by J. P. Ashman
The rest of the imprisoned sailors left their cell as Mannino explained as much as he could.
‘Master Hitchmogh hasn’t had time to rest since the fight. We need get him to Sessio.’
Lefey came around to help. ‘They’re just letting us go?’
Mannino looked at her. Lefey flinched. ‘They never just do anything, lass. They’re mad. As mad as people say.’ At a nod of Mannino’s head, the sailors moved down the corridor towards the exit, Hitchmogh held between Mannino and Joncausks. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Mannino went on, ‘if all of this were a bloody game, drown my soul.’
The group approached half a dozen frustrated guardsmen, who’d laid out the sailors’ weapons and gear on a long table in their guardroom.
‘The Adjunct said you’re to have this lot back, but no funny business. You hear, Mannino?’
Mannino snarled and lifted Hitchmogh’s arm over and across Boxall’s broad shoulder, before picking up and sheathing his cutlass. The guard who’d spoken took a step back, hands out to the sides. The rest of the group took what was theirs and followed Mannino from the room and out onto the sunlit street. The heat of the sun hit them, as did the sea air.
‘What about me?’ Quin sped from the back of the group to the front.
‘Oh…’ Mannino pursed his lips as they made their way down the middle of the street, people moving aside to let the angry looking sailors pass. After an awkward pause, punctuated by curses from Hitchmogh as he stumbled now and then, relying on the two men either side of him to keep him going, Mannino said, ‘I have to admit, I’d forgotten about you, Master Quinnell.’
Quin looked about, at nothing, as if taking in Mannino’s meaning. Rounding a corner, he pulled on Mannino’s sleeve, stopping him. The sailors behind halted too, but Mannino turned on them and with a whisk of his hand they continued on towards the nearby harbour.
‘I’d appreciate you not doing that again, Master Quinnell.’ Mannino looked at the lad, who looked down.
‘I’m sorry. I—’
‘Spit it out, man. The Three aren’t fond of my first mate, nor me. I wouldn’t be surprised if, after their tumultuous thoughts settle, they realise they want us after all. I wouldn’t be surprised at all, Master Quinnell,’ –it was Mannino’s turn to take hold of Quin, albeit by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze– ‘if the very guards who rearmed us aren’t receiving orders to do the opposite as we speak. Now are you coming or not?’
Quin rocked back, and stammered. ‘Coming? Where?’
‘Wherever it is I decide we’re going.’ Mannino looked back the way they’d come, to the corner they’d rounded, half expecting the polearm wielding troops of The Three to come charging around at any minute, horns blowing. He looked back to Quin, who was chewing his bottom lip, eyes flicking about as his options, or lack of them, raced through his head.
‘I have a life here,’ Quin managed after a shake from Mannino. ‘My apprenticeship—’
‘As a shipwright?’
Quin nodded. ‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Sessio could do with one. That’s settled.’ Mannino released Quin’s shoulders, took his arm and dragged him along. The milling crowd parted as the opulently adorned captain barked at them to do so. He looked over his shoulder frequently, ignoring Quin’s pleas to release him as he went.
‘But my father?’
‘Dead.’
Quin’s eyes widened.
‘He died two years ago,’ Mannino added, halting as a cart passed in front of them. He also released his grip on Quin without looking at the lad, before setting off again, his long strides leaving Quin behind. The lad didn’t see Mannino smile to himself, as he heard him follow.
‘But how could you know that?’
‘I don’t recruit without knowing backgrounds of potential crew members, especially officers.’
Quin stopped. ‘Officers?’
Mannino kept going. He caught sight of the backs of his sailors ahead, struggling as they were to carry an increasingly vocal Hitchmogh. His curses carried easily on the wind. Quin ran to catch up.
‘You specified ‘officers’, Captain?’ Quin kept pace now, alongside.
‘I did. An on-board shipwright would be an officer in my eyes, on my ship.’
Filling his cheeks and holding his breath, despite the exertion of the fast pace they kept, Quin saw Sessio’s masts as they rounded another corner and walked out onto the quayside. He stopped again. This time Mannino did too, a few paces in front of Quin. He turned and looked back, a genuine smile creasing his face.
