by J. P. Ashman
‘I take it Sessio is clear of boarders?’ Mannino asked Boxall, eyes locked on a waving, shouting Charlzberg.
‘Aye, Captain.’ Boxall breathed heavily and held an arm across his ribs. He held a bloody hatched in his other hand, despite missing his little finger, the knuckle dripping blood onto the deck.
‘And Master Hitchmogh?’
Lefey grunted a laugh. ‘Cursing, Captain. A lot.’
‘He’s fine then. Don’t release him yet.’
‘Aye, Captain.’ Lefey went to ensure no one else did.
‘Any of you hear what the goblin is shouting?’ Mannino leaned forward, head to the side.
Several of the men shook their heads.
‘No, Captain,’ Joncausks said. ‘Not a word.’
‘Shame.’ Mannino stood straight and pursed his lips. He turned to Boxall. ‘Go and tell Master Hitchmogh to get Master Parry back. Quickly, man.’
Boxall nodded and ran off despite the pain he clearly felt.
‘They’ll not catch us now, Captain,’ Joncausks said. ‘Neither of them.’
‘I know, man. I know.’
Joncausks looked to Mannino. ‘You’re not thinking of coming about on them are you, Captain? Them turning on one another won’t do us any good if we’re in the middle of it.’
Mannino shook his head. ‘I’m losing no more today.’ He turned and took in the bodies strewn across his ship. His eyes settled on Tahir’s, shredded as it was from neck to arse. He rubbed his face with his free hand and sheathed his clean blade.
Joncausks sighed and leaned back against the splintered deck. ‘After all he went through with Boxall and me… After what we all went through on that island. It all feels for nought now.’
Mannino shook his head. ‘Not nought, man. Never nought.’
Joncausks looked to his captain, but Mannino was locked on Tahir’s motionless body.
They both started, as did those around them when they heard Hitchmogh erupt in a tirade of curses, shouts and surprisingly high pitched shrieks.
Another voice cried out, following a hollow pop that left a ringing in everyone’s ears.
‘Master Parry is back, I presume.’
‘Aye, Captain. Seems so.’
‘Go see to him then.’
Joncausks rushed off.
Mannino turned back and looked on the two ships they were leaving behind. The galley was peeling off, heading west whilst the Black Guild’s listing ship seemed to be adrift. Its black sails falling limp.
‘So, your remaining mage has a new task,’ Mannino said to himself, eyes back on the modified cog whilst fiddling in his pocket for his pipe. ‘Keeping you afloat until you can effect repairs.’ He popped the empty pipe into his mouth and chewed on the end. ‘Won’t be the last we see of you, Alden-Fenn; seems I’m a mark.’ Mannino released a single laugh and shook his head. ‘Now who in Brisance wants me dead enough to pay for it?’
‘Captain?’ An archer came close, brow creased.
‘Nothing, man, nothing.’ Mannino turned to him and smiled. ‘You did well today. Extra round of rum for you all tonight, on me. Now get to it.’
The archer smiled briefly before helping the others shift bodies, of which the assassins went overboard – once looted, of course.
‘And I,’ Mannino said, looking back to the departing war galley, ‘owe a goblin who thinks he’s an admiral, despite him smashing up Sessio’s stern.’
Shaking his head in frustration and disbelief at the brief encounter, he moved across to Tahir’s body, crouched and placed a hand on the corpse.
‘My biggest thanks to you, Tahir,’ he said, empty pipe in hand. ‘Sessio doesn’t forget her own.’
Hitchmogh’s sudden string of shouted curses were followed by a chorus of laughter and a string of curses from someone else. Someone new.
Mannino stood straight and looked down to the arrow littered, blood soaked main-deck where a ring of sailors and archers stood, two men at their middle.
‘Ah, Master Quinnell, you’ll soon learn not to let him free so soon after such an event.’ Mannino smiled. ‘But you’re a good lad and we like you. Don’t we, Sessio?’
Patting smooth, sun-warmed wood, Mannino took one last look at it all before escaping to his quarters. It was all he could do not to wail and rail and turn Sessio about to avenge his dead.
