by J. P. Ashman
‘Try me, whore son!’ Stowold shouted, as his destrier reared, its front hooves lashing out at the ganger. The heavily built man took a blow to the shoulder, but surprisingly shrugged it off, whilst bearing a row of sharpened teeth and hissing at the constable and horse.
Constrictor gang calls sounded here and there as the large man swung the pole-axe in a figure eight motion.
‘Have I made the acquaintance of a gang master?’ Stowold’s voice sounded slightly muffled behind his maille aventail.
The gang master spat at Stowold and then charged.
‘Seems so.’ Stowold turned his destrier with his knees whilst using his heater shield to deflect the first blow from the long weapon. The impact caused the Earl to grunt in pain from the injury received previously in the cathedral assault. The pole-axe blade scratched across the shield’s coat-of-arms as if decapitating the serpent it depicted, and the gang master grinned as he withdrew, readying himself to lunge again.
Before he could recover, the large warhorse jumped – despite the armoured man on its back – and kicked out with all four legs, knocking back a short, wiry ganger who was running in from the alley opposite, crushing his ribcage with the impact. The other legs connected with nothing, but kept the gang master at bay long enough for the experienced constable to shift his position in the saddle, ready for the following – rushed – aggressive lunge by the gang master.
More constrictors called from the rooftops as gangers started to rally to watch their leader fight. Renewed fighting also tied up Stowold’s retainers further down the road, as gangers rushed them from all sides. The Earl’s liveried men swung and hacked and turned their horses in unison to keep the attackers at bay.
As the long weapon came in again, Stowold leaned down and towards it, dropping his war-hammer to hang by the leather thong attaching it to his wrist. He deflected the main brunt of the attack on his shield, allowing the remainder of its force to slide up and across his right pouldron, the bladed hook slinking across the maille of his coif.
If it weren’t for the maille protecting his neck, Stowold knew the hooked blade would have sliced him a fatal blow, but he knew how armour worked and he knew what it could take. He also knew that whilst maille would allow a slicing blade to run across its metal links harmlessly, the hook of the pole-axe, once pulled, would pierce through those links and into his neck, pulling him down and out of his saddle.
The risk Stowold had taken was a calculated one though, and as the gang master’s lunge reached its farthest extension, Stowold reached across with his now free hand and took hold of the wooden shaft below the pole-axe’s blade. Holding the wood firmly, the constable gritted his teeth and pulled hard on his reigns with his painful shield arm. Stowold’s well trained destrier reared back and up at that, the sudden movement and force of it yanking the pole-axe from its wielder’s hands.
The gang master’s face twisted into a snarl as the experienced constable pushed the pole-axe further back out and around, away from his neck, ensuring its hook didn’t snag on his maille coif. Continuing the smooth manoeuvre, Stowold brought his attacker’s weapon swiftly across in front of him and threw it to the floor on his left, all before his horse’s front hooves returned to the muddy cobbles.
Surging forward, seax knife now in hand, the gang master launched himself at the mounted noble, just in time to receive a skull crushing blow from Stowold’s war-hammer, which came down in an overhead arc from left to right and ended in an explosion of blood, bone and brain.
The large gang master dropped heavily to the floor, and the faces on the rooftops disappeared as swiftly as they’d re-appeared, whilst Bagnall Stowold, fresh curses on his lips, scanned the scene for his next target.
‘Lord Stowold will drive them off,’ Effrin said. ‘We need to get you out of Dockside.’ The cleric was fussing over Sears’ wrist, but the big man – mouth still open from the unexpected cavalry charge – pulled his arm away and turned on the cleric.
‘Not before ye see to him.’ Sears pointed at Biviano, who rocked back, surprised.
‘Me?’
‘Aye, you, ye know ye’re sick, so stop ignoring it ye fool, we need to get ye sorted more than me.’
‘He’s right.’ Gitsham walked over to the small group as the shield bearers once again set up a defensive line across the street.
‘What do you know?’ Biviano said, disliking all the attention.
