by J. P. Ashman
Ready or not Longoss, here we come.
Chapter 38: Negotiation
The heavy wooden door creaked as Orix opened it. He, along with everyone in the room, winced, not wanting to give their enemy any prior warning of the master cleric’s approach. Morri, along with the battle mage, other clerics and the newly arrived sergeant-at-arms who'd managed to make it away from the continuing riot above their heads, had argued against Orix’s decision to go, but the old gnome had insisted. He'd made it clear how devastating to both the guild and city it would be if but a quarter of the artefacts and knowledge held in the vaults were to fall into the Witchunter General’s hands. And so in the end, knowing him to be right, everyone in the room had reluctantly agreed to let Orix go.
The small gnome tiptoed down the stone steps, jumping slightly as the door behind him quietly squeaked and clicked shut; his whole body went rigid as he expected someone to grab him from the darkness below. He had naught but a small candle in his hand, and when he reached the door at the bottom, he knocked swiftly before turning to run half way back up the steps.
He was too slow.
As soon as he knocked on the door and turned, it opened. A strong, pale hand gripped his arm and dragged him through. His candle fell and broke on the corner of the bottom step, blinking out as he was dragged into the torch-lit room. He tried to cry out, but a hand clamped tight over his mouth, making it hard for him to breath. He kicked wildly with his short legs, causing an outburst of mocking laughter from the men surrounding him, and before he could think of anything else, a sharp pain stung the back of his head and the room fell away into darkness.
***
The smell of smoke, sweat, blood and piss filled Biviano’s nose as he stepped over the dead bodies of numerous cathedral guards and two city guardsmen. His stomach twisted at the sight. He could hardly believe how many had been lost in the assault, including all of the men in his unit bar Effrin and Bollingham. These bodies, however, were those of Lord Stowold’s unit. They lay at the base of the stairs leading up to the Grand Inquisitor’s quarters.
All had been quiet in the small corridor, so the sudden sound of footsteps descending the curling stairs caused Biviano to hesitate at the first step. He looked to Bollingham and held up his hand. Bollingham turned and motioned for Effrin to move back with Ellis Frane, who was staring at the bodies littering the floor, mouth open and head slowly shaking.
‘Armour,’ Bollingham mouthed. Biviano nodded, for it was now clear whoever was approaching them was wearing at least maille armour, possibly even plate. Bollingham held up one finger, cocked his head to the side and then held up two. Biviano shrugged, unable to tell how many there were. As the footsteps drew closer, Biviano breathed a sigh of relief; a familiar voice echoed off the stone walls and then another replied.
‘Lord Stowold?’ Biviano asked loudly.
‘Aye, it’s me,’ the constable said as he rounded the curve in the stairwell. ‘How fair you, Biviano?’ Stowold was clearly injured, although not badly. He was carrying his shield arm awkwardly across his chest whilst his squire, who appeared behind him, deftly carried his shield and helmet, as well as his own bloodied arming sword.
‘We have Ellis Frane, milord, but we lost many.’ It pained Biviano to say it out loud and that pain was mirrored in Stowold’s eyes as he nodded.
‘Aye, me too, man, and no bastard Grand Inquisitor to be found.’
Biviano sighed hard, sheathing his sword. ‘I’m sorry, milord. I’d hoped he would’ve returned.’
Stowold shook his head as Biviano spoke. ‘I’ll have none of that. We needed to show them they weren’t above the law whether he was here or not, and we have.’
Biviano and the others nodded, but their faces betrayed their frustrations.
‘Are all lost, my lord?’ Effrin asked, of those who'd accompanied Stowold.
‘No, cleric, I lost the two at your feet, my remaining men are securing the upper levels. I need three to secure the main door though and you three are it.’
‘We have news though,’ Biviano said, nodding back to Ellis Frane, whose eyes remained on the dead men.
‘Go on.’ Stowold motioned for all to follow as he moved back towards the cathedral proper.
Biviano continued whilst walking at Stowold’s side. ‘Ellis Frane has warned us that the witchunters are to assault the Wizards and Sorcery Guild from ancient tunnels below Tyndurris. They must be warned, milord, and I must make for Dockside and Sears.’
