface, they held strong, so Stowold turned to Biviano, shaking his head. ‘There’s nowt for it, we’ll have to use ropes and axes.’
Biviano nodded and turned to give the order. Those riding the largest horses came forwards, as the rest continued to watch for further attack. Ropes were pulled from saddle bags and tied to the handles of the large doors, the other ends threaded through the harnesses of the horses. Dismounted, the guardsmen urged their horses to pull, whilst on either side of the door, others took hafted-axes to the hinges.
With a sudden loud crack of wood, one of the doors gave way. It clattered down the cathedral steps as the three horses pulling it took off across the street, their handlers trying to slow them whilst riders pulled alongside the bucking animals. The dismounted guardsmen had no time to re-mount before Stowold reared his mount once more. He roared and charged into the cavernous building, Biviano and the rest of the mounted men close behind.
The racket the hooves caused on the stone tiles of the cathedral stunned those inside, despite their awareness of the force trying to gain entry. Those moments allowed the constable and his men to close quickly with the defenders. Several cathedral guards fell under the kicking hooves of Stowold’s destrier in the moments following his entry. His horse, once in the middle of a unit of armed men, kicked and bit, whilst Stowold himself brought his wicked hammer down on helmeted heads, the iron pots little defence against the crushing blows the experienced constable dealt them.
Biviano kicked out at a warrior monk who ran at him from down an aisle. The large man fell back, cracking his head on the end of a pew, before a dismounted city guardsman reached and finished him off. Biviano kicked his horse on, noting how far ahead Stowold had got and worrying about his lord being overrun.
‘In the name of the King,’ Stowold shouted, between colourful curses and triumphant roars. He weathered several blows from arming swords, which glanced off his decorative harness of plate. An inquisitor made to attack Stowold from behind, but just before Biviano reached the man, Stowold’s destrier kicked with both hind legs, launching the inquisitor across the floor with what Biviano swore he thought was the sound of breaking bones, despite the clash of metal on metal and hoof on stone.
‘Biviano,’ Stowold shouted, as Biviano dropped from his horse, preferring to fight on foot. He ducked as soon as he landed, barely missing a slicing swing from a cathedral guard’s sword. ‘Bit busy, milord,’ he shouted back, parrying another attack from the same man, before lunging and swinging in return.
‘Make for your prisoner!’ Stowold kicked out, breaking the jaw of one man whilst stabbing the top spike of his weapon through the
face of another. ‘I’m for the upper levels and the Grand Bastard. First unit with me!’ he shouted, ‘second with Biviano!’ He kicked his destrier towards the back of the cathedral and several still mounted guardsmen surged forward, following their commander through the defenders.
One guardsman was knocked from his horse by a poleaxe, and before he could climb to his feet or be rescued, he was run through. Grimacing at the sight, Biviano shouted, ‘with me!’ and ran for the side door he knew would lead them to the lower levels. He was pleased to see both Bollingham and Effrin in his unit – the latter doing his best to avoid combat, cradling his hands and looking extremely worried.
‘Stay close to us, Effrin,’ Biviano shouted. The cleric nodded, his eyes darting here and there as men yelled in anger and pain. ‘We make for Ellis Frane and it’s then we may need ye,’ Biviano said as he plunged through the door. Although I hope to the gods we don’t.
***
The sun sat high in the sky, its bright light warming the tired group as their horses carried them further to the east, away from the winding River Norln. The sparse woodland had been left behind and the group’s horses now walked a narrow path through vast wetlands fed by large lakes to the north. A warm breeze rustled through the reeds flanking the narrow path of dry ground, as dragonflies and warblers flitted from reed to reed.
A low, eerie booming began not far from where the riders travelled.
Starks, who'd been nodding off, was clearly startled by the sound. He spun left and right in his saddle, looking for the source.
‘Nice of you to join us,’ Sav said, who rode behind the young crossbowman.
‘What’s that noise?’ Starks looked around, fumbling with his crossbow as Sav laughed.