Gitsham shrugged. ‘Nowt, but him…’ he nodded to the bloodhound at Biviano’s feet. Buddle growled when he sniffed Biviano’s leg, and Sears couldn’t help but smile.
‘Oh, ye’re mates now eh, you and the hound?’
Sears winked in return.
‘Dick,’ Biviano said. But by the gods, big guy, it’s good to have ye back. Biviano had hardly finished the thought when he collapsed.
Sears grimaced at the pain in his wrist as he caught his falling friend. ‘We need get him to an infirmary, quickly.’
Effrin was shaking his head as the sound of fighting died away and Lord Stowold approached; armoured legs and war-hammer slick with blood. ‘We need to get him to Tyndurris,’ the cleric said, his eyes moving nervously to the man looking down on him from beneath the blued steel of an aventail covered bascinet.
Stowold nodded. ‘Aye, but take him by horse, with an escort.’ He directed the latter to the two men-at-arms by his side, both of whom nodded. One of them reached down and Sears and Effrin helped lift Biviano up and over the man’s lap.
‘I’m going with him,’ Sears said, motioning for the second rider to dismount as the rest of Stowold’s men arrived back from down the street, led by his two remaining knights. All of them brandished bloodied weapons and one of them carried the body of the knight who’d been killed. More than a few of the others looked to be injured, although none of them seriously.
Stowold shook his head and pointed his war-hammer at Sears. ‘Like pissing stones you are, man. You’re going to Lord Yewdale, with the gormless one and his dog. If what Biviano told me is true, you need to report whatever it is you’ve been doing whilst gallivanting around Dockside, and report it quick.’
Reluctantly, Sears looked from the unconscious form of his friend to the Constable of Wesson. Finally, he nodded. ‘Aye milord.’
‘Meanwhile, ladies, I’m back off to the cathedral. Can’t leave Jay Strawn and my squire running the place, or it’ll end up a bloody brothel. Ha, what!
‘Cleric, you and Bollingham take Biviano to your guild. You two,’ Stowold pointed his war-hammer to two of his men-at-arms, ‘take Sears and Gitsham to the palace and quick about it, the hound can follow.’ Buddle let out a long, low wine.
‘Suck it up, dog,’ Stowold said. ‘You’re of the guard, not a pet.’
Buddle’s head rose slightly and he turned towards the palace before heading off that way. Sears and Gitsham were pulled up behind their two riders. Sears’ eyes shifted back to Biviano as soon as he’d settled behind the saddle.
‘We’ll see he gets the best care,’ Bollingham said, and Effrin nodded.
‘See that ye do or ye’re both answering to me.’
Both men nodded and climbed up behind a rider each.
‘Oh and thanks, all of you,’ Sears said, looking about all the men and settling on Bagnall Stowold, whose face was still covered by his aventail.
‘Soft shit,’ the constable said as he spurred his destrier on towards the cathedral, the majority of his retainers following. A lone bay destrier rode amongst them, the reigns of which one of the two knights had taken.
With final looks and nods between the Earl’s remaining men, they set off with their passengers, splitting up and heading to their separate destinations only when they needed to.
***
Glass vials, bottles and tubes with a multitude of coloured liquids and gasses bubbled away in the clerics’ chamber of Tyndurris. A dozen clerics stood in silence, awaiting the confirmation they all feared, as they and Orix – his head wrapped in a bandage – looked to Ward S
trickland.
The magician’s deep purple robes stood out in bright contrast next to the surrounding white of the clerics’, and he took in all of their weary faces before saying what he'd come to say.
‘We have all been through a great deal of late. We have lost friends and loved ones and have seen, for the first time since its creation, a direct attack upon and within this very tower.’
All of the clerics nodded and some fought back tears as they thought of those lost.