‘Must you?’ Stowold raised his eyebrows as he stopped and looked at Biviano.
Swallowing hard, Biviano nodded once, holding the Earl’s gaze.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with his good wrist, Stowold breathed hard and shook his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Biviano, but I don’t have the men. We need to hold this building and there’re few of us as it is. If we lose it, we’ll lose far more men having to re-take it again.’
Biviano looked around, trying to think of a solution. ‘Milord, I understand that, but the guild needs warning and we need reinforcements. I can head to Dockside on my own, after taking Ellis to the clerics at Tyndurris? They can call for aid on your behalf from there, for your own retainers or even from the Lord High Constable?’
‘Ye’ve no chance on yer own in Dockside, Biviano,’ Bollingham said, stepping forward. He looked from Biviano to the constable, and all present new it to be the truth.
‘He’s right, even if I were to let you go.’
‘Then I’ll go in without my uniform, sire. I can’t leave Sears, not like we left Ellis Frane.’
The royal scribe looked up. ‘You did what was needed, Biviano, I’m sure you did.’
Biviano nodded to the man and smiled with appreciation before continuing. ‘Aye, maybe, although I’m not so sure, but either way I still need to go back for Sears, whether I’m allowed or not, milord, I’m sorry.’
All eyes – wide eyes – were on Lord Stowold, and the man blew out a long slow breath. ‘You’re treading dangerous ground there, Biviano.’
‘It’s what I do, sire. It’s what we all do when asked.’
Nodding slowly, the Earl hooked his war-hammer onto his belt and stepped forward, whilst drawing the broadsword that until now had been sheathed at his side. ‘You’re a brave and loyal man, Biviano. I admire that and I admire the lengths you’ve been willing to go to, not only in saving this man here,’ Stowold pointed his sword to Ellis Frane, who nodded, ‘but in every case you’ve taken on whilst under Captain Prior’s command, despite he nor I knowing where you and your partner are half the time.’ Stowold paused for a moment in contemplation. ‘Kneel,’ he said finally, in all seriousness.
The squire’s jaw dropped, as did most others.
Hesitantly, whilst looking from Stowold to Ellis Frane – who nodded and smiled sincerely – and back, Biviano knelt before the Earl.
Sword raised, Stowold spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I, Bagnall, Earl of Stowold, Constable of Wesson and Watcher of the Deep, hereby knight thee, as is my right of office, on behalf of King Barrison,’ he touched the sword to Biviano’s right shoulder then moved it across to the left, ‘Sir Bivi—’
‘Stop!’
Stowold rocked back on his heals as Biviano held up his hand, shaking his head and looking up into the shocked face of his lord constable.
Whispers of disbelief from the lips of more than one trailed off as Stowold’s face reddened.
‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ Biviano said in an upper district accent, holding up both hands and standing, ‘but you cannot knight me, although the sentiment overwhelms me.’
Brow furrowed, albeit hidden under his maille coif, Stowold licked his dry lips and nodded once to Biviano. ‘Explain.’
Taking a deep breath, Biviano looked about at the stunned eyes staring back at him, before scratching under his kettle-helm and then removing it. He held it at his side as he spoke, noticing Stowold’s white knuckles as he gripped his broadsword tight. ‘I am already a knight, my lord, or rather
I have been knighted already,’ Biviano announced, his upper district accent remaining, ‘although, I have not classed myself as such for a long, long time.’
‘That's horse shit!’ Bollingham blurted, although it was clear by his face he hadn’t meant for it to come out.
Stowold glared at the man, but looked back to Biviano before continuing. ‘Do go on,’ he said, somehow accepting Biviano’s words easily, or so it seemed to all present.
Scratching his lower back, or attempting to through the iron links of his hauberk, Biviano told the men his story and as remarkable as it was, they believed him, which saddened him all the more being that the story he told them was a lie. He knew, however, the truth was far more dangerous than the lie, and in the end, when he'd finished, he held on to the fact that although the story he'd given them was false, the outcome was the same. They knew he wanted to be treated the same as before, as Biviano the humble guardsman and not as a knight, despite that being almost exactly what he had been… almost.