Errolas appeared on foot at Starks’ side, leading his horse and smiling up at the young man. ‘It’s a bird, Starks. Don’t mind, Sav, you weren’t to know. Caught you dozing did it?’
‘Yeah, sorry, Errolas, I haven’t slept in days, but I suppose you haven’t either. It won’t happen again… A bird you say?’ Starks let his crossbow down so it hung from the saddle again as he looked around once more, trying to see where the deep booming sound was coming from.
‘Don’t apologise,’ Fal said, ‘you’re not used to travelling is all, but you’re reliable in a scrape and that’s all that matters.’
‘He’s right Starks.’ Errolas patted Starks’ horse on the neck as he walked along. ‘You get some sleep while you can and as for the bird, it’s called a bittern and it’s harmless. You won’t see it though. They live deep in the reeds.’ Errolas waved his hand across the expanse of wetlands surrounding them.
The bittern boomed again.
Starks smiled and looked out anyway, his eyes flicking from small birds to insects as they darted around in the sun. ‘I ain’t half hungry,' he said, turning to rummage in his saddle bags.
‘You can’t have eaten your supplies already, surely?’ Sav laughed and Starks reddened.
‘I’m a growing lad, ain’t that right, Sarge?’
Fal laughed before answering. ‘That’s dead right, Starks. Sav, give him some of yours for winding him up.’
Starks heard Sav sigh from behind and turned to tell him it didn’t matter, just as a lump of bread was thrown at him. He caught it quickly and smiled as Sav winked at him, stuffing some into his own mouth.
The group had pushed their horses hard after leaving the riverside and wooded areas, until they'd reached the wetlands and reed beds where such speed could prove fatal to their horses.
‘We will be getting close to my forest come evening, but it would be best to stop and camp, and finish the journey in the morning I think. Give the horses a rest… and us.’ Errolas moved up to walk next to Fal.
‘I’ve got to say, Errolas, I’m looking forward to seeing your home. It’s something I never thought I’d see.’ Fal was positively beaming at the thought.
Errolas smiled in return. ‘It still surprises me after so many years. It is quite a remarkable place I must say, the way most of the realm would still be if… well…’
‘If it wasn’t for humans?’ Fal asked knowingly.
‘Yes. No, I don’t mean that… well, not all humans are like you and your friends Fal. Some are bent on destroying woodland and nature itself, for no better reasons than self-gain and profit. You have to work with nature for it and you to prosper, it’s the only way. Yours is a young race in the grand scheme of things. I’m sure humanity in general will learn.’
‘Like the dwarves learnt?’ Fal smiled at the elf.
Errolas laughed. ‘I see your point. Well, I hold out more hope for your kind than theirs. They don’t care for much other than their own wealth, at all.’
The reed beds thinned out considerably on the group’s right then as they walked on, and opened up to fields of tall grass, bushes and the odd gnarled tree. Sav rode up to Fal’s left and Severun to the elf’s right. Errolas mounted the horse he'd been leading and all four rode abreast.
‘What’re you talking about?’ Sav asked nosily, and Fal rolled his eyes.
‘Have to be a part of it, don’t you eh?’ Fal said. Sav grinned and motioned for them to go on. ‘We were talking about Errolas’ home, about nature and the lack of respect for it by us humans, and dwarves, but I’m sure you know about all that, eh?’
Sav nodded. ‘See it all the time, people trapping animals for fur, don’t even eat the meat half the time. Loggers cut down trees with nothing to build, in a hope to sell the wood. Have to make a living I suppose, but Altoln could manage it in better ways I’m sure.’
‘There are many things we could change to improve things for ourselves,’ Severun said. ‘I just wish I’d devoted myself to something worthwhile.’ The wizard sighed heavily, his head held low.
‘Now now, Lord Severun,’ Sav said, ‘we all know you thought you were doing good. Let’s just leave that subject for now shall we?