‘You have all worked,’ Ward continued, looking to every one of them as he spoke, ‘so very, very hard to combat this plague and discover its origins. It is now clear to us that the suspicions some of you have had, are indeed true. With great regret, but at least a little relief for Master Orix here, it is up to me to announce to all in the guild that this plague was indeed attached, for want of a better word, not to Master Orix’s potion, but to Lord Severun’s arcane spell. Unbeknown to him I might add.’
Several in the room gasped, whilst others nodded their heads knowingly; after all, it was their own theories and discoveries that had led to that very conclusion.
‘How are you sure Severun didn’t know of the plague within the spell?’ a young male cleric asked, which resulted in fierce looks from several others in the room, including Orix.
‘You have my word, Nikoless,’ Ward said, ‘and that is all you should need from your Grand Master, despite all that has happened.’ Everyone in the room nodded their agreement, including the young cleric.
‘My apologies, Lord Strickland,’ Nikoless offered. Ward acknowledged the apology with a nod and a genuine smile before continuing to address the clerics as a whole.
‘I make a promise to you all today, that we as a guild will continue to work to our very limits to cleanse Wesson of this plague. Once that has been achieved, we shall continue in an effort to trace the spell and disease that has struck our city, thus rooting out those behind it.’
The clerics voiced their agreement as one, clearly determined to find those responsible for the tragedy aimed at both their city and kingdom.
‘Do we have any leads at all regarding the origins of the magic; of who instigated this attack on Wesson?’ Morri asked from the corner of the room. ‘Or could it be,’ he continued, ‘the plague attached to the arcane spell used by Lord Severun was in fact a co-incidence, something added much earlier perhaps, and so not at all aimed towards Wesson specifically?’
Orix smiled at Morri’s hopeful thinking.
‘I wish I knew,’ Ward said honestly. He shook his head as he went on. ‘But there is no way to be sure… yet.’
‘We’ll find out, one way or another,’ Morri said, and several clerics voiced their support and agreement.
Ward smiled. ‘Thank you, my friends. With our guild working together, I have no doubts we can prevail not only now, but in the future, whatever it may throw at us.
‘Now, I will let you return to your work whilst I go do mine.’
The clerics thanked their new Grand Master and moved off to continue with their various tasks.
‘You did right to take on the role you know?’ Orix said, as he accompanied Ward into the corridor outside the room.
‘Perhaps,’ the magician replied, clearly unconvinced. ‘You do know that if the council’s decision hadn’t have been unanimous, I wouldn’t have taken it,’ he added, with a genuine smile.
The small gnome beamed back up at him. ‘I do know that, because you have done just that in the past. You are who they want though, whether you like it or not, and that's what’s best for this guild. Our members are amongst the most brilliant minds of our century, if not our millennium; they know what they are doing. You weren’t chosen as part of a popularity contest, you know?’
‘I’m hurt,’ Ward mocked.
Orix tutted in response. ‘You know my meaning. They chose you because you’re what the guild needs. You’re the mage for the job, and no one knows better than me personally.’ Orix winked at the magician.
‘Bah,’ Ward blurted. ‘You would have done the same for me should I have been carried off over someone’s shoulder.’ The two shared a heartfelt laugh, the first either of them could recall for some time. Once the mirth had passed, however, Ward’s face darkened as he crouched and looked to the gnome before him.
‘I may not have admitted it in there, Orix, but I'm sure there is some force behind all of this, as is our King. It was no accident or co-incidence there being a plague attached to the scroll that found its way to Wesson and into Severun’s hands. And we will discover those behind it. You know and trust me in that, don’t you Orix?’
‘Oh, I both know and agree, especially that we will figure it out. After all, you have me working on it.’ With another wink, the old gnome turned on his heals and headed back into the busy clerics’ chamber beyond.
I hope you and I are both right there, Orix, for although we know this plague was no accident, the motive still eludes us, and that’s something we need to remedy, quickly, before the plague’s creators make their next move.
