Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘They’re trying to bring a section down, there.’ Jay Strawn pointed down to their right, where extra defences had been erected around a black hole. Carters moved in and out of the hole, empty carts going in, earth laden ones coming out. They used the earth they were removing to increase the protective mounds either side of the tunnel. Their intent was clear to the six onlookers.

  ‘Undermining,’ Sears said, waving an annoying fly from his face. ‘They’re going to try and drop a whole section.’

  ‘Pretty sure I just said that.’ Jay frowned at Sears.

  Sears ignored the man, eyes locked on the Earl of Beresford’s efforts. Or rather his men’s. ‘Once that happens—’

  ‘They’ll charge the breach,’ Bollingham said, ‘and it’ll be over.’

  ‘Just like that?’ The former guardsman between Sears and Biviano spoke, voice reedy, eyes red rimmed like he’d been sat too close to a smoking fire. They were always red rimmed.

  Bollingham nodded. ‘Aye, Pelse, just like that. Those goblin shites won’t stand up to Earl Beresford’s men, who wear superior armour, carry superior weapons and likely outnumber the depleted tribes behind those walls. And it’s their home they’re trying to get back.’

  Pelse looked to Bollingham. ‘Why so sure the goblins are depleted?’

  It was Biviano who answered. ‘They’ll have been killing each other before the Earl and his men even got here.’ More than one of the former guardsmen nodded at that.

  ‘And his son,’ Sears said, watching another volley of rocks strike the walls, the cracks and bangs of it following.

  ‘Aye, Sears,’ Biviano agreed, ‘the prancing prick of a Duke himself: Rell bloody Adlestrop.’

  All six nodded, faces grim as they followed Bollingham down the road and into the Beresfords’ camp.

  ‘Well?’ Biviano asked Bollingham as the knight rode back to their position within the darkening camp. He’d been to seek an audience with Rell Adlestrop, but Biviano didn’t miss the furious look on Bollingham’s face; he carried his dust-smeared bascinet in the crook of his left arm and directed his destrier, which he’d switched to once in the camp, with his right. Pulling up before Biviano, who stood hands on hips by their tethered horses, Bollingham’s destrier snorted and shook its head whilst he slid from the high-backed saddle.

  ‘He’s a prize prick indeed, is Adlestrop.’ Bollingham handed the reins to a boy who’d appeared from the smoke drifting across the camp, a mongrel pup close on his heels.

  A loud crash and a celebratory roar turned Biviano and Bollingham’s heads. Dogs barked across the camp, the pup yapped and the boy grunted and fought, but ultimately managed to lead Bollingham’s destrier over to the tethering post whilst the two men watched dust rise about a section of wall. A strip of crenellations had fallen, leaving a gap, again, like Pelse’s patchwork teeth.

  Bollingham filled his cheeks and forced out the air. ‘That was a good hit.’

  Biviano nodded. ‘True that, Bolly.’

  The knight made to correct Biviano, but gave up before asking, ‘Where’s Sears and the others?’

  ‘Got themselves some stew at a fire; the prancing prick Adlestrop’s men.’

  Bollingham nodded approvingly, turned from the settling dust of the broken section of wall and looked to Biviano. ‘And you thought you’d wait for me? Kind of you, mate.’

  ‘No,’ Biviano said. ‘I thought I’d check on the horses, because you’ve been gone an age.’

  A grunt and Bollingham set out, following the nearest smoke to its source. He stopped and turned when Biviano didn’t follow.

  ‘Well?’ Biviano asked, arms wide.

  ‘I’m not telling you what happened to have to repeat myself when telling the other four shites.’ He set out again, and once more Biviano didn’t follow. Sighing and rubbing his red, sweaty face with his free hand, helm held by the other, Bollingham turned yet again. ‘I’m not in the mood, Biv.’

  ‘Maybe not, but nor are ye going the right way, Bolly.’ Biviano grinned and set out the opposite direction to Bollingham, as another series of thuds and crashes marked the re-launching of the perriers and onagers at the sunset-illuminated walls of Beresford.

  ‘Wait up!’ Bollingham chased Biviano. ‘When we get to them, I’m hauling them in a tent to talk.’

  ‘You’re the knight,’ Biviano said, as the sun dipped low and the camp shadows stretched out.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ Sir Bollingham agreed, grin broad by Biviano’s side.

  Sears pressed his knuckles into his eyes and yawned. ‘That’s pure bollocks,’ he said, the words breathy as they followed the yawn. Several others accompanied Sears with yawns of their own.

