Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  If they get out… Biviano thought, reaching the bottom step and moving into lamp-light once more, through a door and out into a circular chamber with… with a glass floor that caused him to stop abruptly. Sears crashed into the back of him, followed by several curses. …Wesson would be lost, its inhabitants too.

  ‘Flay me now.’ Sears looked over Biviano’s shoulder. ‘It’s bigger than I’d imagined. I don’t think I can step onto it, Biv.’

  Biviano shook his head as he watched Stowold walk out into the centre, where a large oak table sat, circular like the chamber itself. No chairs, no other adornments to the room bar lamps and torches on sconces, filling the room with an acrid smoke-filled atmosphere that clung to the ceiling before disappearing off up some unseen chimney.

  Biviano looked back down, ignoring the three other men, knights by the look of their garb and the confident way they held themselves – one certainly, for it was indeed Sir Bryant who’d helped free Sears from the magistrates. Biviano looked through the floor, which started where his pointed boots stopped, through it into blackness. It was then that it hit him. ‘Flay me too,’ he cursed, lifting his hands out to the sides as if he walked a rope. ‘Flay me for eternity, Sears, but we’re stood above it… We’re dangling above the fucking precipice!’

  Chapter 59 – A new liege

  ‘Well, what say you both?’ Stowold looked from Biviano to Sears and back. They stood, all three, along with the three knights; the three veterans, for it was clear they were veterans. The three knights stood at equally spaced intervals to one another around the far side of the expansive table, whilst Sears and Biviano stood shoulder to shoulder, Stowold closer to them than any of his knights.

  Biviano pressed his lips together in a line, nodding whilst staring at the textured map laid out before them. A network of tunnels, caverns and stalactite-like turrets and towers; inverted-gully-carved ramparts, crenellations and machicolations, all laid out before him in a grand, impressive to say the least, recreation of what allegedly lay below and all around them. The defences and enemy territories both, so they were told, of the Underkeep and the landscape, or subterranean-scape, it dangled into. Dangled, Biviano thought, that’s the right word. Dangled. Like bloody worms on a hook, awaiting the big bad to come swallow us whole. He sighed and grunted, glanced sideways and upwards to Sears. He smirked when he saw Sears’ cheeks puffing out into his red beard. He was clearly as deep in thought as Biviano about it all. Deep. Biviano grunted a laugh at that. Eyes turned to him. We’re certainly in deep.

  ‘I’m in,’ Sears said, looking back to Biviano.

  Biviano voiced his agreement. ‘Thought you might be, big guy. I’d decided up top, in the other chamber, and thought you had too.’ Well, I sort of had, but I don’t want you thinking you beat me to the decision.

  Sears nodded. ‘I had too, I just didn’t say so.’ The red-haired giant of a man shuddered and looked down, past his feet, into the depthless-ness below. Taking a deep breath, he looked back up, met everyone’s eyes one by one and finished on Stowold’s. ‘But I’m in, my lord. How could I not be?’

  Stowold smiled, nodded his thanks and turned to Biviano. ‘And you too, Biviano.’ He grinned.

  ‘Looks like it, milord.’ Back to lower district accent now.

  ‘Grand!’ Stowold shouted, much louder than Biviano thought necessary.

  ‘Grand indeed,’ the one called Sir Mechel said, beaming at the two newest recruits and rounding the table, arm outstretched. He took Sears’ arm first, hand to forearm, Sears doing the same. They shook and Sir Mechel moved past Sears and did the same to Biviano. The other two knights, Sir Bryant included, followed suit, less enthusiastically, but pleasantly and genuinely enough.

  Stowold was the last to embrace, arm to arm, with both men, but he seemed the most pleased of all. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you both with us on this,’ he said, winking at Biviano as he gripped and shook his arm. ‘We’ve lost many recently, as I told you.’ He grimaced, released Biviano’s arm and stood back, looking down through the floor to the blackness beyond. ‘And not just in Dockside, rescuing you,’ he added, without looking up. All present knew he meant Sears, but there was no accusation, no blame in his tone.

  Stowold pulled his lips into a tight smile and looked up. ‘They’re more active of late.’ The three knights, Stowold’s captains, nodded, moving back to their positions around the table. ‘Since the plague.’ Stowold’s eyes flicked between the two newcomers, whose eyes widened at the news.