Chapter 36 – Easson
‘None have returned from the south-west, Sieur,’ the captain of the watch told Croal, who continued to brush down his destrier as he let the news sink in. The beast snorted and stamped, the boy holding its head struggling to keep the animal steady. Croal found the chore calming nonetheless, which was why he chose to do it himself once in a while.
‘You think an army approaches from that direction?’
‘I do, Sieur.’
Croal’s sigh shuddered as much as his destrier’s flank. ‘And what do you think I should do, Captain?’
The captain’s moustache twitched before he took a deep breath, eyes searching the stable for an answer. ‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘we’ve clearly lost our scouts, so I’d advise against sending more. But we can’t be sure aid will come…’ he waffled, unsure as to what his liege lord wanted to hear, Croal knew.
That’s why you’re captain of the town watch and no more, Croal thought, brushing a little harder. The horse snorted and pulled its head up, lifting the boy off the ground for the briefest of moments.
‘You think we should hold here? Prepare to defend?’ Croal asked the captain, unsure why, but wanting as much input from as many angles as he could get. For he wasn’t sure himself.
‘Yes, Sieur. Perhaps the Marquess of Suttel’s word will hold true and our message will get through to his son in Altoln.’
‘Do you think he will come? And if the young Bratby does come to Easson’s aid, do you think he will relinquish these lands after defending it on our behalf?’
There was a pause before the captain spoke. ‘Would you, Sieur?’
Croal grunted a laugh at that. ‘Right now? Yes, I think I would. I have enough to worry about without taking on more land and responsibilities. But I’m not so sure of this Sir Allon, despite my admiration for his father.’
The captain offered a smile barely visible under his bristles. ‘I can see the load you have upon you, Sieur. I’m here, should you see fit to pile some of it on me. I would do all I can to assist.’
Croal turned on the man, ignoring the latter. ‘And can everyone else? See the load on me I mean. Does it show so much?’
The captain shrugged. ‘It does, Sieur, but it is understandable with all that has happened and is yet to come.’
‘Still…’ Croal passed the brush to the nervous boy and motioned for the captain to follow him across the yard. ‘I worry about trouble within as much as without.’
‘That has been dealt with,’ the captain said, placing a reassuring hand on Croal’s arm. ‘If there are any left who’re loyal to the late marquis—’
‘My uncle.’ Croal offered the man a level stare. The captain removed his hand, but met the stare with one of his own.
‘Yes, Sieur, your uncle. If there are any left loyal to him, they are few, and in fear. They’ll also understand we have a potential siege to contend with. Any man with an ounce of brain will make that possibility their main concern and priority.’
‘True,’ Croal conceded, ascending stone steps to the chateau’s curtain wall. Once at the top, he nodded to a guard in the blue and white of Easson, and leaned against the crenellations, overlooking his town.
‘My town,’ he whispered.
‘Messire?’
‘Pull everyone in, Captain. All the scouts, or rather don’t send anymore out once those in the field return. Give the order to bring tenants in from the farms and hamlets too. Arm the militia and…’
‘Sieur?’ The captain frowned at Croal’s pause and grimace.
‘Have Rasoir drag some useful information from our prisoner. I have a wedding to prepare.’
With a grim smile and a nod, the captain descended the wall and headed for the barracks. Croal watched the man go.
‘I spent years pleading with my uncle to let me command his men, and now…’ he sighed and turned back to look over his town. ‘Now I wish the bastard were here and his old self, to take command back again.’
A shout drew his attention, from further down the wall. Croal looked that way and saw sharp-eyed crossbowmen pointing. Shading his eyes from the afternoon sunlight, despite the clouds, Croal saw the dust of several riders approaching the edge of Easson.
Our scouts. Or… perhaps this is the start of it.
***
A smudge-topped hill revealed a grey walled town, centred by a white walled chateau with limp, blue and white pennants hanging from every tower; conical roofs a rustic red, in contrast to the green hills and grey, rain-flecked sky. It seemed to take an age to draw close to it, but now the riders passed through the earthen streets with crooked buildings either side, it wasn’t long until they were looking up to whitewashed crenellations atop a gatehouse, in which an old portcullis hung like a poor attempt at a woman’s clunky necklace.
‘This it?’ Starks nodded to the white walls and towers, their pristine nature a lie, revealed as they now were; age old stains and pitted stone and mortar.