***
As the night drew in on Broadleaf Forest and its Middle Wood, several elf musicians played pleasant melodies that seemed to reach in and massage the very soul; the sweet sound flowed around the boles of the trees, spreading far and wide like the spring breeze enjoyed earlier that day. The light of the moon now cascaded down through the branches of the tall trees, and the laughter of humans did little to sour the elven voices that suddenly joined the exotic instruments, sharing harmonies that sounded as natural as the dawn chorus the group had heard that morning.
A magical fire – the colours of which seemed to change with the mood of the music – crackled in the middle of a clearing, where intricately woven blankets of various pastel colours covered the floor, atop them cushions filled with feathers softer than anything humanly imaginable.
The group of humans had been led there by Lord Errwin-Roe, and invited to relax and unwind. Their return journey would not set out until the following day and so they were to get some much needed rest and recuperation.
The elf musicians sat on low branches all around the clearing, playing instruments none of the humans, bar Sav, had ever seen before.
‘Some of the elf scouts play at our camps when on patrol from time to time, but this, this is truly heavenly,’ he'd said, as he’d dropped down onto the cushioned floor surrounding the colourful firelight.
Errolas, Nelem and many other elves had come to join the visitors, and Fal smiled both physically and inwardly as he took in the scene. It was how he'd always imagined life with the elves, better even, apart from the odd jibes and looks he and his companions had received upon their arrival to Middle Wood.
It’s not like I don’t get that back in Wesson though. In fact, I’m far more used to it than the rest of the group, he’d thought to himself earlier that day. Despite that and the outburst from Lord Salkeld, Fal was genuinely elated to have had the opportunity to experience the wonder that was Middle Wood. Looking around at the rest of the group, he could well imagine the rest of them were thinking along similar lines, all apart from Correia perhaps, who'd seemed pre-occupied and lost within herself, down even, since the council meeting with the elves. Gleave had asked her what was wrong at one point, just to be told to go and enjoy himself, so no one else had thought it prudent to approach her with the question. Fal sipped the sweet wine he’d been given and thought about asking Correia himself, not wanting her to miss out on the joy they were all experiencing.
Suddenly, the music took on a fast pace and both humans and elves alike cheered as a group of dancers ran, jumped and swung down from branches into the clearing and around the magical fire. Fal’s train of thought was lost completely as the performers began to move in harmony with the uplifting music.
The male and female dancers wore hair of all colours tied up in high set pony tails, with streamers of bright silver and gold following their hands and feet as they leapt and spun around the fire. Their heads and ha
ir snapped to and fro with the music as they rolled over one another and jumped from feet to hands and back. The males of the group propelled the scantly clad females high into the air where they danced across branches before falling back into their partners’ arms.
The seated humans and elves alike spoke and laughed as wine and fruit was passed around. The wine was served in silver goblets and the fruit on beautiful wooden bowls that looked as though they'd grown that shape, rather than being carved.
Starks sipped the clear elven spirit he’d been given and his watery eyes let a tear roll down his cheek as he gazed longingly at a particular rare, red haired she-elf, who spun past him with sparkling silver streamers swirling about her like a metallic, star-lit zephyr. She stopped still just long enough to throw the young crossbowman a smile and a wink, and he looked – eyes wide and tears streaming – at Fal before whimpering something about being in love and then passing out on the cushions behind him. A broad shouldered elf sat to Starks’ right swiftly took the goblet from his hand before it spilt over the now snoring young man. Fal looked at the elf who laughed and shrugged, pointing at the recovered goblet of spirit and then to Fal, before passing it across and motioning for him try some.
Fal hesitated after the effect it’d had on Starks, but Errolas appeared by his side then and assured him it was safe. That was good enough for Fal, and so raising Starks’ goblet in a toast to the on-looking elf, Fal took a tentative sip and rocked back at the sweet yet extremely potent drink, much to the amusement of both Errolas and the elf by Starks’ side, who smiled and downed a goblet of the same in one.
‘That’s some strong stuff,’ Fal said, laughing.
Errolas nodded his agreement and then pointed to Sav, who was already up and dancing with a particularly cute, dark haired elf who seemed to be finding the lanky scout’s awkward movements highly amusing.
