by J. P. Ashman
Whilst that happened, the King’s navy, along with the Wizards and Sorcery Guild and the Guild of Engineers, started working on ways to move the wrecks from the harbour.
It had raged for just a handful of weeks, yet the Great Plague of Wesson had claimed over a third of the city’s population from both its own grasp and that of the chaos it brought along with it. Many buildings had been destroyed by riots, looters and fire, and the Lord High Treasurer knew that to rebuild what had been lost, the King would have to raise far more funds than he currently had available. On top of that, the King and his lords, along with the elves, were now sure the plague had been unleashed on Wesson intentionally.
There were more questions than answers regarding the plague now, and both the elves and King Barrison swore they would do all they could to find those answers together. They wanted to know who and where the plague had come from, and more importantly, why. And since Severun seemed to be losing the memories of the arcane spell he'd enacted, they knew finding answers to those questions would take time; something both parties believed they were short of.
Barrison now needed to raise funds, and fast. He sent petitions for aid to the dukes and earls of Altoln, but he also had what he now believed to be enemies within, and if not enemies, then hindrances at the very least, although the Black Guild could hardly be classed as the latter. Archbishop Corlen, however, could, and so he was dismissed from his position as advisor to the King. It was also announced that the Samorlian Church was no longer recognised as a national religion. It was not banished or ordered to disassemble, but it would no longer have any voice in court, nor any jurisdiction in the kingdom; its order of witchunters were ordered to stand down and disband.
City guardsmen had remained on the doors of the Samorlian Cathedral, and Bagnall Stowold ordered to remain there with his own men until further notice by Will Morton, thus deterring any return by a witchunter backed Grand Inquisitor, who was still at large in the city, despite the joint efforts of the various lords of Wesson to have him apprehended.
Fal was pleased to hear the news about the Grand Inquisitor and his witchunters’ official disbandment a few days later. As was Sav, who decided it was finally time for a drink to celebrate their successful mission. Fal had declined at first, his mind and heart torn between the horrors his actions had released on Wesson and the wonders their mission had led them to witness. Despite it having been the worst time any of them could have imagined; living through pain, suffering and hardships, they'd found new friends and a new family of sorts. And so, when Sav insisted upon that drink, Fal finally agreed, knowing the scout well enough to realise he wouldn’t let it go, for which Fal allowed himself a genuine smile.
The final remnants of the plague had finally been brought under control and the city’s gates opened to trade once more, although none was expected for some time, for much of the city was still in ruin and the fear of the plague still strong in the minds of the surrounding areas. The riots and fires had gutted whole sections of even the most wealthy of districts, and many inns and taverns had been used as makeshift infirmaries. The Coach and Cart Inn, however, as seen by the group as they’d entered the city with the elves, was no more. In front of the old inn now stood a large canvas marquee where a makeshift welcoming tavern had been prepared for any who dared enter the re-opened gates of Wesson. It was here the group of friends now sat.
Fal felt humbled by the whole experience. He'd seen things he never thought he would, made new friends he knew he would cherish for years to come, and had come to realise that, although he loved Wesson dearly and thought of the grand city as his home, he wouldn’t be satisfied any longer unless he was travelling and exploring a world full of wonders.
His stomach churned; there was more to it than that.
I cannot sit back and continue as if nothing has happened; look daily upon faces in a guardroom and give them orders knowing my actions caused the deaths of their friends and in some cases, families…
He thought hard about Franks Heywood again. Upon returning to the city, Fal had attempted to visit Franks’ family, only to discover they too had fallen to the plague. That had struck Fal harder than almost anything else, but good news followed bad, and it pleased him to know Starks’ family had survived. The young guard had spent a lot of time with them since his return, but his place was, in his own words, by Fal’s side, wherever that may lead. And I’m glad of that, for something is coming, I can feel it. The Lord High Constable may not wish to tell us yet, but I’ll be flayed if I’m sitting by and waiting for whatever it is to happen.