After Biviano’s story, Bagnall Stowold had agreed that Biviano could head to Tyndurris with Ellis Frane, as long as he requested Stowold’s own men-at-arms and further reinforcements from the Lord High Constable before any attempt to enter Dockside in search of Sears. After a moment’s pause, Biviano had agreed and just minutes later, had ridden from the Samorlian Cathedral with Ellis Frane clung tightly to his back.
***
After reaching the end of the black tunnel, Longoss had felt around and located his torch, as well as pieces of steel and flint which he used to light the torch. Once in the main sewers, all three had to bend double in the low tunnels. Their backs rubbed on the stone ceiling – painfully for Coppin – as they sloshed through sewerage that stung their eyes with its overpowering smell.
Eventually, Longoss led them to a chamber via a series of turns and one smaller pipe that required all three to crawl on their hands and knees. The sewage had almost reached Coppin’s elbows, and the smoke from Longoss’ torch had thickened the air, making it even harder to breath. The chamber itself had a taller ceiling, along with a raised platform either side of the half-pipe that ran through its centre.
Climbing up onto one of the raised platforms, Longoss lit three more torches. It was obvious he'd been there many time before.
‘Cosy,’ Sears said, looking about the chamber. He took in the scattered blankets, as well as several small crates and barrels stacked in a corner. ‘Although yer bedding needs its current occupants removing before we can use it.’ He nodded to a couple of blankets which accommodated a family of brown rats.
Coppin stepped closer to Sears and Longoss moved across to and scared the creatures away, all of which jumped into the sewer pipe and swam back the way the trio had come, squeaking all the while.
The smell, although still horrific, wasn’t as bad up on the raised platform, but with clothes dripping with all sorts, none of the group could escape it until they changed.
‘I feel sick,’ Coppin said, one hand pressed against her stomach. ‘Do ye have any spare clothes here, Longoss?’
‘Aye, lass, but not much.’ He kicked a few of the blankets about, picking one up and shaking off the rat droppings. Eventually, he found a bundle of clothes mixed in amongst a pile in the corner, opposite the crates and barrels.
Coppin held them up after Longoss had thrown some to her. She grimaced at the filthy garments, before looking down at her sopping shirt which clung to her breasts, a single erect nipple visible through the thin linen. ‘Well, anything’s better than these,’ she said, beginning to take off the shirt.
Sears quickly turned around, facing away from Coppin whilst Longoss did the same. She couldn’t help but smile at that, unused to men not taking advantage of her at any given opportunity. I don’t care if there are assassins after us or not, I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer around men in my life. Dropping the wet clothes to the side, she picked up a stinking woollen blanket covered in rat hair and cringed as she quickly dried off as best she could. As she pulled the blanket round her back and moved it from side to side, she clenched her teeth at the pain it caused. She did her best not to cry out, for many of the cuts had been reopened during the crawl through the sewers. Once as dry as could be, she brushed herself down with her hands and cursed as she found a flea on her leg. She plucked it from her skin and squeezed it between the nail of her fore finger and thumb. Slicing it in two left a tiny smear of blood, which she wiped on the blanket, before quickly pulling on the huge shirt, braes and thick woollen hose Longoss had thrown her. She tied the braes as tight about her waist as she could and rolled up the long pair of hose at her ankles, before throwing another blanket over her shoulders like a cloak.
‘I’m done,’ she said eventually, moving over to the crates and inspecting them.
‘Food,’ Longoss said, nodding towards the pile. ‘Mind you, salted or not, it’s been there a long time, so it's probably a good thing we ate what we had back in the first tunnel.’
Nodding, Coppin turned and sat down, gingerly leaning back against the crates as she rested her head back and closed her eyes.
Sears removed his arming belt and bent forward. He shuffled until his maille hauberk fell forward over his head and then to the ground with a rustle of iron links. After that, he too swapped clothing and wasn’t surprised – due to the similar size of the man – that Longoss’ clothes fit. He rolled his eyes as he pulled the previously white braes on however, noticing the yellowing stain across the front of them. When he looked up, Longoss was facing him, gold teeth bared.
