Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘Which two of you are in league for stealing?’ Gleave went on. It was his turn to point the finger.

  Several men agreed with Gleave, much to Sav’s surprise and relief. Baldy reddened in the cheeks as more gamblers came over to see what was amiss.

  ‘Tell ’em!’ Gleave shouted, prodding Baldy back. ‘Tell ’em how you and that other bird’s owner are for cheating good hard pennies from them, by offering up a duff cock!’

  Despite the want – need – to comment on those words, Sav froze. He could have called it. His years on the City Guard in Wesson was enough to know a fist would come after those words… Why it hit him, though, he would never know?

  Sav went down hard.

  Gleave went berserk.

  Cockerels crowed and pit dogs barked.

  Men gasped, others laughed.

  Sav rolled as feet came in, bruising ribs and adding to what he’d received during the football game. He tried to stand but failed as a body fell across him, face bloody. He heard Gleave roaring, heard bones break – heard them! – and pottery smash. Stalls and cages cracked, splintered and the latter opened. The razor bound feet of a black cockerel lashed out, slicing shins and calves alike.

  In the commotion that followed, all Sav remembered was being grabbed by the scruff of the neck and hauled to his feet. A familiar voice sang into his ear, and before he knew it, he, Errolas, Gleave and an overfed hen were charging from the building, angry voices following.

  I’m never going to another cock fight again. Sav followed his friends through the door. It never even entered his head, until later, that Errolas had been there all along.

  Chapter 4 – A flash in an alley

  Two men, an elf and a big brown hen moved through dark streets and darker alleys, determined to leave the ensuing gamblers brawl behind and work their way back to Correia at the tavern.

  ‘The thing’s following us,’ Sav said, turning a corner and glancing back.

  ‘Keep moving.’ Gleave looked back to see that Sav was right.

  ‘He’s thankful to you,’ Sav said, wincing as he ran, fresh pains flaring with each step.

  Gleave grunted. ‘She, and don’t be stupid, Sav, she’s a hen.’

  Errolas moved ahead of the other two. Reaching the end of a particularly long alley, which nestled between tall homes with crooked overhangs, the elf stopped and backtracked, quickly.

  ‘That’s not a good sign.’ Gleave halted, hen by his side.

  Errolas motioned for them to turn and head back, but before they could, and before the elf reached them, two figures turned into the tight space and gave chase.

  ‘Who the fuck are they?’ Gleave asked. Sav shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know, but since we’re unarmed, I suggest we do as Errolas wants and run.’

  Gleave grabbed Sav, turned him and set off the way they’d come, hen and elf close behind.

  Reaching the other end of the alley, another figure stepped out, silhouette topped by a wide brimmed hat.

  ‘Shit!’ Gleave dived left and Sav right, leaving Errolas and the hen to face the twin flashes that preceded two lead balls and a loud snap and cracking thud that echoed from the walls and left white smoke hanging between.

  Had he not been an elf ranger, the balls might have hit. As it was, Errolas leapt high as soon as his eyes saw the striking hammers’ spark. Lead sped beneath elf feet and above shrieking chicken, to slam into the pursuing thugs. The Samorlian witchunter cursed as thugs’ ribs turned to shrapnel. One cried out in pain, one didn’t. Both hit the ground.

  Gleave roared. Sav cursed. Hen ran in circles and elf charged.

  Gleave pushed himself up and followed the elf in, the sulphurous smell of black powder strong, reminding them all of their last encounter with witchunters. And the loss of Mearson.

  Rapier and dagger were drawn by the witchunter, an unfair match compared to the knife Errolas held and the fists Gleave clenched.

  Sav cursed some more as recently healed cuts from the game reopened and bruises throbbed. He got up in time to see the hen follow Gleave into a furious show of fists and blades.

  ‘Shit!’ Sav took a moment to think, knowing there was no room for his assistance. He turned to the dead and dying men on the ground, and grinned.

  Errolas twisted and turned, narrowly avoiding the steel reaching for him. A fist came across his vision, connecting with the boiled leather the witchunter wore and doing little good.

  Gleave cursed and roared some more, until dagger found his thigh, sending him low with gritted teeth and an intake of cold air.