Fal looked around at his friends and wondered where their thoughts took them. They didn’t have the horror Wesson had been through weighing on their shoulders, but Fal hoped wherever he went, they would all be by his side.
If nothing else, I shall go to Beresford, for that town needs help removing their new residents, and I hear Lord Adlestrop’s father is riding back to attempt to relieve his town with what little men he has left after the plague. They’ll certainly need all the help they can get.
It had been reported the goblins and hobyah that had assaulted the river straddling town, despite losing their strange red-skinned chieftain, were still embedded on the west bank. The massively reduced forces of Wesson were unable to send extra men with the Earl of Beresford to re-take his town, whilst similar incursions throughout the north of Altoln were tying up border forces and village militias, causing many lords to look to the defence of their own lands, keeps and villages.
I have to look forward now, but not forget. Put what has passed behind me and concentrate on the future. We were successful in our mission and we assisted in bringing about an end to the plague. Whoever planned this, I hope you know that you failed. Wesson is still here, Altoln is still here and whilst there are people like those beside me, you will not prevail.
He smiled tightly to himself and took his tankard of ale in hand, to propose a toast to the end of the plague, knowing his friends deserved it for all they'd done.
Alas, before the much anticipated ale began to flow, the flap of the makeshift tavern was thrown aside. A hard-faced, black haired women with a rough looking soldier wearing black, hard leather armour and a dark green gambeson strode into the canvas covered space, plunging the few patrons there into a stony silence.
‘Sergeant Falchion,’ the women said, hands resting on the two sheathed swords hanging from her belt.
Fal stood up and nodded once.
‘You and your companions are to come with us, no questions… and hurry.’
Fal looked to Starks and Errolas, and Sav, who sighed heavily and slammed down his full tankard of ale. Without another word, the four of them followed Correia and Gleave from the makeshift tavern and out into the dark city beyond.
Epilogue
The dark gardens of Wesson’s Park District smelt wonderfully fresh to the large man who walked slowly down the winding, moonlit path surrounded by heavily shadowed bushes and trees. The pleasant sound of running water close by and the hoot of a little-owl in the trees not too far away only enhanced the perfect evening. The smell of the pyres still clung to most of Wesson, but not here, not now at least, and the walk was proving a brief but well needed reprieve following the squalor the man had been forced to endure since his flight from the Samorlian Cathedral.
The Grand Inquisitor fingered the jewelled rings on his fat fingers as his companion babbled on besides him about the injustice shown by King Barrison. The Grand Inquisitor grunted his agreement, avoiding the plants at the side of the path so as not to soil his richly adorned robes.
I thought he said he’d been ‘slumming’ it whilst in hiding? Corlen thought, finally taking note of the Grand Inquisitor’s spotless attire. He’s probably in a large house in Park District, just not as large as usual. Samorl forgive me, I shouldn’t think that way. Despite the chilled night air, the Archbishop used the handkerchief clutched in his left hand to dab at the sweat beading his brow, before making the sign of Sir Samorl�
��s Lance in the air with his right hand. His thoughts swiftly returned to the dire situation the church had found itself in. I must know what the Grand Inquisitor plans to do.
Stopping suddenly, the Grand Inquisitor squinted into the darkness ahead as the Archbishop began to ask a question. He grabbed Corlen’s arm to silence him and the man jumped, looking to the Grand Inquisitor before facing forward.
‘What is it? I don’t see anything,’ the Archbishop said, his voice quivering slightly despite seeing no threat.
‘Shhh…’ The Grand Inquisitor took a couple of steps forward and drew a sharp rondel dagger from his belt. Palms damp and heart quickening, he squeezed the wooden handle of the dagger tight and set his jaw firm.
A figure shrouded in a black hooded cloak emerged from the darkness ahead and moved slowly, silently towards them. The figure’s features were hidden under the heavy hood, but two piercing orbs of sapphire began to glow by his side, drawing the eyes of the two men opposite. The Archbishop backed away slightly but the Grand Inquisitor puffed out his broad chest and snapped at the figure.
