Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  The militia quietened despite their attempted resolve.

  A large tribesman emerged from his hissing and panting line, led by two black-furred creatures pulling on thick ropes. The newcomer was clearly the Orismaran commander. Several of the closest tribesmen shuffled forward, around him, maintaining their crouched stance, maintaining their twisted and contorted expressions as the black-furred beasts pulled at the ropes barely held by their muscle-bound master.

  ‘What are they?’ a man asked, voice but a whisper.

  The nearest reeve turned to him, face grim. ‘They call them gorillas.’

  The great apes stood, as if hearing their mention. Mighty fists pummelled black chests as the silverbacks revealed bright canines and roared their anger.

  Many men took a step back. It was becoming a habit.

  ‘Hold, damn you all!’ Guiscard shouted through his visor. ‘They’re savages, the likes we’ve faced along our borders time and time again.’

  ‘I ain’t never seen ’em like this before, messire.’

  Guiscard turned back, towards the speaker. ‘No, not like this, but posturing and pets do not make a man.’ He stowed his lance and drew his sword, holding it high, before clanking it on the side of his polished bascinet. ‘Good Sirretan steel and good tactics make a man!’ he shouted, for all to hear. The latter was overlapped by the calling of the enemy commander, pulled forward several steps by his great apes.

  The Orismaran line shuffled forward with him. Weapons bobbed and faces were pulled. Their tattooed chests heaved as they sucked in air, blew it out, bared teeth and extended tongues.

  The grating, foreign words coming hoarse from the commander was lost on the Sirretan militia, but after one strange word bellowed loud and clear, the hundreds strong reply from the men behind the beastly Orismaran knocked the men of Steedon back.

  Tribesmen changed position as one, an aggressive ripple across the line. They shifted a half circle one way, looking sidelong at the Sirretans whilst their commander issued forth new words in his guttural tongue. Hundreds of men turned back in a mass of shifting feet, proceeding to clatter weapons on shields which outdid the previous clattering of Sirretan weapons, makeshift or otherwise. Totems hammered the ground, keeping beat as tattooed warriors stamped feet and shuffled forward, following their commander’s slow progress towards their enemy. They chanted as one, the thuds progressing and amplifying with well-rehearsed verses, punctuated here and there by roars from gorillas and defiant shrieks from the warriors of the Orismaran line.

  ‘Fear not,’ Guiscard shouted, turning his horse a full circle before riding the line. He kept his visored bascinet pointing to his own men, calling them to focus on him, focus on the horror those opposite had inflicted on the children scattered across the meadow between.

  The aggressive chant continued. As the tribesmen stamped and clattered weapons, as they lifted hairs on the backs of their enemy’s necks with voice alone, they advanced; slowly they came forward, making room for all those in the forest behind.

  Guiscard turned as the noise grew and neared. He stared as hundreds more of the painted warriors shuffled from the tree line, feet stamping, fists thumping thighs and chests, and weapons ruining the already grizzly trophies adorning the square shields they held out or aloft. Hundreds of deep voices in a fearsome harmony that entranced even him.

  ‘The dance before war,’ he whispered to himself, voice trapped behind steel, matched only by the heavy breaths coming quicker and quicker as he witnessed; as he realised… ‘They aren’t raiding—’

  ‘The fuckers are going to war,’ the closest reeve said from behind Guiscard.

  And here was me wanting my men-at-arms and crossbowmen back from the Duc, Guiscard thought, a half-laugh escaping his lips but not his visor. The Duc du Sud’s army should be here… they should all be here; all of Sirreta’s chevaliers.

  A final roar emitted from every Orismaran mouth, accompanied by a leap into the air.

  When they landed, they charged.

  The pace was incredible. The tattooed warriors sprinted forward, shields held before them and weapons ready. The gorillas launched from the grip of their master, thumping forward on all fours in an ironic mimicry of the beastly children that came before, fists pounding the meadow as they ran.

  Too few arrows flew; many of the archers having fled, carried surviving children away to assumed safety with other militiamen or died during the altered children’s assault; more now ran for their lives despite the calls to turn and face from the reeves.