  Errolas launched a rapid assault of knife and palm, intent on taking his enemy quickly, before the rapier could be used to effect in the greater space of the street they spilled into, leaving the smoke and stink of sulphur behind.

  A chicken clucked and Gleave shook his head in disbelief as the bird looked at him, head cocked to one side, then the other.

  ‘Out the way, out the way,’ Sav shouted, leaping over man and bird.

  Wings flapped, feathers flew and Gleave covered his head. He smiled when he looked up and saw a hatchet in Sav’s hand.

  The witchunter said nothing, mouth busy with a snarl as he lunged in at Errolas. The snarl increased when the blade narrowly missed its mark.

  ‘I lost one witchunter, back in Wesson,’ Errolas said, a snarl of his own twisting his words. ‘I won’t fail this time.’ Errolas stepped past a lunge and slapped palm down, knocking the brim of the witchunter’s hat in front of his eyes. ‘Ridiculous thing to wear—’

  A sharp pain took Errolas’ words – intended to force anger and mistake from the witchunter – as the same dagger that’d sliced Gleave struck Errolas in the same place.

  Errolas fell to the side, leg giving way.

  The witchunter’s snarl turned to a smile as the point of the rapier came down.

  Smile turned to gape as rapier and hand fell atop the prone elf.

  The witchunter hardly had time to react to the severing of his hand before the offending hatchet took him in the face.

  The witchunter collapsed, dead.

  Errolas was pulled to his feet and a man and a hen appeared from the dark alley.

  ‘I’m keeping this hatchet, at least for the night,’ Sav said, nodding to his friends. They nodded back, hands pressed to wounded legs.

  The hen clucked merrily and climbed a small hill. Once atop the blood-stained mess of cuir bouilli, flesh and bone, the bird let out its own version of a victorious crow.

  ‘And I’m keeping the bird,’ Gleave said. The others agreed.

  Correia moved into the dark alley and closed the door behind her. She looked upon her three pathfinders, eyes narrow.

  ‘That’s not a good look,’ Sav said. He ran a finger up and down the shaft of a bloody hatchet.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’s straight to the—’

  ‘Not now, Sav,’ Errolas said, bent double, hand pressed against his bleeding leg. Gleave was doing the same. ‘Witchunters,’ Errolas explained, not shying away from Correia’s gaze like the other two.

  Sav turned to Errolas. ‘Was that plural?’ He squinted into the darkness of the alley.

  Errolas sat down, tore cloth and bound his leg. Gleave did the same, with Correia’s help. ‘Yes,’ Errolas confirmed. ‘I’ve been hunted since I got here, trying to evade them until I could make it to you.’ He directed the latter to Correia.

  ‘Why did you leave Fal and this idiot in the first place?’ Correia held a hand up to stop Sav’s protest. Gleave grinned despite the pain, but said nothing.

  ‘I needed to meet with a fellow ranger who I knew to be in town,’ Errolas said, whilst Sav crouched to help him bind his wound.

  ‘And what did you find?’ Correia asked.

  ‘They got to him first,’ Errolas said. Gleave’s fading grin fell from his face completely. Correia and Sav both cursed. ‘That’s where the witchunters met me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Errolas,’ Correia said. ‘Why were yo
u meeting? You’re lucky the bastard only glanced you,’ she added to Gleave, who nodded and clenched his teeth as Correia pulled the binding tight. Standing again, she looked back to the elf, motioning for him to continue.

  ‘No reason,’ Errolas said. ‘I knew he would be here and wanted to know if he had heard anything from The Marches, or home.’

  Correia took a deep breath. ‘Baron Towton sits tight in his keep. He lets witchunters and inquisitors roam free to dispense their justice without question. His magistrates have fled, and apparently…’ She rubbed at her face and looked both ways, into the darkness.

  ‘What is it?’ Errolas said, his concern mirroring Correia’s.

  She looked to him and continued. ‘It’s happening all over Altoln. Witchunters and their like flee the cities where the high lords demand their disarmament, and imprison them or worse if they refuse, and flee to towns and baronies where they know they are favoured and safe.’