  ‘Since the arcane plague?’ Biviano asked. ‘The one sent here on purpose, with malice and intent, you mean?’

  ‘Well what other one has there been, ye fool?’ Sears moved away from Biviano a little, scanning the raised map as he moved.

  ‘Alright, big man,’ Biviano said, resting both hands on the table, the glass beneath their feet wracking his nerves, but less so with all else there was to think on.

  Stowold sucked his teeth, drawing everyone’s attention. ‘I fear it is all linked.’

  ‘The plague and the attacks in the Deep?’ Sir Mechel asked. It was clear from his question, tone and the look on his and his fellow knights’ faces, that they hadn’t heard Stowold’s theory.

  ‘Yes, and the mark on King Barrison.’

  ‘You think the Black Guild is in league with whomever sent the plague?’ Biviano asked, accent shifting once again to upper district.

  ‘I do,’ Stowold said, ‘and I think whoever manoeuvres those below us, pulling their strings, is the same who, or what, that encouraged several goblin tribes to unite and take Beresford.’

  There were grunts, swallows and licks of lips as the men present looked about each other, realising it could well be the case. Stowold knew his stuff, was learned. And more than that, was a soldier, a warrior: a commander. He lead from the front when it was needed and he did enough manoeuvring of his own to know when other folk were doing the same. All present knew it. All had seen him fight and command, some far more than other, of course.

  ‘King Barrison’s Spymaster, Lady Burr, is on her way south with a group of pathfinders,’ Stowold explained. ‘She’s been ordered to find out what is afoot in The Marches, why we are hearing nothing from Sirreta. She may even, although it was said as a last resort by Will Morton, cross into Sirreta itself.’

  ‘You fear whoever sent the plague…’ Sears said, leaning forward, hands on the table much like most of them were now doing. He looked at Stowold, eyes flicking to Biviano, but settling on Stowold all the same. ‘…you fear that whoever sent that black death, whoever encouraged goblins to raid and put a mark on our King, is doing similar things in Sirreta? Or,’ Sears asked, before Stowold could answer the first question, ‘you think it’s Sirreta doing this?’

  Stowold screwed his face up and crossed his steel-clad arms across his chest. Eventually, with all eyes on him, he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We don’t know.’ He looked about them all. ‘That’s why Lady Burr was sent. That’s why we need to know more.’

  ‘That’s why you have something specific in mind for us?’ Biviano said, standing straight. ‘Isn’t it, my lord?’

  Stowold nodded. His eyes flicked for the briefest of moments to Sir Mechel, who cleared his throat.

  ‘We have other suspicions…’ Sir Mechel said, looking between Sears and Biviano. He was the only knight the duo had seen in Stowold’s service to wear colours of his own and not the dark green of the Earl. ‘…closer to home,’ the yellow and black chequered knight confirmed. He paused to let that sink in.

  Brow high, creased, Biviano nodded for Sir Mechel to go on.

  Sears cut in before Sir Mechel could speak. ‘You don’t just guard from hairless, pale-skinned dwarves then?’

  ‘That would be rather short-sighted, Sears,’ Stowold said. ‘I’m the Watcher of the Deep, man, but I’m also the Constable of Wesson and the Earl of Stowold. It’s my duty to look down, up and to each side when searching for threats and suspecting treachery. The Deep is what we
know, it’s been our trade for decades, our ancestors’…’ he pointed to Sir Mechel, ‘…some for centuries. No, Sears, we don’t just guard Wesson from the bastards below. We guard it, or attempt to, from enemies without and within. Hence my enthusiastic storming of the Samorlian bastard Cathedral, and…’ he said, pointing at Sears. ‘And, good man, why I rode into Dockside with my own men to drag your hairy arse out!’

  Sears swallowed and inclined his head. ‘For which I’m eternally grateful, milord.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Stowold said, looking between them both once more, ‘but let’s hear what Sir Mechel has to say, no?’

  Sears nodded, followed by Biviano. They both looked to Sir Mechel.

  Blind me, Biviano thought, that was a subtle telling off from Stowold, Sears. And the plot’s about to thicken, by the looks of Sir Mechel’s face.

