Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

  Heart now well and truly in mouth – which was dryer than anything in rain-soaked Chapparro Minor at that point – Tips impressed herself by reaching over the dead but twitching beast to retrieve her crank-handle before running and jumping, screaming, back aboard her uncle’s barge; oh how she expected an agonizing thud to the back of the head at any moment.

  The lock gates opened through force of the barge’s sluggish acceleration more than through strength of two gnomes as Tips, again impressing herself, fired the engine without thinking, her aunt loosing a hastily loaded bolt from a hastily spanned crossbow.

  Brinner was back aboard and doing the same with his twin windlass’ before the next hobyah reached the lock, only to be tangled and tripped by the un-spanned and thrown crossbow of Loop. A lucky throw, Tips was sure, but a life-saving one nonetheless.

  ‘Come on, girl!’ Stalwart shouted to his barge, rain flecking his face as the lock slid slowly by, leaving them to the next stretch of ascending canal sections. ‘Come on!’

  Three goblin arrows appeared from the rain but fell short, one close to skewering goblin rather than gnome. Two more hobyahs were at the lock and running for the departing barge, the thrashing paddle at the rear churning water more than it was eating up yards.

  ‘Poles!’ Stalwart yelled, face red under the strain and rain.

  Tips shovelled like her life depended upon it, and it did, but she saw enough to know her uncle’s order was needed if they were to survive. She hesitated in her latest scooping of coal as the lead hobyah leapt from the gate they left behind. The jump was incredible. And it was enough.

  Hide-clad feet touched cherished wood and the goblins on the bank howled in triumph.

  Tips froze. She knew the windlass’ at the fore-end couldn’t reach out to the hobyah, not without risking everyone else onboard. She knew her aunt had thrown her crossbow, so that would not save her uncle from the beast looming above him, a previously unseen cleaver in hand, its rust standing out to Tips in some macabre way; she could see, in her mind’s eye, the lopping of limbs and the creasing of black-haired gnomish skull with that unkept blade.

  What she didn’t see, until the last moment and aside from the swirling rain, grey forest and swarming goblins running the canal bank, was the bargepole that thrust past her, sudden and swift, to topple the mid-swinging hobyah from the stern.

  Stalwart winced and tensed in anticipation. Tips noticed that much, both before and during the shoving of his potential killer. She’d never seen him so. Never seen him truly fearful of… anything. But was just then. And quite fucking rightly, too. The tall-for-any-humanoid hobyah had towered over the old gnome like the Chapparro mountains over Chapparro Minor.

  The black barge lagged and lurched in the water as the blades of the paddle shuddered and snagged on hobyah made fish-food. Choking sounds came from the engine and the chimney stuttered before the well-kept engine did what the unkept cleaver had not and finished its victim.

  More arrows came in, from behind and to starboard, causing everyone to duck for cover more than contemplate what could have been. What still could be.

  ‘Shovel! Light her up!’ Stalwart shouted, crouched as he was, hand up to the tiller, eyes squinting into the rain to steer them true. The canal curved dramatically up ahead and if it wasn’t navigated well, they’d be bumping the side and gaining more rust-blade wielding horrors. As it was, as Tips shovelled with her back bent more than ever, weakly loosed arrows skittering off the barge here and splashing in the canal waters there, the barge edged over to the left bank, making use of the widening waterway to make any further leaps by the hobyahs impossible.

  The howls that followed were filled with outrage, Tips could hear it in the now horrifyingly familiar sounds. Outrage and a lust for gnomish blood.

  And a lust for whatever’s snug under that fucking hessian and canvas, Tips thought, tears running free with the rain as she looked from gesticulating goblins to whatever it was they were hauling for the Earl. For why else would they pursue four gnomes and a single barge? I should have stayed in the Earl’s bastard mines… She shovelled some more and the barge moved on.

  The continuous rain, rippling the placid waters of the canal as it was, occasionally sweeping in horizontally as it was, did little to ease Tips’ thoughts and fears and jittery nerves as the banks slid by. Engine worked, paddle churned and chimney belched its steam. Tips shovelled coal when needed, attended the engine when needed too. She hadn’t spoken since the lock. No one had. There’d been curses and grunts from Stalwart, but nothing more. Loop was back below deck, doing who knew what, whilst Brinner erected an awning over his windlass crossbows, attempting to dry, clean and service the weapons. Tips was glad of that.

