Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

  Goblins fled into the woods. One or two, then a dozen. Two dozen. Almost all remaining ran from the gryphon and the gnomish apparition atop it.

  Brinner cried out. Tips’ stomach fell to the bottom of the canal.

  The hobyahs!

  She turned in time to see the hulking duo cut her cousin down. His arms were raised, but little good against the rusted falchion that struck him. One arm fell away completely, the other near as damn it, and the blade continued to thwack into his unarmoured chest.

  Tips scrambled towards Brinner, unsure what she could do but unwilling to do nothing. She screamed her cousin’s name and heard, over the continuous ringing in her ears, Loops’ cry of anguish.

  A staccato burst of hollow pops came from everywhere and nowhere at once - but surely from the gryphon riding mage – and the sudden shuddering of the hobyahs was clearly linked to that sound. They dropped dead with no visible wounds.

  Tips reached and fell atop Brinner. Literally fell, deck awash with her cousin’s blood as it was. His stump and his wreck of a remaining arm continued to gush his life away, as did his hacked but heaving chest. Tips pulled hessian from behind and stuffed the sacks onto Brinner’s wounds in an attempt to stem the flow. Tips watched her cousin’s eyes, staring up at her, past her. Past her to something she could not see. To Sir Samorl? Come to take him away? She could not know. Her ears rang and little else got through to her, bar her aunt’s wailing as she careened into Tips, knocking her aside to take her boy into her arms. Arms now as bloody as her son’s.

  Brinner was gone. Or going, swiftly. Tips had seen the hobyah threat and done nothing but look up in fear for her own life. Tips had seen her cousin’s killers and given no warning.

  Her ears rang and their enemy ran. The only sound to reach her bar her aunt was the triumphant call of the gryphon that had saved them; not all of them. Not all of them. Tips repeated that in her head. Repeated it until she watched Stalwart fall by his son. Until blood-slick, armoured hands and arms wrapped her in a hug. The Earl. Family.

  I gain family I did not ask for and lose the only one I truly cared for. What horror is this? What hell has been visited upon us?

  Tips stared on, in near silence; she stared in a stunned state of disbelief and regret and hatred for herself. A guilt like she could never have imagined but moments ago. And she felt guilty for that selfish guilt, too.

  ‘Curse my soul.’

  Armoured arms squeezed her tighter still and through that embrace, that pulling of her head away from her cousin, Tips saw the departing, rider-less gryphon and she recoiled in utter confusion, for there was no gnome anywhere to be seen, other than her own family.

  That confusion was enhanced tenfold by the whispering of Piggett in her ear.

  ‘You saved us, Tips,’ he said. ‘You saved us.’

  The working of the following three locks was carried out by Piggett and Stalwart. Loop still cradled her now dead son, for he had taken some time to pass.

  The locks were operated and the barge moved on. Tips sat, knees to bloody chest, arms wrapped around them, tears used up and throat dry from crying and coughing. Stalwart was little better, despite his name, and operated the locks and the tiller through necessity alone.

  Their destination came into view late that same day – so close had they been – with no more appearances by their attackers. But the sight that greeted them as they came upon the end of the canal and the walled town it entered, Strongholme, took all their breaths.

  ‘A ruin?’ It was the most Stalwart had said for half a day. It was the most anyone had said.

  ‘Dignaaln came here first,’ Piggett realised aloud, from behind Tips. ‘Chapparro Minor is indeed fallen. My Earldom is done.’

  There was no movement from ahead. Smoke lifted into the sky, but not much. The blackened husks of buildings showed all who looked on that the town had been gutted days, if not weeks, past.

  ‘He came here first,’ Piggett repeated, about the emissary who persuaded Piggett’s own men to betray him, to open his castle’s gates to their oldest enemy.

  ‘I would say so,’ Stalwart managed.

  ‘I see no enemy.’ Piggett stood and moved past Tips, to squint into the light of the day.

  ‘I would say they came for us. For you, brother.’ There was a bitterness in Stalwart’s words that Tips did not miss. From the look on Piggett’s face, of pain more than anything else, neither did he.