  ‘Close ranks and set spears!’ Guiscard shouted through his visor. His heart thumped within the plate-lined brigandine protecting it. His palms were wet with sweat within his fingered gauntlets, as was his brow, covered as it was with padded cap, maille and Sirretan steel.

  Those with spears set the shafts to the ground and braced, but it wasn’t many. They were flanked by a few men-at-arms brandishing polearms, swords and shields, hammers and axes, and the remaining militia, trade implements gripped by trembling hands. It was a wonder any of those men stood to face the charge at all; fathers all, Guiscard mused.

  ‘Think of those children!’ he roared, thinking again of his own three girls. ‘Think of those Sirretan sons and daughters!’ He faced front again, suddenly aware he was the only mounted man on the field. ‘Our numbers are few, but our weapons strong.’ We’re done for, he thought honestly, eyeing the rapidly closing mass of brutal warriors. We’re all done for. He heard his reeves calling again for men to hold. ‘If we flee they will cut us down!’ Guiscard shouted without turning. ‘If we stand, we can take them down!’ We have no chance… White be with me. ‘White be with us all!’ he roared.

  Bodkin tipped spurs slashed into bay flanks and the lone destrier snorted before launching forward, its rider leaning into the sudden surge.

  ‘He charges them!’ a swordsman shouted. The line cheered.

  Iron-shod hooves pounded the soft meadow’s earth and a yellow lance lowered. The pure bulk of Guiscard’s target enforced doubt upon him that the lance’s tip would even puncture the approaching beast’s black hide. A handful of arrows overtook him, dropping tribesmen to either side of the hulking ape, their accuracy the best yet.

  Lance point neared its mark. Sirretan nobleman braced, prayed. Gorilla leapt.

  A collective intake of breath, of fear, took the Sirretans as Guiscard was smashed from his high-backed saddle. His armoured body crunched to the ground behind his rearing destrier, the wind escaping his lungs as he lay unmoving, stunned.

  The horse went berserk, bucking and kicking, lashing out at any and all who came close. The crazed animal took down several warriors until spears brought it low.

  The militiamen fled.

  Before Guiscard could lament the loss of his horse or men, huge fists pummelled him within his harness of steel, breaking bones and winding him further. And before he could make a move, before he could even make sense of what was happening to him, one of those fists struck and forced his visor back into his helmed head in a pressure-releasing explosion that ended it all.

  Chapter 1 – An arresting development

  Wesson, Altoln, Brisance

  Summer - 492nd year of the Alliance

  One skip, two, three and a wide grin between red bristles.

  A loud splash was followed by a colourful curse.

  ‘Get low when ye throw,’ Sears said, demonstrating his technique. ‘Throw the stone, a flat stone, across like ye would bounce it from a table-top.’

  Biviano grunted and scratched under his kettle-helm. ‘I’ve never bounced a stone, a flat stone…’ He dodged Sears’ meaty fist. ‘…across a table-top,’ he finished with glee.

  ‘Watch me, ye shit.’ The flat stone glided with little hops across the Park District pond. One of those hops was atop a lily pad.

  Biviano’s breath was long and ragged. ‘I don’t want to come here anymore, Sears.’ Biviano walked away, or began to; frowning, he turned to Sears, who stared at nothing in par
ticular. ‘Mate, ye alright?’ Biviano asked.

  No response.

  ‘Sears, ye prick, what is it?’

  Sears took a beat and turned to his friend, smiling as he did, albeit weakly.

  ‘I don’t like where this is going, big guy.’

  ‘I don’t suppose ye will. Nor where I’m going.’

  Biviano closed his eyes for a moment, accompanying his heavy sigh. ‘Ye know what length we went to, getting ye out of Dockside, and ye want to go back in? And for what, Sears? A former assassin and his—’

  ‘Don’t!’ Sears warned.

  ‘I was going to say lass, ye goon, not whore.’

  Sears conceded and nodded. ‘Fair enough. Go on with yer mothering.’

  ‘It’s more than mothering, Sears. It’s—’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘It is shit, aye, but it’s also—’

  ‘Not that, Biv.’ Sears reached out and grabbed a flinching Biviano by his maille-clad shoulders and turned him to the park gate. ‘That! Or should I say them.’