  Wiping rain from her face, back wet through equal parts rainwater and sweat, Tips looked again to the hidden cargo before her. Was it worth it? Was whatever they hauled, hidden from rain and raiders alike, really worth their lives? Not likely. Not to Tips, anyway, and she wouldn’t have thought it was worth it to her uncle and aunt, either. Especially with their son on board.

  Sighing heavily, she dared a glance at her uncle. Stalwart stared back, making her start, near on jump at his intense eyes.

  ‘You alright, lass?’ he said, surprising her all the more.

  Tips nodded. She didn’t know why, for it was a lie.

  ‘You’re a brave gnome. Your dad would have been proud of you, had he known you.’

  Tips swallowed and nodded. It’s all she could do. The thought of the hobyah, so close, so… dead, at her feet after her aunt shot it, was all she could picture when she looked into the rain; when she looked into the beautiful surrounds that captivated her on every journey she’d made with her family along the canal but this one.

  Taking in a deep, damp breath, Tips nodded to herself, re-caught her uncle’s eyes and steadied herself for the question she barely managed to ask. ‘What do we haul, Uncle?’

  To her surprise, Stalwart pulled his black-bristled lips into a tight smile. Tips might have been mistaken, but it seemed as though he’d not only been expecting the question, but was impressed by it. After all, she knew her uncle enough to know his expressions, and it seemed he valued boldness.

  ‘I guess we owe you that much, Tips. Although we were sworn to secrecy, your aunt and-‘

  ‘Stalwart!’ Loop practically barked her husband’s name as she popped up from below, a long knife in hand, the blade of which pointed in Stalwart’s direction in a threatening manner.

  Stalwart scoffed. ‘Really, love? Really? After what we’ve-‘

  ‘Really!’ Loop interrupted, again. ‘Say nothing more. Not yet. We’ve work to do.’ She showed no shame in silencing the truth Tips was about to receive. She showed no apology in the glance she stole her niece’s way. Just a frown and a scowl before she dipped below once more.

  ‘Uncle?’ Tips turned back to Stalwart, hope plain to read on her face.

  Stalwart shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said, before patting the tiller. ‘Now come steer, my girl. Brinner and I have a task and I want you to keep us to port, you hear?’

  Swallowing down whatever she might say after losing the truth, Tips found herself merely nodding and moving to Stalwart’s side, to take the tiller. She watched, anger flecking her fear, as the old gnome moved forward, across the oh-so-secret cargo and up to his son’s side. They talked, for a time, all hushed tones and gesticulations until, with a suspiciously eager nod from Brinner, the two moved to and uncovered the cargo. Or what Tips had thought to be cargo.

  It wasn’t so much the revelation of the black barge’s armour and defences that surprised Tips, but more the ease and familiarity with which her family assembled it and fitted it to the vessel. Loop came back up and all three worked, with Tips watching on, an eye on the canal and an eye on the bolting of iron plates to the hull and wooden pavise shields to the sides of the barge.

  ‘A barrage bar
ge…’ Tips whispered to herself, the realisation striking her as true as one of her nephew’s crossbow bolts would. She thought of the stories she’d been told, of armoured barges designed to turn and fill the width of a canal for Lord Piggett, denying passage by any he deemed unfit to pass. She remembered snippets told in the mines and taverns of Chapparro Minor. Barges acting like floating palisades; narrow fortresses setup as and when and where the Earl saw fit, to dispense his justice and guard his waterways throughout the mountain range. She’d heard the stories, as had every gnome, but she’d never seen one. She’d always wondered about such tales, since she’d travelled the canals several times and seen nothing of the ironclad vessels, bristling with mounted crossbows and spear wielding warriors both. She thought and she watched and, as she squinted and worked it out in her head, she realised that, should the barge turn side on, it would indeed block the canal from bank to bank. It was indeed longer than any other barge she’d witnessed. But… it was her family’s barge. It was Stalwart’s. An old gnome more cantankerous than he was warrior. He was certainly no knight of Altoln. He was no hobelar skirmisher or crossbowman of renown. Avalanche take them, Stalwart wasn’t a patch on his own son where marksmanship came into play. He was a gruff old bastard and handy in a bar scrap, that much Tips had seen, but… skipper of a barrage barge?