‘A beauty, isn’t she, Master Quinnell?’
Quin nodded, eyes unmoveable from the ship before him. Quin closed his mouth, clearly realising he’d been gaping.
‘Well, Master Quinnell?’
Quin managed to look at Mannino, finally. ‘Sorry?’
‘My offer? You have nothing left here I’m sorry to say. The girl proved not to want you—’
Quin winced at that.
‘—the gangers on Hillside will be planning a roasting in your honour, and to boot,’ Mannino turned and looked at the distant scales, the sun glinting off objects on the two towns they suspended, ‘The Three will have you off to one of those suspended towns for associating with us.’ Mannino looked back and offered a sympathetic smile. ‘And for that, lad, I am sorry.’
‘It really is over, isn’t it?’ Quin ran the fingers of both hands through his hair and linked them behind his head. He stared off at the scales beyond Mannino and shuddered.
Mannino stepped closer, drawing Quin’s eyes. ‘Not if you join my crew, Master Quinnell. Not if you do that. I can’t promise you a long life, for none of us know when we shall fall, but I can offer you an adventure, and training. Training to make those gangers you so rightly fear piss their pantaloons at the sight of your prowess with a bloody wooden spoon; when Master Parry is done with you. And on top of that, you’ll complete your apprenticeship on board—’
‘Sessio,’ Quin whispered, eyes back on the glorious ship.
‘Sessio, aye.’ Mannino smiled and took Quin’s shoulders once more. ‘What say you, lad? What say you to a life on the finest ship you or I have ever seen?’
Quin nodded before he said a word. He started. ‘My polecats? My boys?’
Mannino stepped back and squinted, his nose wrinkling for a second before he released a single snort of a laugh through his nostrils. ‘They’re on board, man. Now come, quickly!’
Quin’s frown was brief as Mannino turned and ran full tilt towards his ship. The sound behind them allowed Quin a pace to match Mannino’s, who didn’t need to turn to know the Adjunct’s Guards had come charging around the corner. People fled the square and Sessio’s sails unfurled.
Chapter 24 – A warm welcome
‘You’re healing well.’ Fal lifted Errolas’ saddle bags for him. Errolas smiled and took the load.
‘It was largely superficial, what they did to me. Bruising, grazes and the like. No bones broken, nothing more than bruised skin, scabs and muscular aches and pains left. The witchunter’s cut to my leg was worse, but that heals well also. Thank you for your concern though, Fal, and thank you all for getting me out of there before it became something more. Before the Samorlians came.’ Nods of welcome followed.
‘It’s taken you bloody long enough to talk about it,’ Gleave said, hinting at the near silence the group had travelled in since their swift flight into the forest, two days before.
Correia scowled at Gleave, but Errolas laughed, knowing the people he travelled with well.
‘It’s taken you all a long time to ask!’ Errolas winked at Gleave, who barked a laugh whilst mounting his horse.
‘Fair one, elf,’ Gleave said, leaning forward and patting the neck of his mare. ‘Fair one.’ He turned the animal as the others followed suit, and headed off along the road, Pecker in his lap.
‘We’ll stay together now,’ Correia said, causing Gleave to reign in. ‘No need to scout ahead until after the borde
r crossing. We’re close to Twin Inns and I want us together whilst we navigate the Troll Bridges.’
Starks turned in his saddle, eyes wide.
‘It’s a name, Starks,’ Gleave said, nudging his mount to follow Correia, who’d taken the lead.
‘Names are given for a reason, Gleave,’ Starks said, pulling alongside and staring across at the man, who was picking away at his mangled ear.
‘Well not this one. There’s no trolls down this way. Moot Hills, lad, that’s where they live. Maybe Chapparro Minor, too, but not The Marches. I’ll wager you on that.’
‘Done!’
Fal sighed. ‘Starks!?’
‘It’s my coin, Fal.’ Starks pulled a small pouch from his belt and weighed it in hand.
Gleave grinned. ‘It’s mine now. You wait and see, lad. You wait and see.’
‘I hear something,’ Starks said after several hours, the sun now past its zenith, continuing to poke beams of light through the shifting layers of branches above.