‘As for the Samorlian Church,’ Sav added. He snarled. ‘Their fabricated shite concerns me much more; a law unto themselves that bunch.’
‘That they may be, but it’s far from made up what they believe,’ Severun said, surprising Fal and Sav both. ‘It may be twisted to suit them, but it’s not that far from the truth.’
‘I always believed there was probably a knight called Sir Samorl,’ Sav said, ‘and he most likely did fight in a large war against someone or other, but… snake people?’ Sav laughed. ‘I mean, come on? That’s ridiculous. I’ve never heard of the… what do they call them, the Naga?’
Severun nodded. ‘Yes, Sav, hence Naga Pass.’
Sav conceded the point, but continued all the same. ‘Well that may be, but I’ve never heard anything about them after the time in which the Samorlian story is set, and I’ve certainly never seen one, how about you Errolas?’
Errolas glanced at Severun as Correia turned in her saddle and looked at both the elf and wizard, but it was Fal who spoke next, surprising Sav. ‘I have,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘You have what? Seen one of these Naga?’ Sav asked, unconvinced.
Fal shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve heard of them, when I was small. Scary stories told to keep the children out of the jungle in Orismar, or so I thought, until my parents brought me to Wesson and there was a whole religion based around a war against them. Makes me wonder if the stories back home were true?’ There was no hint of amusement in Fal’s voice or expression and Sav knew him well enough to know he was telling the truth. Correia and Errolas shot each other worried glances that Fal noticed, but he said nothing.
‘So the Naga were real and still are?’ Sav asked, to anyone who might give him a straight answer.
‘Oh, they were real enough,’ Severun said, ‘I’m not sure about now, but—’
‘They’re still alive, yes, in the east,’ Errolas said, cutting the wizard off, ‘on the open planes where they originally came from.’
Severun looked to Errolas, clearly surprised. ‘I thought all the Naga were wiped out du
ring the final battle, when Sir Samorl was killed?’
Errolas shook his head. ‘Not all. Most, yes, but several hundred returned home under our protection.’
‘What?’ Sav looked stunned. ‘As I remember it, from what I’ve always been told about that damned religion and their beliefs anyway, the Naga invaded Altoln and we fought running battles until, eventually, a mighty Altolnan army faced them with the help of your people. So why The Three would you then help the survivors escape?’ Sav seemed quite offended by the idea which surprised Fal, who knew how much the scout hated the religion from whence his information came.
Errolas allowed Sav to finish before correcting him. ‘Again, you know only what the Samorlian Church bands about with its writings of events, twisted and changed over two millennia. We know exactly what happened because we recorded it and have never changed what was written. We also have two living elders who were there when it all happened.’ Errolas smiled at the reaction to the latter.
‘Two who’re still…’ Fal didn’t feel the need to finish what he was saying and instead started to say, ‘They must be—’
‘Over two thousand years old, yes,’ Errolas finished, ‘and extremely old even for my kind. They are siblings, brother and sister and powerful arch mages too. They fought in the final battle against Crackador and his terrible Naga army.’
‘Crackador, the black dragon?’ Sav was clearly more than a little sceptical. ‘The one they say Sir Samorl killed with a bloody wooden lance?’
Errolas sort of nodded although his eyes flicked briefly to Severun, who snorted at the statement. Everyone looked to the wizard who sighed before continuing the history lesson.
‘Crackador was a rare great-dragon, a huge beast, but rarer still, as you said Sav, he was a black dragon. However, lucky for us at the time, he was young, for a dragon anyway, and rash. The Naga were, or are still it seems,’ Severun looked to Errolas, who nodded, ‘an unnatural race. They were human once, much like us until Crackador, who commanded immense arcane abilities, cursed their entire nation. Hundreds of thousands of humans were cursed, creating the mutations that were, sorry are, the race we call the Naga. He wanted, we can only assume, a nation of acolytes to worship him, pander to him, bring him wealth to store at his feet… it isn’t beyond reason to assume he wanted to be thought of and treated as a god—’