  Looking around everyone, the chequered knight continued where he’d been about to do before Sears had interrupted. It wasn’t long until they all fell into silence, Sears and Biviano’s wide eyes once again on Stowold’s. The Constable of Wesson nodded, confirming Sir Mechel’s fears; Sir Mechel’s accusations of a man far above his own station. Of a man with no less power than Bagnall Stowold, in fact; more, perhaps.

  ‘Well, stone me and throw me down this pit of yours.’ Biviano glanced down and tightened his grip on the table before him. ‘You seem bloody sure about this, milord?’ He looked at Stowold.

  ‘We’re not sure but we suspect, and that’s as good as being sure when deciding whether to look into someone or not; whether to investigate them or not.’ He smiled. Biviano cringed.

  ‘Hence your want of our services,’ Sears stated.

  ‘Hence my need of your services, Sears. Precisely so.’

  Biviano sighed. ‘So, we’re not here to delve into the depths and fight upside down sieges and such?’

  Sir Bryant actually chuckled at that, and Stowold grinned.

  ‘Not yet, no,’ Stowold said, looking to his captains and back. ‘Not yet. Looking into our quarry will do for now. But know this,’ his grin dropped away altogether, face darkening, the mood in the room darkening with it, and it had been dark to begin with, ‘if you two get caught, by him or his men. If you two get hauled into one of his estates, castles or some such place. Well,’ Stowold shook his head, ‘there will be no one riding to rescue you this time. You’re on your own, and you’re certainly not under my employment. Understood?’

  ‘Best not get caught, had we,’ Biviano said, flashing a grin.

  Sears turned to Biviano, clearly incredulous of his mirth at such an announcement.

  ‘But if you do,’ Sir Mechel said, hesitantly, ‘we’ll have something for you to sup. Save them the trouble of torturing you, see?’ He smiled, but it was forced. A brave face for their sakes.

  ‘Save you two the trouble of going through it, too,’ Sir Bryant added, face as serious as sin.

  ‘And save you,’ Sears looked from Sir Bryant to Stowold, ‘the trouble of being found out.’

  ‘Well, quite!’ Stowold grinned once more. ‘We wouldn’t want the High Lords of Altoln at each other’s throats now, would we? Not during uncertain times like these, eh?’

  Sears grunted a humourless laugh and looked sidelong at Biviano, who merely nodded.

  In for a penny… Biviano thought, grinning back at Stowold. ‘Doesn’t change anything for us, my lord,’ Biviano said, confident he spoke for Sears too, despite the big man’s hushed curses. ‘We’ll do it, or die trying.’

  ‘Marvellous!’ Stowold bellowed, clapping hands together. ‘This calls for a drink. Follow me.’ Stowold moved for the stairs they’d descended earlier. Sir Mechel followed Biviano and Sears off the glass floor, never looking down whilst the two men he closed on did nothing but. As Biviano and Sears reached the stone of the steps and breathed a joint sigh of relief, they looked to one another and nodded once.

  Biviano heard Sir Mechel grunt a laugh as Sears thumped his partner on the shoulder and ascended the stairs, Biviano close on his heels, Sir Mechel bringing up the rear whilst Sir Bryant and the unnamed knight, who’d said nothing the whole time, remained in the circular chamber.

  What The Three have I got us into now? Biviano thought. He shook it away and instead focused on the wine likely waiting them at the top of the steps. It’s about time I had another drink. I’ve just about felt the effects of our binge wear off.

  ***

  Core cursed then spat as the one-armed swordsman severed the link to another of Core’s toys.

  ‘See how you like your baron back,’ Core snapped, throwing down the useless blackened heart he’d been manipulating, and snatching the dead baron’s head from his closest apprentice. ‘Send the archer you have into the cottage,’ he ordered a goblin, who sat on the far side of the tavern’s taproom. The bleary-eyed whelp nodded, manipulating the shrivelled heart she held.

  ‘Whatchya about, Core?’ another goblin said, dropping down next to the old, walnut faced necromancer.

  ‘Hush now and watch.’

  Core and his closest apprentices stared into the puddle of piss before them, their lips peeling back to reveal brown and crooked teeth.