‘No,’ Gleave said, ‘this is the privy, the castle’s around the corner.’
Starks frowned. Jehan smiled.
‘No smile from you at that, Sav?’ Gleave twisted in the saddle.
‘Not until Fal is here with us, smiling too.’
Gleave nodded and frowned. ‘I’ll agree to that one. Never thought I’d miss good boy Fal, but I do.’
‘So, let’s get him out, shall we?’ Starks looked to Correia and Jehan. Neither replied, but both kicked their horses on as the chain-rattling portcullis rose.
Knuckles rapped twice on rusted steel helm as Gleave overtook Starks. ‘Don’t lag behind, lad. You don’t want to be under this thing when a chain breaks.’
Starks caught up quickly.
The deafening clatter of hooves in the high walled courtyard accompanied a barking dog and the smell of horse shit and smoke. It was a damn sight nicer than the smell of the town’s streets though.
‘Why is the portcullis down?’ Correia asked Jehan.
‘The seneschal’s orders.’ He halted his horse and slid from the saddle, passing the reins to a scruffy boy who appeared by his side.
‘Not his uncle’s?’ Correia dismounted and Jehan shook his head.
A clatter and a resounding thud marked the dropping of the portcullis once all were through. All Altolnan eyes turned to the closing of the cage around them.
Horses taken, Correia and her men followed Jehan towards a set of double doors in the side of a large drum tower. The other Sirretans headed in a different direction, all chatter and laughs.
‘Your companions are to follow mine.’ Jehan pointed a gauntleted hand.
‘Not likely.’ Sav stepped alongside Correia. Jehan looked to Sav, eyes creased in amusement.
‘Do as he says, Sav.’ Correia turned and placed a forceful hand on Sav’s broad chest. She looked up into his eyes and drew them from Jehan’s. ‘Do as I say, Sav.’
Chewing his bottom lip, Sav nodded before following Gleave and Starks towards the tower the Sirretan men had entered.
‘This way, Madame Burr. To Messire Seneschal.’
He opened one of the two doors and Correia followed him into the dark.
***
Stringy blood and snot hung and swung like a pendulum from Fal’s broken nose. He tried to swallow, hoping some of it would slide down his throat, easing the woollen feeling that threatened to choke him every time he took a painful breath.
He cursed as another itch made itself known. What he would give to be able to pull his raw wrists through the iron shackles to scratch at the bastard irritation.
‘Would that I had any nails left.’ The croak of Fal’s voice brought on a coughing fit that he instantly regretted. It wasn’t so much the coughs, although they hurt muscles he didn’t know he had, but the inhalation between each bark of blood and phlegm. If he ever told the tale, if he ever had the chance, he’d liken the feeling the deep breaths produced to the slipping of one knuckle across another: forefingers bent double, second knuckles pressed together, then slip. Slip them past one another, do it each time you breathed in and imagine someone sticking you with a bollock dagger each time it happened. That’s what broken ribs feel like, he’d tell them. He’d had a lot of time to think such things. A lot of time to think a lot of things, although his thoughts didn’t always feel his own anymore.
How long have I been here? he wondered again, opening dry eyes to gaze upon the smoke-filled chamber he was chained up in. Oh, how his shoulders burnt from the strain. The stonework was damp, nothing new there. The floor was straw, blood, urine and shit covered. Again, nothing new.
A rat! Fal traced the creature with his swollen eyes as it scurried across the floor, sniffing at the excrement slopped in a corner. Well, rats weren’t new, but it was the first he’d seen in a while. Days maybe?
An appreciated breeze came through the barred slit of a window, bringing with it flecks of rain illuminated by the sun’s light, which split on the iron rods meant to stop an escape Fal couldn’t attempt even if the bastard seneschal holding him unlocked the shackles and gave him a leg up to the bright hole.
I’d wager that breeze smells a damned sight better than this place. Fal squinted as he looked at the white rectangle. There was no chance any smell could breach the stench that clung to him, let alone the chamber.
Closing his eyes again, Fal allowed his head to hang, chin on bare chest. Another itch sprung up. More of a tickle in fact. A fly. The pain his grunted laugh brought made him laugh all the more, until his grating throat released a rasp that resembled a coughing dog. The fly buzzed in his ear. Fal didn’t flinch. He’d grown used to it.