  Sav weighed the hatchet in his hand. ‘King Barrison meant well with his action, but—’

  ‘He’s driven the problem underground, so to speak,’ Gleave said.

  They all nodded at that. A hen clucked. Correia jumped.

  ‘Lords above, what—’

  ‘Ah, here’s the thing…’ Gleave held his hands up in an attempt to calm the dark look in Correia’s eyes.

  ‘You know what, Gleave?’ she said, glancing at the large hen. ‘I don’t even want to know.’

  ‘Probably best,’ Sav added. The hen clucked some more and began scratching at the floor.

  ‘What does this mean for us?’ Gleave was quick to return to the main subject.

  ‘It means I’ll find it harder to travel,’ Errolas said. ‘As will my kin, or any other non-human for that matter.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Correia said. ‘Whilst under king’s law, the Samorlian church at least adhered to it. Overtly, anyway, and on the main. Now though…’ She looked up to the starless sky and shook her head.

  ‘Now they do what they like.’ Sav spat on the floor. The hen darted for it. ‘Now they know they’re outlawed, there’s nothing barred to them. They’ll choose their targets as they want, knowing that anything they do is illegal anyway, and so they may as well do as they like.’

  ‘You mean kill as they like?’

  ‘Yes, Errolas, I do.’ Sav turned to Correia. ‘We need our weapons and we need to move on.’

  Gleave pulled on Sav so he could stand.

  ‘And can you?’ Correia pointed a sword they hadn’t seen her draw to Gleave and Errolas. ‘Either of you? Can you move on with those wounds?’

  Man and elf nodded.

  ‘We’ll be pained to ride,’ Errolas admitted, ‘but it will be better than walking. We need time to heal, and if that wasn’t the case I would want to stay. I would want to see this baron and clear his lands of the Samorlian threat.’

  ‘And I’d agree,’ Correia said, ‘but we have more pressing matters. We need to ride for The Marches. The Samorlians plague us within, but it’s what lies beyond our borders that scares me more. Towton can wait.’

  They all nodded at that, including the hen as she walked back to Gleave after her scavenging.

  ‘Alright,’ Correia said, sheathing her sword and turning for the door. ‘I don’t care what the militia say, we’re to arm ourselves as I have, find Fal and Starks and ride out at first light.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Errolas said.

  ‘I think Pecker will be able to sit in my lap, once in the saddle,’ Gleave said in all seriousness.

  Correia sighed and moved back through the tavern’s rear door.

  ‘You’re making it too easy for me,’ Sav said, before following her.

  ‘What’s wrong with holding Pecker in my lap?’

  Even Errolas smirked as he limped after the other two, another limper close behind, Pecker at their feet.

  Chapter 5 – Overcooked

  Starks shuffled forward on his stomach, screwing his face up as a cobweb stretched across it. With great resolve, he pushed the tickling, dew decorated web from his mind and continued to focus on his target. The faintest of rustles alerted him to his two companions. He glanced one way then the other, taking in Fal and Sav. They nodded to him and Sav motioned down into the meadow. With a deep breath, Starks nodded back and reached to his belt quiver. Careful not to make a noise, he drew forth the first bolt he came across and laid it onto the crossbow’s groove without looking. It was second nature to him, allowing his eyes to focus on his target.

  The target stopped and looked their way.

  We’re spotted, Starks thought, heart pounding. He licked dry lips and otherwise held still. The target continued about its business, as it had been for quite some time.

  Scanning the rest of the meadow and the tree line surrounding it, Starks ensured the surrounds were clear before releasing a long, slow breath. Halfway through his exhale, he depressed the trigger. He felt rather than saw the releasing of the cord. He heard and felt also the seemingly underpowered snap of the elf-rune augmented bow and the lazy drop and whoosh of the bolt.

  ‘Fuck!’ he shouted as the bolt sped towards his startled prey.

  The deer’s head rose, Starks’ voice alerting it to danger a heartbeat too late.

  Starks, Sav and Fal pressed their heads to the damp ground, hands covering ears.

  The deer exploded in a rush of intense flames and chunks of meat, the latter raining down on the men after a few thudding heartbeats.