  Bollingham frowned. ‘But that’s what I said to him!’ he protested, waving midges away from his sun-reddened face at the same time. The stinking, cheap-oiled lamp-lit tent was full of them, despite the smoke.

  ‘I too call bollocks to that, Bolly,’ Biviano said, from across the tent.

  ‘It’s Sir—’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Jay Strawn finished for the knight. All laughed, bar Bollingham, who scowled.

  ‘Well I didn’t say it to Adlestrop’s bloody face, but I thought it.’

  Sears grinned at Bollingham. ‘You brave devil you. So, what now?’

  ‘We go back to Wesson?’

  Five heads turned to the deep voice, the deep voice they rarely heard, from a man that always rode at the back and spent his camp time cooking, eating and sleeping, but not talking.

  ‘Flay me now,’ Jay Strawn said, ‘if the bass of your unexpected input didn’t just cause my arse to twitch, Big Dom.’

  More laughter, except, again, from the group’s knight.

  ‘No, Dom, we’re not heading back,’ Bollingham said, eyes fixed on the blunt face of the man who was shaving his scalp to within an inch of its life with a razor that made everyone shudder.

  ‘What is it with razors?’ Pelse’s untimely question gained everyone’s attention. Everyone, that was, except the man using the razor.

  ‘Eh?’ Was all Biviano could muster.

  ‘What’s that got to do with the discussion?’ Sears added.

  Bollingham grunted. ‘Discussion, is it? I’m the bloody knight and you’re all supposed to do as I say.’

  ‘Well,’ Pelse went on in his reedy voice, ignoring his superior and answering Biviano’s confusion and Sears’ question. ‘It’s just, I’m looking at Big Dom scraping one across his thick head, little nicks here and there as always, little flashes of light reflected from the lamps, and I’m thinking—’

  ‘Too much,’ Bollingham muttered.

  ‘—that it’s but a slither of steel Dom wields,’ Pelse continued regardless. ‘A little swish and a little scrape. Little.’ He looked off into a non-existent distance, tonguing the gaps in his teeth.

  ‘Little?’ Biviano prompted.

  ‘Aye,’ Pelse said, ‘little. A little blade.’ He nodded towards Big Dom and his razor. ‘No bearded axe or bastard-sword, both capable of crushing bones or lopping off limbs. No lance or poleaxe, crossbow or war bow—’

  ‘We get the point,’ Jay Strawn said.

  Pelse laughed, his voice breaking as he did so. ‘No point, either, Jay. You’re right there.’ Jay Strawn shook his head in disbelief as Pelse blathered on. ‘Just a little razor-sharp edge—’

  ‘Hence the name.’ Bollingham, again muttering.

  ‘—and nothing more. A swish and a nick and a scrape, rather than a stab and a slash and a chop.’

  ‘Poetic.’ Biviano nodded his head towards Pelse whilst looking at Sears, who grinned.

  ‘So why fear it so?’ Pelse looked about the tent, pausing for a moment on everyone bar Dom.

  ‘Who says any of us do?’ Jay Strawn puffed his chest out whilst lying on his bunk.

  Dom was across the space in a heartbeat, a flash of lamp-light on steel followed by multiple holdings of breaths. Jay Strawn swallowed, the lump on his throat touching the razor’s edge. Beads of sweat appeared
on his brow as he stared at the bald man staring back. There was a group pause in the tent, awkward, tense, and then Dom grinned, removed the razor and strode back to where he’d been sat, shaving.

  ‘My point exactly,’ Pelse said victoriously. ‘Or razor’s edge, as the case may be.’

  ‘You fucking prick!’ Jay Strawn surged to his feet, basilard in hand.

  ‘Or razor’s nick,’ Pelse mused aloud, despite Jay’s aggressive stance in the middle of the tent. ‘And the smallest of edges is what scared the shit out of the lot of you. No one’s tense now, with Jay stood there, broad-bladed dagger in hand. But Big Dom and his little razor…’ He left it there. Left it and looked down to his filthy nails, which he proceeded to dig at with the knife from his belt. His eating knife.

  ‘Well that was the most pointless point of all,’ Biviano said, head shaking as he stared at Pelse. ‘And I thought Sir Bollocks here was pointless.’

  ‘The Three with you, Biviano, you cock.’ Bollingham stood and left the tent, his departure through the heavy canvas flap briefly increasing the sounds of the continuing siege they were a part of, but not.