‘Be gone, scoundrel. You will find nothing but pain here.’
‘It is you, Grand Inquisitor, that is the scoundrel,’ the hooded figure said, his voice carrying just enough for the two men to hear. ‘Your so called law and your protection from the King has finally come to an end. It was that protection alone that had stopped me from doing this a long, long time ago.’ Though I know not whether I would have had the strength to do this before now. Alas, after all that has recently happened…
‘So you know who we are?’ Corlen said, from behind the Grand Inquisitor. The Archbishop’s voice grew with confidence, yet he remained well behind his larger companion. ‘You must realise the punishments this man could put you through for merely talking to us in such a manner.’ Corlen took a step forward then and pointed to the Grand Inquisitor, his handkerchief still in hand. ‘Well, do you?’
They couldn’t be sure of course, but both men could have sword they heard a smile in the tone of the hooded man’s voice when he replied.
‘Oh no, Archbishop, that is where you are mistaken. For I no longer officially exist, and you… well, you no longer hold any authority in Wesson, or anywhere in Altoln for that matter.’
The Archbishop bristled, but the Grand Inquisitor held up his hand to halt the man from speaking further.
‘And you do?’ The Grand Inquisitor’s eyebrows rose in anticipation.
‘My orders, as sweet as they are, come from the King himself. For I am his new right hand, that moves in the darkness to seek out and destroy those whom he does not wish to be seen dealing with himself.’
The Archbishop began to tremble as he backed further away, his head shaking in disbelief. This man’s confidence… Corlen’s stomach knotted. I’ve not seen the like in the Grand Inquisitor’s presence in all my days.
‘So, the King finally has the courage to do something dark,’ the Grand Inquisitor said, a snarl pulling at his top lip, ‘to accomplish something he deems necessary. I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘You won’t,’ the hooded figure whispered. The sapphire orbs to his left flared as the ground beneath the two Samorlians rumbled. They both looked down with a mixture of fear and confusion as the ground began to liquefy and suck at their feet.
The Archbishop cried out as he fell backwards, expecting his head to connect with the hard surface of the stone path, but it didn’t. As the large man reached the ground, arms flailing and handkerchief flying out to the side, he disappeared below its surface, consumed by the bubbling mass of tar that had replaced the stone.
Corlen didn’t resurface, and the thick, sucking tar continued to draw his companion down to meet him.
The Grand Inquisitor roared and threw his dagger uselessly at the hooded figure as the bubbling liquid drew him down. His rage fell away quickly and was replaced by fear as he realised with horror his shoulders were already fully submerged.
The cloying black liquid began pulling at his fleshy neck.
‘I may be following orders, you evil wretch,’ the hooded figure said as he stepped forward into the moon’s light and pulled back his hood with his free hand, finally revealing his hate filled eyes, ‘but this is revenge, for me, pure and simple. Revenge for my parents and all those your inquisition has wrongly tortured and burnt alive… or thought you did!’
One last word was just about audible through the bubbling, spurting mess that erupted from the surface of the tar as the Grand Inquisitor disappeared beneath its surface. The onlooker wasn’t surprised to hear the word spat as a curse. In fact, it pleased him more than he’d have thought possible.
The onlooker had caused the deaths of thousands, and that fact, he knew, would haunt him until the end of his days. But this death… this death would not, and he played the hate filled word over in his mind as he set out into the park, striding triumphantly over the solidifying ground that only he would recognise as the Grand Inquisitor’s tomb.
Yes, you bastard. Severun.
The former Grand Master of the Wizards and Sorcery Guild rubbed under his replaced hood, at the throbbing ache behind his black eyes. Although, I’m not sure I’m the only one in here any more… and I’m quite sure it wasn’t King Barrison alone that wanted that bastard dead, but where the other order came from… I can’t quite remember?
