Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  Biviano couldn’t be sure whether it was the knee to his friend’s tackle, or his own spraying and the smell that followed, that caused Sears to follow suit. Less of a projectile spray than Biviano’s, Sears’ sick simply splattered on the cobbles next to his head, followed by a stringy gobbet of vomit which slid down and through his red bearded cheek, matting it and joining red hairs here and there with yellow and orange web-like patterns. Biviano found himself leaning in, crouching unsteadily. He squinted and studied the patterns, for no reason he could fathom, before finishing off what he’d started and covering Sears in the rest of the contents of his stomach. The hard work done, Biviano took a deep breath, stood, held his arms out to account for the shifting of the street and building before him, and continued on his way, calling for Sears to follow.

  Somehow, Sears did, although his eyes were but slits and his steps those of a toddler braving a new world at a slightly higher altitude.

  ‘Is good have ye back, shit,’ Biviano said, mouth now dry rather than wet, his teeth the driest of the lot and feeling as furry as Sears’ face.

  ‘Tis good be back, Bivs…’

  Biviano held both arms high in the air and meandered his way down the road, Sears’ hands now resting on his shoulders. ‘Onward!’ Biviano shouted. ‘On, to vic’ry and honour!’

  Sears roared and pushed Biviano on, oblivious to the dozens of disgusted – some amused – eyes upon them. And on they went, heading towards… well, neither of them had the faintest clue where, but it was good to be back together, despite having lost the Earl of Stowold’s horses and the saddles and harnesses that came with them, in a game of poorly played nine men’s morris that would come to cost them more than a year’s wages each.

  Chapter 57 – Bender

  ‘It’s your bastard fault, Sears. Not mine, will ye be told!’

  Sears sneered at the little man walking ahead of him. ‘No, I bloody won’t. Ye bust me out of court and took me to a tavern which turned into a three-day bender. Ye supplied all the drinks since I had no coin. And you, you Biviano, ye plague touched prick, you produced, if I recall, the nine men’s morris board and stones that lost us the fucking horses—’

  ‘And saddles and harnesses.’

  ‘Yes, and saddles and—’

  ‘And the board and stones themselves.’ Biviano patted himself down as he walked. ‘Yup, not even the stones are left.’

  ‘Aye, and the magistrates have my arms and armour too.’ Sears shook his head and sneered some more.

  ‘What we gonna tell Stowold? About his horses and shit. I don’t want to imagine how many years’ wages that lot was worth.’

  ‘You mean your good Earl, Biviano? The Constable of Wesson? The Watcher of the fucking Deep?’

  ‘Aye, that bastard.’ Biviano’s voice sounded pinched as he rammed a finger up his nose, had a good dig around.

  ‘How should I know, Biv? You’re his damned pet, not me.’

  Biviano grunted a laugh, produced a bloody crow from his nose and flicked it out into the street. It stuck to a passing coach, which had him turning to face Sears, grin wide. Sears rolled his eyes and Biviano turned back and turned a corner.

  ‘I’ll think of something, Sears, me old mucker.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’

  They walked along without talking for a while, beads of sweat appearing on their brows and necks as they walked a wide street with no shade. The sky was blue and summer had arrived in full. Biviano wore his maille hauberk and padded gambeson, but had rolled his hose down to his ankles, to air his legs, off-white braes baggy and flapping as he walked. His liveried tabard was gone. It’d had too much sick staining it to wear now the two of them had sobered up. Biviano sighed and mopped his brow with his shirt’s filthy cuff, which poked from the maille of his sleeve. He’d lost his maille coif and helmet early on in their drinking binge. A good sight more money lost in those items, but at least he had his short-sword. How he’d been allowed to stagger about with that he had no idea. Perhaps, he wondered, slightly amused by the thought, no one had dared take it from him. He grinned once more and cleared his other nostril with a push, hook and pull of his forefinger’s black nail. He looked back and flicked the sloppy bogey Sears’ way, delighted as it stuck to the big man’s linen shirt.

  ‘Cock!’

  Biviano shrugged and carried on walking. ‘You look weird, Sears, in braes and a shirt and nothing more. People are staring. This isn’t Dockside. Folk don’t walk around bare footed in this district.’ They’d entered Park District, their old haunt and patrol area.