  ‘’Morl’s wrinkled scrotum, Sears. What’ve ye done now, eh?’

  All Sears could do was frown and shake his red head. I have no idea, he thought, as a dozen burgundy clad magistrates’ guardsmen approached, hands on sheathed and belted weapons, not cudgels.

  ‘I take it yer here for more’n a chat and a skim of stones, eh lads?’ Sears said.

  The sergeant stepped forward as the armed group fanned out before the two city guardsmen.

  ‘You can leave,’ the sergeant said to Biviano, before locking eyes once more on Sears.

  ‘Like dog shit I can, ye fat bastard. The man asked ye a question and ye’ll bloody well answer it.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The sergeant’s eyes remained on Sears, although one twitched at Biviano’s insult. Sears and Biviano noticed the battle mage at the back of the group, also wearing the burgundy of Wesson’s magistrates.

  Sears filled his bearded cheeks before letting the breath out slowly. ‘I’m under arrest, aren’t I?’

  The sergeant nodded.

  Biviano half-drew his short-sword, but Sears stopped him with an iron grip. They looked to one another and Sears shook his head. ‘Don’t, Biv. They’re just doing their duty, like we do.’

  Biviano swallowed hard and slammed his sword back into its scabbard, turning to the sergeant as he did so.

  Sears stepped forward, arms away from his sides. ‘Can I ask—?’

  ‘Do you know who this man is?’ Biviano interrupted Sears and took a step toward the sergeant. Several men half-drew their weapons.

  ‘Of course they bloody well know who I am, Biviano,’ Sears said. ‘That’s why they’re here. Can’t imagine it’s a case of mistaken identity with this.’ He ran fingers through his red beard.

  ‘Will you come along calmly and relinquish your sword, Master Sears?’

  Sears nodded to the sergeant. ‘If I must, aye.’ He walked forward, but not before drawing and turning his sword so the well-worn hilt faced the magistrates’ men.

  The sergeant nodded his thanks and took the offered blade. He raised a hand and placed it on Sears’ broad back as he guided him through the burgundy men and away from the pond; away from Biviano.

  ‘And what of me?’

  ‘I’ll see you in the magistrates’ court, ye prick,’ Sears shouted, without turning.

  ‘Aye, but for what, eh? For what? Ye bunch of shites!’

  No one answered Biviano as his friend was led from the park.

  Chapter 2 – Evening encounters

  It was like the warmth of the first true day of spring. Sun kisses your face, illuminates the shadows and chases them away. Tendrils of relaxation move in and around your muscles, your skin warming as you take that long, sweet breath. It was like that, but so much more.

  Quin moved his hands around Emms, letting his fingertips and palms glide over her pale skin. Once round her front, he pulled her closer to him, her back meeting his chest. He squeezed gently as he brought his knees up behind hers, mirroring her position in the bed. Quin didn’t care that she smelt of stale ale and sweat, nor did he care about the noise coming from the tavern below; a rowdy chorus of deep voices chanting what sounded like a galley rowing song. He smiled.

  Never did I think she’d look at me twice, let alone take me to be her own; to be her love.

  She shifted in his arms, against him, the movement arousing him. His grin turned wolfish.

  ‘Emms, you awake?’ he whispered.

  ‘I am now,’ she whispered back.

  Quin tickled her ribs, causing her to squirm and giggle. Oh how he loved that sound. He laughed as she spun on him, jabbing fingers into his side. Their playfulness soon turned into something more and before long they both lay on their backs, faces and chests red as they stared at the mottled ceiling above.

  ‘I’ll never tire of that,’ Emms said, glancing sidelong at Quin.

  ‘Nor will I, my love.’

  Curling into him once more, Emms stole a kiss before pushing him away and rising.

  ‘You’re getting up?’ Quin sat, covers about him like a poorly attempted nest.

  ‘I must. I’ve work.’

  He watched as she dressed, and smiled when she pulled on the patterned wool dress he’d bought her, the burgundy of it suiting her fair hair. Although Quin thought anything would suit her well; she already stood out from the crowd with eyes of blue, so different to the dark eyes and olive skin more common to the Tri Isles. She caught his eye and smiled.