‘Water,’ Errolas confirmed. ‘Waterfalls and rivers.’
‘We’re there.’ Correia pulled ahead of the group. They encouraged their horses to follow, the animals snorting, whinnying and pulling at reins.
‘Why The Three didn’t we ride on last night?’ Gleave said, pulling alongside Correia. ‘We seem to be making a habit of camping early. If we’d ridden harder the past two days, we’d have made it to an inn instead of another bivvy by a fire.’
‘Not that I need explain myself, Gleave,’ Correia’s accompanying look seemed to slow Gleave’s mount, ‘but I called camp last night because it’s not wise to approach Twin Inns in the dark.’
‘Eh?’ Was all Starks managed.
Correia rubbed the back of her neck. ‘Must I explain everything to you like a mother to children?’ She turned on the lot of them. All eyes looked elsewhere, bar Errolas’ slits, which barely managed to show his amusement.
‘One inn serves travellers entering Altoln, the other serves travellers entering Sirreta.’ Facing forward once more, she continued, leading her horse across a narrowing path that transformed into a wooden board-walk set a horse’s leg above the rushing water that flowed through the undergrowth below. Everyone looked down, eyes tracking bits of detritus racing past, from one patch of open water to the next. Once all the horses clacked across planks of water spattered wood, Correia continued her explanation.
‘Has no one heard of the Twin Inns?’
‘I have,’ Errolas said, avoiding a grin to save the pulling of his healing face.
‘And me,’ Gleave said, although he sounded less confident. ‘Because I’ve been here before, albeit years ago, with you. But we arrived during the day.’
‘And yet you asked… Never mind, Gleave. I’ll go on and explain, shall I?’ Correia went on without an answer. ‘The inns are owned by the same family, albeit a split family. They’re neither Altolnan nor Sirretan. Some say their ancestors lorded over these waterways before any borders were drawn here, and so it remains.’
‘Why two inns?’ Fal asked where no one else dared.
‘Once the family split, generations ago and for whatever reason, one side built a second inn and declared it would outdo its rival. Both inns fought for a long time, enticing travellers in through offered wares and the threat of violence both. Trade died. Travellers tried to navigate the woodland waterways without passing through either inn. Travellers died. The family decided it needed a strategy, but none could be agreed upon, until, eventually, it is told that a wise old woman who lived deep in the woods—’
‘Truly?’ Starks narrowed his eyes.
Errolas laughed then winced.
Correia smiled. ‘I don’t know, Starks. All I know is they somehow decided to take trade on a directional basis. One inn takes travellers crossing the rivers one way, the other takes the opposite. The river being a natural border between Altoln and Sirreta means that to cross here, along the main forest road, you must cross through the appropriate inn.’
Correia guided her horse to the left of a cascading willow, around which another board-walk split, before meeting on the other side. A bloated frog hummed before plopping off the edge and into the water that slowed around the tree, pooling on the far side. All eyes watched the amphibian before looking back to Correia.
‘Do they still fight?’ Fal asked, when no continuation of the tale came.
Correia nodded. ‘Oh yes. They try and steal each other’s custom from time to time, when they think the travellers are wealthy enough to bother, or times are tough. They take pops at each other from the walls of their inns, too, when they can; in winter, mainly, when the leaves have fallen and the inns are visible to one another.’
‘It’s stupid,’ Starks said. Most agreed.
‘It’s all they know.’ Correia pointed ahead. ‘And there’s the one we’re going to stop at.’
The Pathfinders looked through the trees, through the multitudes of greens to the grey stone beyond. Wood smoke caught their noses, drifting along on the breeze that shook leaves in a dance of shimmering emerald and rippled water on the surface of lily-covered pools criss-crossed by board-walks and stone bridges.
‘Where’s the one the Sirretan travellers use?’ Starks asked, urging his horse to follow the others over the wood and stone spanned waters, iron-shod hooves clattering away.
Correia smirked. ‘This is the Sirretan traveller’s inn.’
Several brows creased. Heads pulled back and eyes met as the men looked to one another, unsure they heard right.
‘Wait,’ Errolas said, joining in with the confusion, ‘did you say this is the one we should be using on the way back?’