‘Quiet in there,’ Sergeant Rasoir shouted from outside the door.
Fal fell silent.
‘I don’t want to have to come in there.’ There was a pause. ‘That’s the truth of it, you know?’
Fal said nothing. He hung and licked at cracked lips, wincing as he did.
‘As long as Croal stays away, I’ll leave you be. You know that, Fal. So, until he returns, keep it quiet and I’ll pretend like you’re not there.’
Fal nodded pointlessly and chose to listen to the sound of his teeth scraping over his dry tongue. It’s surprisingly loud; I have my teeth! He chuckled silently. There is that, I suppose. Fal ignored the pain, pulled back his lips and bared his blood-stained teeth. They felt like teeth tended to feel after a night on strong ale or mead. He moved his head left, right, up, down – chin on chest once more.
‘Correia,’ he mouthed, before moving on through his routine. ‘Sav. Starks. Errolas. Gleave.’ Slowly, Fal lowered his jaw, stretching it, moving it one way then the other, before closing his mouth again, mouthing the names again. His jaw clicked with each movement, despite the attempted stretches.
I thought they would have come—
Fal jumped as a dog barked on the far side of the bright oblong. Countless nerve endings fired, scolding darts through his entire body at the movement. The dog’s barking was followed by clattering hooves and multiple voices, but he couldn’t make out what was being said or by whom.
If he’s back… if the bastard seneschal is back, I’ll bite the fucker’s face off for what he’s had Rasoir do to me. I swear it on Samorl and Squall and all the gods between.
Boots on stone in the hallway.
Fal shuddered and the tears returned.
Chapter 37 – Preparations
‘I’m so excited,’ Flavell said.
Cateline, the young maid who’d run for Croal the night of Flavell’s attack, braided Flavell’s golden hair, illuminated as it was by the morning’s rays, which cascaded through the window Amis stood by.
�
�You should be, mademoiselle. Weddings in the White Chapel are blessed from the start.’ Cateline beamed into the silver mirror and Flavell beamed right back.
‘Will I have to dress up?’ Amis said without turning from the window.
Flavell rolled her green eyes. ‘You’ll be lucky to receive an invite.’
Cateline all but tittered, eyes flicking between hair and the handsome Yellow Chevalier, bester of the Seneschal d’Easson, as Amis was being called throughout the chateau and town; unofficially, of course, but it reached Flavell and Amis both, amusing the latter.
‘Oh, so you’re sending invites to your family?’
Flavell huffed, her down-turned mouth more down-turned than ever. ‘Be quiet, de Valmont. You’re spoiling it already.’
‘Don’t listen to him none, mademoiselle,’ Cateline dared. ‘He’s sore he won’t be by your side all the time once you’re wed to the seneschal.’
‘Watch your tongue, girl,’ Amis warned.
Flavell and Cateline both laughed, despite the serious tone Amis used.
He spun on them. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘You,’ Flavell admitted. She met Cateline’s eyes in the silver reflection and they laughed again.
‘Care to enlighten me, either of you?’
‘Girl talk, de Valmont.’ Flavell failed to hide her continued mirth. ‘Girl talk.’ She winked into the mirror.
Amis grumbled to himself and crossed the room. ‘I’ll guard the door. From the outside.’
Both women burst into laughter as he left. Flavell noticed his cheeks flush as he turned and slammed the door. There was a moment of silence before Flavell spoke again.
‘Do you think it all too quick?’ she asked Cateline, in all seriousness.
‘The wedding, mademoiselle?’ Cateline looked worried.
Flavell nodded.
‘Life’s a shit, mademoiselle,’ Cateline said as a matter-of-fact. She blushed and hesitated, remembering who she was speaking to, but Flavell smiled and nodded for her to go on. ‘What I mean is with what’s rumoured to be coming, and what we can never know is on the morrow, there’s never any time but the present to do what your heart desires. If I’m not being too bold in saying so.’ She smiled and stepped back. ‘There,’ she said, hands clasped together before her. ‘It’s done. Finished.’ She watched Flavell’s reaction in the silver reflection.