  ‘I love it,’ she said, patting down the creases from the garment’s night on the floor. ‘I should have hung it last night.’

  ‘There wasn’t time, the way we got to it.’

  Emms frowned. ‘You romantic you. Perhaps you should leave your apprenticeship and become a poet. A jongleur of song and tale.’

  Quin’s laugh turned her frown, his mirth bringing more of the same from her.

  ‘Ah, Emms, I know not how I’d ever live without you now, you know? You have me sure as if I was a selkie and you had my skin.’

  She pounced on the bed and onto Quin. ‘Again with the romantic turns of phrase, Quin. You certainly know how to woo a lass.’

  ‘I don’t want to woo anyone bar you,’ came his muffled reply from between her clothed breasts. ‘I want to stay here for the day.’ He shook his head vigorously, drawing another laugh from Emms.

  ‘Well you can’t. I’m needed downstairs.’ She rolled off him and back to her feet. ‘And you’re needed, to be taught shipwright stuff.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’ Quin climbed to his feet and searched the floor for his pantaloons.

  ‘Of course.’ Emms shoved Quin to the floor, laughed and moved to the door. ‘Until later!’

  ‘Until later, my love,’ Quin said, gazing at her and forgetting his half-drawn pantaloons for a moment. ‘When do you want me to come by? As soon as I finish? I don’t mind waiting at the bar until you’re done with your work. I could help you, if you like?’

  The questions came like the bolts from a repeater ballistae and knocked Emms back a step.

  ‘Or not,’ Quin said. ‘I don’t mind coming later, if you’d prefer that? Whatever you want. I’ll wait on you, you know.’

  Emms smiled and nodded. ‘Come later. Give me chance to bathe and change.’

  Quin’s face dropped. ‘I knew you didn’t like the dress.’ Shoulders slumping, he dropped to the bed and continued to dress himself.

  ‘Quinnell Pallister, you know that’s not true!’

  Looking back to her, Quin offered a weak smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite believe you’re mine. It’s been three months already and, well…’

  ‘I know,’ Emms interrupted, ‘but there’s no rush, is there? We’ve our lives before us—’

  ‘Our lives together, yes,’ Quin said, grinning once more. ‘Now off with you, girly. There’s patrons need serving.’

  With a wink, Emms left the room and closed the door behind her.


  After a good long look at the peeling wood where she’d stood, Quin took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘Oh Emms,’ he said aloud, ‘how I never want a day to pass where we’re not together.’

  Turning back to his scattered clothes, a garment of which moved across the floor seemingly of its own accord, Quin smiled at the memories of the night before and jumped up, invigorated and ready for the day ahead.

  ***

  ‘It burns when I breathe,’ Starks said, rubbing at his red nose.

  ‘Here he goes again.’

  Correia flashed Gleave a dangerous look as the young crossbowman continued.

  ‘I can’t help it, Gleave. For days now my eyes have stung and my nose has run.’ He rubbed again at his nose with the back of his hand. ‘And now… now my throat feels dry whether I swallow or not. Whether I bloody drink or not.’ Starks slumped back in the saddle.

  ‘I’m not going to lie,’ Gleave said, looking back to the sniffing lad behind, ‘with the plague fresh in my mind, your coughing and sneezing isn’t making me feel all that convinced that the elves and mages cured it.’

  Starks’ eyes widened. ‘Oh great, thanks Gleave, now I feel worse.’ He pulled up his green tunic and checked for buboes.

  ‘Gleave, shut up,’ Correia said, her weariness of the subject clear. ‘And Starks, don’t listen to him, he’s prodding you is all.’ She held her hand up as Gleave made to reply. ‘Now, Fal will be back soon with Sav and Errolas, so let’s stop here and make camp before we lose light.’

  Voicing their acknowledgement, followed by three sneezes from Starks, they stopped their horses and dismounted. With practised efficiency, they untied, unloaded and made use of their saddle bags’ contents to set about making camp. Gleave found a suitable tree to set a lean-to against and Starks cleared a space before it and struck flint against steel, dozens of times. Soon after, a small fire glowed and a moss-covered shelter was well under way. Correia kept watch whilst her men worked. She looked for the others, and hoped that’s all she would see.