  She snorted. Eyes turned her way.

  ‘Just keep her true, to port,’ Stalwart said, face as grim as ever.

  Still no explanation! Still acting like this was normal!? And even Brinner seemed content in his seemingly familiar duties of converting haulage barge to mobile fort; two more mounted crossbow positions were erected, both with two windlass’ apiece. Not only that, but Loop disappeared below, as was her way, before returning with two more bargepoles, only these more akin to lances than kit used to shove off from mooring and the like. Tips shook her head and steered. She wasn’t sure what else she could do. There were questions, more questions than before, but she was damned sure she’d get no answers until her family were finished with their barge transformation. And after the two near deadly encounters they’d already endured, she was sure she didn’t want to hinder their progress in that. After all, as unusual and surprising and downright confusing as it all was, she couldn’t help but feel safer within the armour now surrounding her.

  Despite all that. Despite the armoured hull, pavise shields, extra weaponry and – as she was thinking and steering through a pair of black swans and balking at it all – the bloody paddle-cage being installed behind her by Stalwart and Brinner. Despite all that, or rather because of it, Tips had less of an idea of what they hauled than before. For the cargo was gone! No, not gone, but revealed and reused. From covered ‘cargo’ to the intended, armoured skin of the black barge. Because it was clear to Tips now that this was no new addition to her uncle’s pride and joy. Her mind cast back to previous trips and she knew it had always been there, below whatever true cargo they’d been hauling in the past. It had been there all along. But if that was the case, then what made this trip different? Goblins aside. What made this trip worth taking, if there was no cargo? Why risk their lives to haul the very stuff they were using to protect… nothing?

  No, not nothing, Tips thought, with a shudder as a gust struck her with cold rain. Not nothing. It protects us, the crew. But why? Why are we important enough for goblins and hobyahs to attack not once, but twice? What’s my family up to?

  As if on cue, Stalwart took a ragged breath in and released it heavily, before coming to rest by Tips’ side. She offered him the tiller, questions on her wet and cold lips, but he refused the offer.

  ‘You steer, lass,’ he said. ‘You steer.’

  Tips couldn’t fathom why, but she merely nodded. Nodded and steered and said nothing of the roiling confusion in her head. She watched the approaching curve of the canal. She watched Brinner shovel coal into the furnace. And she watched the black sky churn and release its load.

  Never had Tips experienced rain like it. Despite their slow speed – barges weren’t the fastest modes of transport, albeit through Chapparro Minor they were far from the slowest – they’d hit a sudden wall of water which blurred canal with clouds. There was no seeing past the fore-end of the barge, which meant the speed had to be reduced for fear of striking the bank, armoured prow or not.

  ‘We’re going to have to stop and moor up to port,’ Stalwart said, from beneath his canvas hood. They’d all donned cloaks and hoods now, and had two braziers burning on deck, beneath expertly erected canopies of tilted canvas and wood. The heat from the brazier was welcome as the sun lowered to the west, leaving an increasing chill to the wind and rain.

  This wall of water, however, was like steaming into a waterfall more than it was like travelling beneath a heavy downpour. Tips relinquished the tiller to her uncle gladly and was equally pleased to be taking over from her cousin as stoker. They may be slowing to come to a halt, but one last shovel of coal wouldn’t go amiss. The warmth of the action and a face full of heat was welcome.

  ‘Will we be safe on this side of the canal, dad?’ Brinner asked, hunkering down beside his old gnome.

  Stalwart squinted into the haze of the rain and nodded, but said nothing.

  There was a shuddering bump as ironclad hull met bank. Brinner and Tips ran to, hopping from the barge through narrow, crenellated gaps without thought, to tie off on the bank. She had no clue how her uncle managed it, but despite the grey of the late afternoon and its deluge, he’d come to a halt beside an unmarked mooring point. Tips shook her head yet again and tied the ropes as she had dozens of times before.