***
Far to the south of Wesson, in the forest borderland known as The Marches, all manner of creatures ran for cover, and flocks of birds ascended high into the sky as a commotion erupted through the forest’s thick undergrowth.
The usual, constant but melodic noise of the forest gave way to the snapping of twigs, rustling of bushes and the heavy breathing of a desperate duo.
J’iak could just about see his companion to the front and right of him as she hacked through a thin, low branch with her sword. She ran on and he followed, not daring to look back as they pressed on towards the border.
A parakeet screeched above and the hairs on the back of the armed and lightly armoured man rose, but still he didn’t look back. He kept his eyes on his companion as she ducked under a thicker branch and crashed through a thorn bush, making no sound despite the pain as the needle like thorns tore into her flesh. J’iak followed her through, equally as quiet apart from his heavy, ragged breathing.
His hand axes had started to feel heavier the longer he ran, although their pendulum motion propelled him on as it had for hours. Sweat matted his short black hair to his head and his heart thumped in his chest. He ducked under another low branch and leaned forward into his run again, never taking his eyes off his friend and the rough path she was creating with her sword.
Don’t hesitate, keep running for queen’s sake.
All manner of creepers came close to snagging J’iak’s booted feet, and he had to keep part of his mind attuned to his surroundings so as not to trip and fall as he kept pace with his nimble partner.
Another creature cried out from behind this time, although what it was he didn’t know, nor care. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his thoughts away from that which pursued them.
J’iak pushed on even harder, noticing his companion pulling away a little. Despite his lungs burning with the exertion, as did his thighs, J’iak didn't falter as he forced himself ever onwards.
More low branches, large bushes and a sudden copse of tightly packed trees caused J’iak to lose sight of his friend for a couple of racing heartbeats.
No no no… where is she?
She looked back at her partner for the first time in a long time as she crashed through the densely packed foliage.
J’iak was gone, and she knew what that meant…
Tears in her eyes, sweat on her brow and a white knuckled grip on her slender sword, the woman continued, ever onwards towards a border and a kingdom she feared she would never see; towards Altoln.
***
Cheung sat, legs crossed on the dusty ground of the rooftop garden, all manner of potted pal
ms, succulents and cacti surrounding him, as well as delicate orchids of varying colours. Henna tattooed arms out to the sides, with black bladed, bone handled kamas in his hands and his black robes folded carefully next to him, the Eatrian assassin concentrated on the small palm leaves of the potted plant opposite him. He mimicked the slow movements of the swaying leaves with his arms, the slightest corrections required – whilst holding his weapons at arms length – burning at his rope like muscles that flexed then relaxed under his pale skin.
He'd been in the same position all night as he re-read the letter passed to him in his head. That letter had come from the Black Guild in Altoln’s capital city, Wesson, via his own guild masters.
The politics of the letter held no interest for Cheung, and he knew his masters would scrutinize that side of things. He'd admitted to himself upon his initial examination of the document, however, that it was interesting to learn the large assassins guild in Wesson was, for an undisclosed reason, unable to carry out the contract they'd been presented with. He didn’t believe it was inability on their part or fear of the mark’s position within their kingdom, and so willingly removed it from his mind, knowing it bore no importance to the fact the mark was now his, not theirs. It would only prove as a distraction, and he never suffered any of those.
With no obvious trigger to anyone who may have been watching, although that was highly unlikely without Cheung knowing about it, the assassin rose suddenly and effortlessly to his feet, stretched in several different ways, and then donned his robes in an impressive manner considering his kamas never left his hands.
He took one last look around his rooftop garden then, much of which he knew would wilt without his attention over the coming weeks if not months of travel, target acquisition, elimination and then return travel.
Taking a deep breath and freeing his mind of his plants and everything else but the mission, the assassin walked backwards slowly. Reaching a certain point he couldn’t possibly have seen, Cheung hopped lightly off the side of the building, setting out to find a suitable method of transport to cross the inhospitable and dangerous leagues between him and his latest target: King Barrison of Altoln.