  ‘Sorry sorry sorry,’ Starks said, the other two cursing from their head covered positions, pieces of deer slapping and thwacking down, on and around them. The overwhelming smell of charred meat moistened mouths and churned hungry stomachs.

  ‘Next time,’ Sav managed, voice muffled, ‘check which bloody bolt it is you’ve drawn.’

  Looking up at the mixed levels of cooked meat all about, it wasn’t long until laughter filled the morning. Starks’ wasn’t present.

  ***

  It was perfection, how she moved; Quin couldn’t help but think it every time he saw her stretch. Every time he saw Emms do anything, in fact.

  ‘You’re staring, again, Quin.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She turned and glared at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again, and winced.

  ‘You’re sorry for saying sorry, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Emms grunted.

  ‘Well that’s an improvement.’ She offered him the flash of a smile and the flash of a breast. He grinned. ‘Thought you’d like that. I have to reward you, you see?’

  ‘For not being sorry?’

  ‘Men are dumb.’ She pulled on the burgundy dress Quin had bought her.

  Quin frowned as his eyes traced her, toes to fingers. ‘Where’s your ring?’

  ‘The Three with you, Quin. Can I not get dressed without an Adjunct’s inquisition?’

  ‘Sorr—’

  A glare that could level an army cut him off.

  ‘No sex for you tonight,’ she said, tying her hair up within a silk scarf, a scarf Quin had bought her.

  ‘That’s alright,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m happy to sit or lie together. Perhaps we can go to the jetty and see if we can see the Scales move?’

  ‘Pfft,’ was all Emms said to that.

  Quin frowned. ‘Or not,’ he said, looking for any clue as to what he should be saying. ‘We can do whatever—’

  ‘No! Don’t say it, Quin.’ She pulled the silver ring from a pouch under her skirts and placed it on her right middle finger.

  Sitting up in the bed, Quin leaned forward, arms wide as he looked up to Emms.

  ‘Well what do you want me to say, love?’

  ‘I thought you might have fought a little harder, or at all, to sleep with me tonight… I mean, sex! Sex and you shrug it off like it means nought to you. Three take me, Quin.’

  ‘Don’t say such things.’ Quin reached out and pulled her to him. He wrapped his arms about her and squeezed tight. Emms squ
irmed and broke free, stepping away from the bed and holding his gaze with a glare of her own.

  ‘Don’t say what? It’s a blasted curse, Quin. You’re quick to scare, that’s your problem, and too slow to fight… even for sex with me! Gods.’

  Before Quin could protest, and whilst his heart thumped and the sickness he’d been feeling of late rose in his throat once more, Emms screamed and jumped back, releasing a string of the most imaginative curses.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ Quin repeated, jumping to his feet and hissing at the underside of the bed. The darkness hissed back. A throaty, prolonged hiss that built before ending suddenly.

  ‘Those two shouldn’t be in here,’ Emms scolded. She shuddered before kicking out at the darkness under the bed.

  Before her foot returned, a ball of sable fur, teeth and claws bounded out, mouth wide, tail fluffed like a brush and legs rigid. The hissing returned and the creature was matched by another ball of fur, which hopped in circles, clattering about randomly.

  Emms stamped and shouted, the polecat at her feet pouncing on said foot, teeth squeezing tender flesh and holding it fast.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Quin warned her, before diving on top of his polecat and scruffing its neck.

  Emms shrieked and the second polecat, hopping around near Quin’s piled clothes, dived into his pantaloons before poking its black masked face out, pink nose twitching.

  ‘Get it off, get it off.’

  A low hiss was Quin’s response, right in the small ear of his pet, which hissed back, its over-sized teeth gripping Emms’ reddening foot, its claws holding her firm.

  When the scruffing and hissing did no good, Quin rushed for a cup of small-beer on the side and threw it over the animal’s head, and Emms’ foot.

  Another hiss, a re-puffing of its tail and back-fur, and the polecat shot off under the bed, its companion rushing across the open floor to join it.

  ‘I’m so—’

  ‘Don’t you dare, Quinnell,’ Emms said, crouching to wipe her foot with the sheet she’d pulled from the bed.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I said don’t!’ she yelled, throwing the sheet at Quin before storming from the room, slamming the door behind her.