  Howling hobyahs assaulted her mind’s eye and ear, and Tips raced back onboard, through the narrow gaps in the barge’s armour to peer back out into the gloom, heart thumping. She knew they moored to the opposite side of the canal to the raiders, and she knew how steep the scree slope was on this side of the canal, but it didn’t ease her worries and fears of what was out there, surely left miles behind, but out there nonetheless.

  Shuddering at more than just the cold, Tips crossed to a hissing brazier, the odd gusts of mountain winds allowing rain to reach the flickering flames she held her numb hands over.

  She hunkered down and felt a presence to her side. Forming a playful curse, in need of some normality, she turned to offer the vulgarity to her cousin. Stalwart stared back, hood channelling rain to pour past his dark and serious visage.

  ‘Uncle,’ Tips blurted.

  He offered that same tight smile he’d offered her earlier. ‘It’s time we talked, you and I.’

  Tips swallowed, licked lips despite them being far from dry and nodded for him to go on.

  What he told her ripped the life she had known asunder and shook her to her very core.

  The depths of the barge looked as dark as Tips’ thoughts. She felt a fear like none she’d ever known, which was saying a lot considering the past two days. Mind a tumultuous mess of memories questioned and truths dashed open to reveal the lies beneath, Tips took another tentative step below, where Loop normally went, but where Tips never trod.

  Into the depths… to meet him.

  What would she say? What would she ask? Would she even be able to say or ask anything, or would she be expected to stand in silence and listen, without offering up anything of her own through fear of breaking ancient laws and traditions. Three more steps and the ducking below of a ceiling would reveal all, answer much, but still Tips hesitated.

  Stalwart explained much, but more questions were born from what he said. He also talked of the locks to come and the threat of that – barrage barge or not – or so he believed, as did Loop, who seemed far more deft in such matters than Tips had ever known; her uncle and cousin were too, though, that much was clear. Of the three, it was Brinner’s betrayal that hurt the most. After all the shocking revelations their potential deaths at the hands of goblins and hobyahs forced, it was Brinner’s years of silence on the
matter that shook Tips and threatened the breaching of her emotional dam. Her reservoir was full, but she fought to hold it in place, for this next encounter, if nothing else.

  I won’t have him thinking me weak. I will have him regret past decisions to have my identity hidden, not judge them of sound reasoning.

  A deep breath, the usual calm of the rain gone, along with the breaking of the clouds as stars appeared in the blackness above. Tips strode purposefully down the remaining steps and into the cabin below.

  She gasped. The space was far from small. It was as if a hall hid below the waters of the canal. Impossibly wide and impossibly long, far more so than the barge she’d descended into.

  Frowning, breaths quickening and fingers worrying each other despite her determined resolve, Tips looked from dressers to benches, table to weapon racks. She studied rich tapestries on the walls and oil-lamps on sconces. Plush rugs and an open hearth slapped her back a space as her mind tried to comprehend what she witnessed. And all of that – all of it – before the sight of him rocked her almost to the stone floor below her feet. Stone!?

  ‘I…’ Tips began, knees weakening, a trembling hand to her mouth. Do I curtsy?

  ‘Please,’ Lord Piggett said, rising from the chair he’d been perched on. He held his hands out, placating Tips. An apology in gesture for… what? For the shock of the room which sat beneath the barge, somehow? Or for almost three decades of lies fed to Tips about her life, her heritage. ‘I…’ The Earl drifted off much as Tips had, and there was a familiarity there, in the tone of his voice and the mannerisms he showed. It was a rare thing for Tips to view herself in a true mirror, but she had, on occasion. The resemblance between her and the Earl of Chapparro Minor was not lost on her. The truth of it was plain to see.

  I’ve seen him before though and never recognised a resemblance? she thought, eyes racing around his noble features. But never have I studied him, eyes usually averted, as is proper, as is our way with nobility. She stifled an incredulous laugh at that. Am I nobility then? She realised similarly that she’d never seen him this close. Across a yard or hall and always a fleeting thing, whilst bustled by a crowd, eyes averted whenever the Earl glanced their way.