  ‘And it’s got nowt to do with you flicking the contents of yer conk here there and everywhere? Anyhow, ye shit, it’s your damned fault the rest of me clothes, and boots, are gone. Just like the horses and—’

  ‘Yes yes, Sears. ’Morl’s floppy cock but yer a miserable get these days.’ Biviano winked at a woman walking towards them. She crossed the street, averting her eyes. Biviano huffed and Sears laughed. ‘Shut it, Sears. Ye wanna cheer up, anyway. Think it was me ma who used to say—’

  ‘Ye never knew ye ma, Biviano.’

  ‘Again with spoiling me anecdotes and advice and proverbs and such. I swear, once—

  ‘Oh, we’re nearly there!’ Biviano sped up, arms pumping at his sides like he’d been told to run without actually running.

  Sears sped up to match, cursing and wincing as his bare feet found stones along the way.

  ‘Ye’ll cheer up when we get in and speak to Stowold, mate, I’m sure of it.’ Biviano pointed to a long stone wall twice as tall as Sears, with a solid looking arch covered gateway further along the street. ‘He told me we’d be stunned with what he has to tell us, should we decide to meet.’

  ‘That before—

  ‘Ouch, fuck!’ Sears hopped, skipped and stumbled along after a now jogging Biviano. ‘That before or after we tell him we—’

  ‘Don’t you dare mention those animals, Sears! I’ve got the only bastard sword between us, remember that!’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Biviano slowed as he approached the tall gates and stone arch. There was no sign of a guard. No sign of anything but stone and solid oak, re-enforced with black iron bars and studs.

  Sears and Biviano stood there, side by side, looking left, right and up, and panting all the while. Both men pressed hands onto hips, bent forward a little, Biviano’s sweat dripping from his nose. Sears’ lip twitched, eye twitched. He sniffed once, twice, reached across and wiped the sweat from his friend’s nose with his own sleeve, like a father would a child.

  Biviano slapped his hand away. ‘Get off, ye ginger get.’

  ‘We gonna stand staring at wood and stone, or we gonna knock?’

  Biviano nodded. ‘Guess we knock, aye. Don’t see any other—’

  The gates opened inward. Both men raised eyebrows and stared through the widening gap.

  Half a dozen green liveried men-at-arms stared back.

  Biviano frowned as Sears glanced sidelong at him; frowned and jerked his thumb at his friend.

  ‘Sears here lost the horses.’

  The punch to Biviano’s shoulder damn near floored him.

  Chapter 58 – Underkeep

  ‘Now this, Sears, is the life. No?’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Oh for ’morl’s sake, ye great oaf.’ Biviano rubbed hard at his pock-marked, but clean face as he moved away from Sears. ‘Is there no pleasing you?’ He crossed the grand chamber and stood by the only wall without a door. He stood and admired a wide tapestry depicting a scene shifting from naked, curvy – in some strange places – women on one side, to a raging subterranean, or so it looked, battle on the other. ‘What do ye suppose this is all about?’

  ‘Wealth,’ Sears said, sitting in a wooden chair and squirming in the clean, crisp clothes he, along with Biviano, had been given upon their arrival. His red hair fluffed out at all angles after the wash they’d been forced to take and he glowered as he swilled his wine around the glass h
e’d been given. ‘Glass,’ he said, before Biviano could say any more.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Wealth,’ Sears repeated the former. ‘Too much and ye buy rot ye don’t need. Tapestries picturing deformed women flowing into fights between pale-skinned, hairless dwarves, or whatever they are, and stick-thin men. And wine served in cups made of clear stained-glass windows.’

  ‘So, just glass then.’

  Sears ignored Biviano and sipped the wine. He winced. ‘Tastes like…’ He shrugged again. ‘I don’t know, but I don’t like it.’

  Biviano turned, arms out wide. ‘What do ye like, eh? Gods below, Sears. What did the magistrates do to ye whilst in custody? Sap yer sense of humour, yer sense of adventure and—’

  ‘It was before that, Biviano,’ Sears said in all seriousness, locking eyes on his friend across the lamp-lit chamber. There were no windows, or none to speak of. A wide strip of black glass ran along the bottom of the tapestry wall, a contrasting smooth base to the textured art above. ‘Pointless thing, that,’ Sears had said of the black window, as soon as they’d been brought to the room, seated and served. Sears sighed heavily and smiled weakly. ‘I left them, Biv. I left Longoss and Coppin to a pursuing gang, to take a message to Will Morton of the Black Guild’s mark on the King. And for what? To be arrested by the King’s bastard magistrates. The very men we served for gods know how long as City Guards.’ He looked down to the wine and swilled it around some more.