‘That’s not what I said, but it’s probably the case.’ Correia nudged her horse into a proud trot. The others hesitated before doing the same.
‘There’s nowt wrong with breaking the rules once in a—’
A crossbow bolt thwacked off a tree beside Sav, cutting his comment short.
‘Ride!’ Correia shouted, her horse surging forward as she dropped low, head close to its neck. The others followed without delay.
‘Quick, quick!’ a thick accented voice called from above an opening gate. The stone structure came into view as the group rounded a trio of beech trees rising up from an island in the sweeping water beneath them.
Two more bolts rushed across the expanse of open water, shot from crossbowmen on a stone bridge that crossed the widening river. The unmistakable thunder of a waterfall accompanied the thunder of hooves as the riders closed on the opening gates.
The man on the stone gatehouse, for that’s what it was – fit for a baron’s keep – hurled abuse at the crossbowmen in a language none but Correia understood. Despite the unrecognisable words he spewed forth, the others knew from the tone and hand gestures that whatever he was shouting wasn’t pleasant.
Crossbow bolts missing up to now, Correia looked left and saw more men crouch, aim and loose. She ducked low and waited for the dull thud or horse’s scream and fall. Nothing came, from her, her mount or anyone else. She looked up to the man on the gatehouse, and before passing beneath the large keystone above, saw similar men to those across the way pop up along the wall. They returned crossbow bolts and insults both.
Breaths coming heavy to everyone, human, elf, hen and horse, Correia circled her mount and watched, along with her companions, as the heavy wooden doors were closed and barred. She looked up to the ramparts above the gate, where gaudily dressed men and women shouted, gesticulated and squeezed metal triggers, sending forth more bolts into the greenery beyond. Occasionally they ducked, as audible snaps and cracks came from the far side of the wall. More men and women rushed from surrounding buildings, to take reins and offer pots of ale, wine and mead.
A cheer erupted from the wall and the crossbow wielding folk filtered down the stone steps to greet their guests.
‘Flay. Me,’ Sav sounded out, snatching up a pot of ale and downing it in one. ‘Whoah!’ he added, looking down at the gr
inning girl who’d offered him the drink. ‘That’s no small-beer,’ he said, sniffing the pot.
‘Full ale, of course,’ she said, her accent bringing a smile to Sav’s mouth and eyes.
‘Thought you didn’t drink whilst in the field?’ Starks said to Sav. Sav ignored him, eyes remaining on the serving girl.
‘Dismount,’ Correia ordered, her mount threatening to push the girl aside as it pulled alongside Sav’s. ‘The family will see to the horses. We need to talk, inside. Now.’
Sav grinned at the departing girl as Gleave, Fal and Starks downed what drinks they’d been given, licking lips and sighing with satisfaction before doing as they’d been told.
‘Take care of my Pecker,’ Gleave said to the nearest serving girl, who sniggered at his words, until a flapping lump of brown feathers and scaly feet struck her in the chest. Frowning, the girl struggled to keep hold of the large hen as she staggered away towards an outhouse. ‘And you mind she’s not harmed!’ Gleave shouted, hands patting his belted weapons. The girl’s eyes widened before she disappeared.
‘Well,’ Errolas said, whilst being helped from his saddle by two men in orange and red striped tunics, ‘that was quite the welcome.’
‘Apologies, Lord Elf,’ one of the men said, although it wasn’t easy to make out what he’d said, his accented Altolnan being so strong.
Errolas raised his hand, settling the man. ‘No need to apologise. You defended our arrival.’
‘Indeed, but my family attacked you, the bastard turds. They’ll pay for that one.’
‘We’re honoured you made for our inn and not theirs,’ an elderly woman called from an upper window, that overlooked the courtyard. Several family members cheered at that.
Errolas smiled and inclined his head. ‘It was our fair lady here, not I, who led us to you.’
‘Fuck me,’ a beast of a man dressed in white linens said, from a doorway he had to stoop to pass through, ‘if it isn’t Lady Burr.’
All eyes turned to Correia, who smiled and spun on the man. ‘Cook!’ she shouted, running over to and wrapping him in a hug, her hands unable to reach around his broad back.