‘How safe are we here, Longoss?’ Coppin said, without opening her eyes.
‘No one knows of this place.’ His voice was muffled as he pulled on a musty padded gambeson that looked suspiciously like those worn by city guardsmen. Sears let it pass.
‘No one knew of the last place though,’ she said, eyes now open and fixed on the former assassin.
‘I never said that.’
‘Then why’d we go there?’ Sears asked, moving across to sit next to Coppin.
‘I couldn’t be sure they’d come for me,’ Longoss said, shrugging, ‘but now I know they are, nowhere is safe. Although down here is safer than up top. There’s no bursting in here.’
‘Oh, no? I couldn’t believe that,’ Sears said, resting his head back and closing his eyes like Coppin had. ‘I mean, with such a lovely smell pervading the air and such finery to be found and worn by all, I wouldn’t be surprised if every man and his dog turned up to join us.’
Coppin smiled and so did Longoss.
‘Aye,’ Longoss said, ‘well let’s just hope it’s not until we’ve rested and healed up some.’
‘Or died of infection from that water,’ Sears replied.
‘That’s a fair point,’ Coppin said, suddenly worried. ‘We’re all carrying open wounds and that can’t be good?’
Longoss shook his head slowly. ‘It ain’t, so let’s do something about it shall we?’ He walked over to the other two and pushed them apart, reaching behind them to bring forth one of the small barrels.
‘What is it?’ Coppin settled again once Longoss had stepped back.
‘Rum,’ Longoss said, gold teeth flashing.
‘We need to keep our wits I’d have thought,’ she said, rolling her eyes disapprovingly, tongue firmly lodged in cheek.
‘He means for the wounds,’ Sears said, looking to Coppin. ‘It’ll help clean ’em and it’ll hurt like a kobold’s rock, but it’s what’s needed.’
I hope he said rock? Longoss thought, his hearing muffled after the loss of his ear.
A hollow pop and the barrel’s cork came free. Longoss spat the cork across the chamber and gritted his teeth before tilting his head to the right and pouring the alcohol onto the earless side of his head. Sucking in air through his gold teeth, he stopped pouring and shook his head, making a quiet roaring sound as he stepped from one foot to the other.
‘Let me,’ Coppin said, using Sears’ knee to push herself up. ‘Ye’l
l waste the lot doing it like that.’ She took the barrel from Longoss and looked about. ‘Do ye have any clean cloth?’
Sears barked with laughter.
‘Point taken,’ Coppin said, as Longoss prodded the side of his head with filthy fingers. She slapped his hand and shook her head. ‘How’ve ye survived so long?’ Longoss feigned confusion, much to Coppin’s amusement.
A tearing sound turned Coppin’s head to Sears, who’d torn off the cleanest part of the shirt he wore. Holding it out to her, she soaked the linen and proceeded to clean the wounds on Longoss’ arms. After that, he removed his shirt to reveal his scar covered body, the freshest of which Coppin cleaned too. The three companions helped clean each others wounds then, before agreeing to have one last swig each from Sears’ flask. He warned them it wasn’t wise to have too much, for fear of addiction, but after screwing her face up at the taste, Coppin assured him that wasn’t possible.
Aye, but I know better, lass. I might not know exactly what’s in this stuff, but I do know what it can do to folk, Sears thought, as he returned the flask to its pouch at the back of his belt, which sat around his waist again, his sword close to hand.
After all three had finally settled next to one another, with blankets gathered in one spot to create at least a little comfort – despite the cloying stench that hit them every so often – Sears sighed heavily and looked across Coppin’s green haired head to Longoss, who felt the guardsman’s eyes upon him and so looked back.
‘This isn’t looking good,’ Sears said flatly.
‘Course it ain’t, it’s a sewer.’
‘Excellent, Longoss. Points for observation, but that’s not what I mean and ye know it.’
‘Do I?’
‘Aye, ye do. We’re on the run. We’ve had to flee one place and skulk in the sewers of Dockside whilst we heal and rest up, again. All the while the Black Guild carries on with business whilst we’re stuck doing nothing about it. Gods, Longoss, ye ran into two assassins and came back in a shit state—’