  Biviano sighed as loud as Sears had. ‘Fair one, mate. Fair one. I can see how that would grind on ye. Heh. I can see how it is grinding on ye.’

  Sears nodded. ‘All I wanted to do afterwards was go back into Dockside. Find and help my friends.’

  Biviano offered a sympathetic smile. He crossed the chamber and sat opposite Sears. ‘Like I wanted to, with Ellis Frane at the cathedral, and then, especially then, with you in Dockside when Buddle the bloody dog somehow called for Effrin.’

  Sears nodded some more. ‘I know, and I know ye know.’ He looked up, locking eyes with Biviano. ‘Let’s do it, now,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Let’s ask Stowold for men and ride in like ye had him do for me—’

  ‘Alas, gentlemen,’ a woman said from the doorway to their side. They’d not seen her enter, but there she stood, floral-patterned open surcoat revealing a white gown cut low at the front, falling to the floor all about her. She held a glass in her left hand and gathered and lifted her skirts with her right, enough to walk across the floor towards them, her smile disarming and stunning them to silence. ‘My apologies for not arriving sooner. I have been a poor hostess.’

  ‘Not at all, my lady.’ Biviano stood. Sears did the same.

  A servant in the doorway cleared his throat.

  ‘Introducing The Lady Elsane Stowold,’ the man said, in a matter that was clear he was annoyed not to have announced her before she had spoken. The servant disappeared thereafter.

  ‘Biviano, my lady.’

  ‘Sears, milady.’

  Both men offered a bow, Biviano deftly and Sears awkwardly. Sears hadn’t missed Biviano’s switch in accent either, from lower to upper district.

  Elsane’s smile broadened and she bobbed the briefest of curtsies in a manner that seemed nothing but a fine courtesy to the two guardsmen.

  ‘May I offer you my seat, my lady?’ Biviano asked, moving to slide the wooden chair nearest him to accommodate her.

  ‘Thank you but no, I prefer to stand.’

  Biviano bowed his head as she thanked him.

  Sears glanced past Elsane to the far side of the wide tapestry, taking in the unsightly curves of the depicted women in ridiculous poses, and back to Elsane, whose curves were… he released the breath he’d been holding. She met his eyes and he knew his cheeks now matched his red hair and beard. He swallowed hard, mouth dry and suddenly the wine was the sweetest of nectars.

  ‘My husband should be with us shortly. He’s been at the stable attending to some terrible affair regarding two horses.’ She shrugged, rolled her bottom lip and turned to take in the tapestry.

  Sears, nor Biviano, missed the glint in her eye and the slightest upwards pull to her thin lips as she turned away. Both men smiled, despite the tension they now felt.

  ‘Stowold is a resourceful and intelligent nobleman,’ Biviano said, moving to stand beside, albeit a couple of paces apart, from Elsane.

  ‘I suppose he is.’ Her tone betraying her boredom. She turned, stepped closer to Biviano, eyes searching his face, intently. He too blushed. ‘Bagnall tells me great things about you, Sir Biviano—’

  ‘Sir?’ Sears blurted the word whilst moving to sip his wine. The glass hovered before his beard as he looked over the top of it, to the two pairs of eyes looking back. Lowering it, he said, ‘Apologies, milady,’ and clenched his jaw as Elsane turned back to the tapestry whilst Biviano’s look lingered on Sears; an amused look, a victory of one friend over another.

  Biviano turned back, nodding. ‘He has, has he? Well, I’m sure he does me far more justice than I deserve.’

  ‘Of course I do, you rat shit.’ Bagnall Stowold strode into the room, a dark green surcoat hanging long and flamboyant. He was armoured, maille and plate both, with his sword hanging from his hip and his hand atop its decorated hilt. It was the sort of thing a soldier noticed, arms and armour, combat attire; it was the sort of thing a soldier noticed almost as much as the way Elsane moved as she glided across to her husband, to place a kiss on his cheek. Biviano and Sears’ eyes moved back to the Earl’s as soon as they’d realised they’d strayed elsewhere.