  ‘Take us in and we’ll disembark,’ Piggett commanded. ‘We need to leave the canal now. And we need to leave the mountains.’

  Loop spoke for the first time since her wailing died out, her voice a broken thing. ‘Into Altoln proper?’ she asked.

  Piggett nodded. ‘To Wesson and King Barrison, and to the Wizards and Sorcery Guild and its former Master Cleric; to our brother, Orix, perpetrator of the plague.’ He winced at that and turned to look pointedly at Tips. ‘To your father.’

  The realisation that she would meet her father struck Tips more than the insistence from her uncles that the gryphon rider had been her, or rather her will made manifest; a conjuration from a power she held within, passed down to her by Orix in power if not in focus. For Orix was a cleric, a saver of lives – despite Wesson’s recent plague – not the loser and taker of lives that she herself was.

  To see my father, she thought, his face a spectral rider of a wild, controlled gryphon, vivid in her mind. A father I thought dead. She looked at her cousin’s body. Returned, in place of Brinner… I would have it how it always was. I would have Brinner over this gnome cleric I do not know. Tips sighed and held her head in her hands. I would have it all back how it was. Ignorance was bliss; I am not who I was, and I do not care for the gnome I have become. We have one thing in common, Orix, father: lives have been destroyed by our actions, or inactions. Oh how I am indeed your spawn.

  Head to www.jpashman.com to discover more stories by J.P. Ashman.

  14

  Making a Killing

  David Benem

  The Dead Messenger tolerated no trifles. The patrons crowding the tavern’s splintering tables seemed a dangerous sort, all hard faces with swords at the ready. All folk accustomed to the dark work.

  Fencress Fallcrow studied the scoundrels, blue eyes steady beneath the black leather of her cowl. She was new to the place, and many suspicious gazes met her own. But this crowd wouldn’t trouble her, she wagered. And if they did, she’d not hesitate to give them a good stick in the jingles with one of her twin blades.

  The big-bellied barkeep waddled toward her corner table far from the front door. “Haven’t seen you round before,” he said, his thick mouth twisted in a puzzled look. “You sure a lass such as yourself wants to mingle with this rabble? There are safer ale houses in Raven’s Roost.”

  She looked to him with a smirk. “Oh, you needn’t worry about me. Other than what I might do if I sit here thirsty much longer.”

  The barkeep raised hands topped with crooked fingers. “I meant no offense, lass. It’s just this tavern isn’t as much for drinking and carousing as it is for… other things. At times there can be dark work afoot, if you get my meaning.”

  “I’ve heard plenty of this place,” Fencress said, tapping the pommels of her twin swords, “and that’s precisely why I’m here. I’ve also been told you serve a fine cider.”

  The barkeep nodded with a cocked brow. “I’ll grab you a mug, then,” he said, lumbering back to the bar.

  Fencress settled in her chair and leaned against the rough, sandstone wall. A slight smile slipped across her face. The tavern seemed just what she’d expected: drab and dusty and dirty.

  And just the place to make my fortune.

  The barkeep returned with a tall tankard of cider, setting it before Fencress with his hands of crooked fingers. “Apologies,” he said quietly. “It’s just I’m not used to seeing many women amidst this lot. And
certainly not many looking for the dark work.”

  She nodded and took a sip of the cider. It had a tart, delicious bite and a smooth finish. “As fine as I was promised, Old Crook,” she said with a tilt of the mug to the barkeep.

  “You know my name?” he asked. “Who’s told you of The Dead Messenger?”

  “Karnag Mak Ragg. He’ll be here shortly.”

  Old Crook’s face drained to a pale color. “You’re with Karnag?”

  Fencress nodded. “I am indeed, friend. He and I will be working together.”

  Old Crook stiffened. “My sincerest apologies once more. The cider and whatever else you’d like this evening are on the house.”