  Three villagers ran as the headless baron Core controlled charged through Hinton, sword drawn. The dark image was yellow-brown and cloudy, but there was enough firelight about the village they watched for Core to operate his mounted toy.

  ‘So much better with a head,’ Core explained. ‘The brain moves toys far quicker than the dulled and pained heart.’ Apprentices nodded, eyes as wide as goblin eyes could be.

  One apprentice laughed as the headless baron rode down a woman who’d attempted to divert the baron’s attention from a fleeing family, who ran from a small building Core had targeted for several days.

  ‘There’s the cottage.’ Core jerked his chin at the puddle of piss. He bounced as he spoke and worked the brain, as if it were him and not his prize toy atop the reanimated destrier.

  Approaching the open doorway of the small cottage, Core willed the hand of the baron’s shield-arm to pull on the reins, slowing the horse so he could lean down, squint and stare at something in particular on the ground of the sacked village.

  The puddle revealed what looked like the body of one of Core’s toys, an archer, lying prone within the darkness of the cottage itself. Core looked up at a particular apprentice across the room, who looked back and shrugged before throwing the useless heart she’d been manipulating.

  Core hissed and the apprentice scurried away.

  Leaning in for a closer look at the puddle, Core watched on, unsurprised by now, as the one-armed swordsman moved into the street to stand before the headless baron. Defiant wasn’t the word. The man near on impressed Core; if it wasn’t for how much the human had frustrated and angered him.

  Black eyes paled as Core worked his magic. His fingers flexed and hooked, wiggled, pointed and squelched within the baron’s severed head, which sat in his gore-soaked lap; stolen linen braes ruined. ‘I’ve had days of this annoying bastard,’ Core muttered as he worked. ‘But I do like a challenge…’

  The baron’s horse reared, front hooves lashing out in an attempt to brain the crippled man.

  The one-armed swordsman deftly side-stepped the attack and fled, again, and Core shrieked with anger and frustration, throwing the baron’s head across the room.

  The goblin apprentices scattered.

  An incredible bang was followed by an equally loud retort of stone on stone as whatever the human army had launched at Beresford struck and shook the curtain wall. Core’s weak heart skipped a beat and left him clutching at his left arm, fearing the worst. The pain he feared never came, but he was drawn from his necromancy nonetheless, despite knowing it would leave his toys in Hinton vulnerable. He had no choice though, for whatever it was they’d begun hurling at his walls was likely to bring them down if there was much more of it. And that couldn’t be allowed.

  ‘The walls, the walls!’ Core shrieked, voice catchi
ng as he rose from the heads lined up before him, the tops of their skulls removed, his hands and fingers wet from the contents.

  A hulking hobyah pushed through the tavern door, its red armour scuffed and dented, face bloody and torn. ‘Came from wall,’ it said, a broken bottom tooth catching on its upper lip as it spoke, skewing its words.

  ‘Well, back to it!’ Core prodded the last of The Red Goblin’s bodyguards out of the building and into the fire-lit street beyond with his stained and pitted, silver-plated staff of bone.

  As the hobyah loped off, half a dozen armed but wary goblins following behind, Core rapped on the door of the building next to his tavern.

  He rapped again on the wood, this time with his silver-plated staff and a little less patience.

  He was about to full on hammer on it when he heard the handle squeak and saw it turn. The door opened and three gaunt goblin faces peered out, their expressions slack, eyes sunken, hollow even.

  ‘Leave your toys and come with me. Bring everyone.’ Core released a string of hacking coughs before turning and leaving for the wall. He snatched a surprisingly clean hooded mantle from one of his apprentices and pulled it over his own head, despite the relatively warm night. He heard his apprentices shuffling along behind him, heard one of them call lazily to the rest of their coven to follow, from the house he’d knocked on. He hated how the necromancy he’d taught them left them little more than drunken husks, but it was necessary to aid him in spreading fear across the north, as The Red Goblin wanted; as Dignaaln wanted.

  Easily catching up to him as he ambled along, Core’s acolytes fell in about him, matching the old goblin’s pace as he made his way to the curtain walls of Beresford. He needed to see for himself what the newly arrived human army was using, and it was time to work out a plan to defend the town and its walls from those who would take it back.