  Biviano cleared his throat and Sears drained his glass, the acidity of the wine twitching his right cheek.

  Stowold made to speak, but Elsane cut him off.

  ‘Bagnall, I’d rather you didn’t wear your…’ she waved her free hand around him and scrunched her nose ‘…fighting garb around our chambers. We’re not in imminent danger, dear, so I do not see why you feel the need to strut around like a steel-clad peacock.’

  Stowold’s face hardened, but for a heartbeat, before he smiled and inclined his head. ‘How silly of me, my love. I shall endeavour to have myself changed into something more fitting in future.’

  ‘You’ve said that before,’ Elsane muttered, turning to Sears and Biviano, her smile broad once more. ‘Gentlemen, I shall leave you three to your, discussions, alas; it isn’t often we have visitors to the Underkeep. I’m sure Bagnall has much to tell you regarding what it is you shall be doing here. I bid you farewell, for now.’ She openly, brazenly, winked at Biviano, turned and glided from the room, drawing the eyes of all present as she did so.

  Stowold turned back and cleared his throat, eyebrows high. Two sets of eyes snapped to him, followed by two sheepish smiles.

  ‘Right, you shites…’ Stowold wrung the hilt of his sword and strode towards them. ‘Where’s my fucking horses?’

  Biviano couldn’t believe what he and Sears were told by Stowold. The revelations sounded far-fetched, fanciful, to say the least. It wasn’t until Stowold showed them evidence of what he’d told them that the two men believed it; baulking, gawking and stunned to silence, Biviano and Sears looked down through the glass of the subterranean window below the wide tapestry. They watched as Stowold pointed, the loss of his horses forgotten, for now. They listened and narrowed eyes as he pulled a thin chain.

  Nothing happened, at first.

  Clearly, Biviano thought, the chain rang a bell elsewhere. The silver strand hung in a corner barely touched by the lamplight that illuminated the smoky chamber. The chain was one of many, hanging like metallic vines from holes in the wooden boards above their heads. Moments of silence passed, with Biviano and Sears looking to Stowold, who smiled back, eyebrows lifting on occasion, lips puckering to sip at his own wine. Eventually, at the point where Biviano could hardly take it any longer and was about to say something, anything, to break the awkward silence, a light flickered. A light beyond the previously black window.

  ‘What…?’ Sears manag
ed the first word, the rest lost to the sudden intake of a smoke-tainted breath.

  Biviano couldn’t even managed one word. But he did manage a thought, although it drifted lazily, like a wind-blown mist, as the shifting light beyond the window proceeded to drop, fall, descend into…

  ‘It’s true,’ Biviano said, the yellow flare of a light they witnessed disappearing below the bottom sill of the strip of glass. Biviano looked to Stowold once more, as did Sears. Stowold grinned, winked, turned and strode towards the door he’d entered through, his armour audibly marking his path. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. Biviano and Sears followed without question, without complaint. They didn’t even look at one another as they passed through the door and descended yet more curling steps, following the Watcher of the Deep as they did so.

  They didn’t need to say or do anything, they just knew, now; they knew their service to Bagnall Stowold was far more important with regards to the protection of Wesson than any other role or mission or quest they could conjure for themselves. Part of being guardsman of Wesson’s City Guard had been to escape their previous lives. The other half had been to serve the people of Wesson, to help in whatever way they could to defend them, to seek justice for them, even if the two of them did have an amoral swing on occasion, from their moral compasses; especially Biviano. But this? This… Biviano filled his cheeks and let out a slow breath as all that Stowold had told them sank in. And as they descended yet deeper into the Underkeep, lamps scarce on the stairwell, light in general scarce, Biviano’s mind’s eye watched that burning torch fall. He visualised it landing, eventually, to be extinguished in whatever lay below, and he knew… He knew that his lifelong friend and he were in the right place to do what was needed for the people. Not for Stowold, not for Barrison or Morton or any other noble with an agenda and a personal army. No. For Wesson; Altoln. For if what Stowold and his men were facing were to succeed and they fail, the recent plague would seem like a well-deserved reprieve in comparison to what would rise from beneath their very feet.