  The sky beyond the clouded windows had faded to darkness hours before. Fencress listened as the belfries of Raven’s Roost tolled the sound of ten o’clock, then looked again about the tavern’s common room. Many candles now lit the place, painting shifting swaths of orange across the tables and lingering patrons.

  She took another long sip of her cider—her fourth tankard, she reckoned—and tapped gloved fingers against the mug’s sides. Her comrade was overdue, and she’d begun to wonder whether he’d found trouble on the road.

  Just then the door of The Dead Messenger flew open, squealing on its hinges. First a rush of the night’s cool air, then a massive fellow with a head covered by black braids and broad shoulders draped by a dark cloak. The hilt of his two-handed sword—Gravemaker, he called it—peeked over his shoulder.

  Karnag Mak Ragg.

  “Welcome back, friend!” called Old Crook from the bar. He tossed aside a towel and the cups he’d been cleaning and swept hands across his dirty apron. “It’s been too long. Cider? Ale? Stew?”

  Karnag pressed the door closed then straightened as he surveyed the room. “Ale and stew and plenty of both,” he grated. He glanced about the tavern. “Has anyone asked—”

  “There,” said Old Crook, nodding toward Fencress in her darkened corner.

  “Aye,” Karnag said, turning from the door and moving through the room. Those in his way shifted quickly to grant him a wide berth. He neared, removed the big weapon from his back and dropped it upon the table with a clank.

  “You’re late,” Fencress said, tone thick with mock irritation.

  Karnag lowered to a seat and swept aside his veil of heavy braids. He had a hard face with hard features set beneath a dark brow. He showed no humor. “You found the place,” he said.

  Fencress tucked a strand of her raven-black hair back within her cowl. “A fair bit quicker than you, it seems.”

  Karnag grunted, the sound of it seeming neither agreement nor annoyance. “I arrive when I do,” he said flatly, flint-colored eyes turning about the tavern.

  Soon Old Crook appeared with Karnag’s bowl of stew and a tall tankard capped with golden foam. “Here you go, lad,” the barkeep said, setting the meal before the man. “We should talk after you’ve finished. Privately, of course.”

  “Talk?” Karnag asked, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “Speak, Crook.”

  Old Crook glanced to Fencress then back to Karnag. “My business depends on my discretion, you know.”

  Karnag looked to the barkeep. “This is Fencress Fallcrow,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Met her in Riverweave a month back and she’s already proven a loyal comrade. Besides, she has a gift for the dark work, and she is my friend.”

  Old Crook opened his mouth before snapping it shut once more.

  “I said speak, Crook,” rumbled Karnag. “Anything you can say to me you can say to her as well.”

  “Alright, then,” he said, pulling close to the table. He looked about then spoke in a low voice. “A new job arrived in the Blood Box two evenings ago. A big one. A hundred gold crowns big.”

  Fencress glanced to Karnag. Despite the enormous sum, the man appeared unmoved.

  Karnag took a swallow of ale. “No one’s taken it?”

  “I’ve not told anyone about it. I figured I’d wait as long as I could to disclose it. Just in case you returned.”

  “And here I am.”

  Old Crook smiled. “And here you are. Jobs this big don’t come around often, and this one sounds perfect for your… particular talents.”

  “And what is it?”

  “More complicated than a straightforward killing and that’s why the offer is as large as it is, no doubt.” He turned his head about again, eyes seeming to study the room. “We should discuss details and such in my office, away from other ears.”

  Karnag nodded and shoveled the rest of his stew into his mouth. He grabbed his sword and gestured for Fencress to follow. “‘Complicated,’ he says. Sounds like just the sort of job we should take on together.”

  Fencress smirked then trailed Karnag and Old Crook through the tavern and into a cramped, ill-lit room. The walls held shelves sagging with wheels of smelly cheese, sacks of turnips and onions, and what appeared to be old ledgers of yellowing paper. In the room’s center stood a table with a sputtering candle and a note bound by a red ribbon.

  Old Crook closed the door behind them. “That there is the job,” he said, pointing. “Paid in full through the Blood Box, so I’ve no reason to question it.”

  The Blood Box. Karnag had explained the thing to Fencress, the dirty secret of The Dead Messenger. Its way of matching those doing the ‘dark work’—thieving and murdering—with those willing to pay for such services. Old Crook took the requests and the coin, then found those suited for the jobs. The parties remained unknown to each other, and in exchange for that anonymity Old Crook collected a healthy percentage.

  “One hundred gold crowns,” Karnag said. “Too much for a heist around these parts. Who is it they want killed?”

  “Right as always, lad,” said Old Crook, squeezing toward the table and retrieving the note. After fumbling about with his bent fingers he unfurled it and stooped low toward the candle with squinted eyes. “More than one man, and that’s why I saved this job for you.” He smiled, seeming to await a reaction.

  “You know I don’t enjoy prattling on, Crook. Just give me names and a location.”

  Old Crook made a shooing motion with a hand. “Very well, very well. Says here there’s some salty Tallorrathian—a minor noble from the sound of it—staying in Raven’s Roost with an entourage of four or five men. The note gives the name of the inn and those in his company. He’s to be there the next three nights, and on that third night a relation of his is supposed to arrive. The job demands he and his company be killed before that happens.”

  “Easy enough,” said Karnag.

  Old Crook pursed his lips. “Your patron also wants it to appear the kingdom’s soldiers did the killing.”

  Fencress raised a brow. “Soldiers from our good kingdom of Rune killing a foreign dignitary? Sounds to me someone’s trying to start a war.”

  Old Crook nodded. “The dark work always bloodies more hands than those doing it. ‘Dark work brings darks rewards,’ as folk say.”

  Fencress had killed in self-defense, plenty of times. But killing for profit, killing folk who’d done her no wrong, seemed a different thing. She’d worked with Karnag before, of course, but she’d always done the lock picking and charming of guards and making distractions and such. He’d always taken care of the murdering.

  Now, with the number of folk they’d been asked to kill, she wagered she’d be getting some of the blood on her hands as well. She turned it over in her head—that notion of a price placed on life—and remembered when, as a child, she’d been sold for just a few pieces of silver.

  She gripped the hilts of her twin swords and nodded to Karnag.

  Karnag dipped his head of heavy braids and grabbed the note from Old Crook. “It’s as good as done.”

  Fencress walked beside Karnag through the old market of Raven’s Roost, a sad gathering of shabby tents an
d wagons displaying what seemed mostly junk, wilted produce, and meat on the verge of rot. It was a far cry from the exotic bazaars of Riverweave. But, then, the reputation of Raven’s Roost had been built upon villainy rather than retail.

  She tugged at the brim of her black cowl. “What would draw a Tallorrathian noble, even a minor one, here of all places? It’s well known those seafarers don’t venture far from their icy islands except for raiding and pillaging. Here we’re not just more than a hundred leagues south, but more than fifty leagues inland as well. Besides,” she said, looking about the flea-bitten market, “there’s not much here worth pillaging.”

  Karnag shrugged his broad shoulders. “As far as I’m concerned he’s here to be murdered. My weapons pay no regard to other reasons.”

  Fencress sniffed. “Your imagination knows no bounds.”

  He looked to her, flint eyes bracing her own. There was a keen intelligence in them, she sensed, but no tolerance for nonsense. “I’ve been hired to kill this man and his company,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ve not been asked to determine motives or reasons or anything else. The man’s blood will provide the only answer I require.”

  “As you will,” Fencress said, keeping the annoyance from her voice. Making a living in the shadows and fringes of civilized society was no easy thing, and Karnag was proving a valuable ally. Yet, there seemed a dark edge to the man that refused to be dulled.

  “Ah!” she said, a bolt of red cloth catching her eye. “That’s precisely what we’re seeking.”

  Karnag halted, seeming to appraise the goods.

  “The color’s close,” Fencress said, “if not identical. Look,” she said, giving a subtle gesture toward a couple of the kingdom’s guardsmen lounging near the edge of the market. Both wore sashes of crimson, stripes of a rich red that seemed all but indiscernible from the nearby wares.