  Jay sat, eyes locked on Dom, who was shaving around his small ears. Jay had sheathed his basilard and contented himself with murderous looks, chest puffed out more than ever.

  ‘So,’ Sears said, looking to Biviano who was swatting midges on his neck, ‘Adlestrop turned down our offer of aid; said no to Bollingham’s request to join his father’s siege. What do you make of that, Biv? That was what we were supposed to be discussing, wasn’t it? With our good knight, mind.’ Sears grinned.

  Biviano grinned back. ‘Aye, ye big ginger get, that’s the gist of it. Bollingham could’ve told us more if he hadn’t stormed out, lavishly long surcoat between his legs.’

  The two of them shared a chuckle and looked about their companions: Jay Strawn glaring at Big Dom glancing at Pelse staring into a non-existent distance whilst picking his nails.

  Sears took a deep breath. ‘Reckon’ we’re screwed this time, Biv, ye weasel. No matter what the plan is now.’

  Biviano grunted a laugh and slapped and scratched the back of his head. ‘Aye, Sears, I reckon we are, for we’ve got to glean some useful shit about what the polished prat Rell Adlestrop is doing, Earl Marshal or not, Duke or not. And at the moment, I can’t think how?’

  ‘Especially if he’s turned down aid from us to take back his father’s own bloody town,’ Big Dom said, his bass tone once again surprising them all. ‘For a man to turn down aid at a time like this, he must suspect us of something.’

  Biviano nodded. ‘Well let’s hope it’s not a suspicion of the truth, that we’re here to spy on him, for if it is—’

  ‘The Three might as well be with us after all.’ Sears grimaced at his own words, and the rest shuddered at the thought.

  Chapter 64 – Bangs in the night

  An ear-splitting crack and the loudest of bangs woke the whole tent.

  ‘Fuck was that?’ Jay Strawn said, sitting in his cot.

  Good question. Biviano’s heart pounded as much as his ears.

  A cheer went up, as loud as the bang had been, accompanied by barking dogs and braying and lowing beasts of burden.

  ‘That’s our lot,’ Sears said of the bang and cheer, standing to remove the cowl from the lamp hanging in the tent.

  ‘Our lot?’ Pelse frowned. ‘They’ve not accepted Sir Bollocks’ offer of aid.’

  ‘Cock,’ Bollingham said to Pelse, standing and stretching as he did so.

  ‘Against goblins, Pelse, the Beresford’s are our lot. Contract of employment or not,’ Biviano said, hauling Sears to his feet. They’d all slept in their armour, weapons close to hand. More in suspicion of Rell Adlestrop’s men coming for them than any threat of goblins sallying forth from Beresford’s gates.

  ‘Fair one,’ Pelse said, pulling on his maille coif – the only thing he’d removed.

  Big Dom pushed through the tent opening from his watch. ‘Should’ve seen that!’ he said in his baritone voice.

  Bollingham crossed to the big man, pulling on his own padded cap and coif before reaching for his helmet. ‘Well we didn’t, Dom,’ he said, ‘so out with it.’

  Dom shrugged. ‘There was a yellow flash before the bang. Something hit the wall hard following that.’

  Biviano saw Bollingham frown in the lamplight.

  ‘A siege engine made that noise?’ Bollingham pulled on and strapped his re-polished bascinet. ‘I assumed it’d been magic.’

  ‘A cannon,’ Biviano breathed, before Big Dom could.

  ‘Aye, Biv’s got the measure of it,’ Dom said, nodding. He turned and headed back outside, everyone on his heels.

  Biviano followed Bollingham out after a worried glance at Sears. Despite the lamp in the tent, the light from the multiple campfires and moon caused Biviano to squint, but for a heartbeat. The cheering died soon after it started, but the camp was noisy, alive with chatter and laughs and song.

  ‘They’re celebrating it,’ Jay Strawn said, last out of the tent, basilard in hand.

  Sears shoved the man hard. ‘Put the blade away, ye prick, before ye get us all arrested.’

  Jay snarled. ‘Caution is my friend, Sears.’

  ‘Aye, and my fists are mine and ye’ll be—’

  ‘Enough!’ Bollingham turned and glared at the lot of them.

  ‘Ooh…’ Pelse started, but Biviano shook his head.

  ‘Time to get serious, lads,’ Biviano said, eyeing them all. ‘There should be no cannons in Altoln, let alone used by Altoln. Happen this is what we were sent to find out, eh?’

  Bollingham was nodding. ‘I think you’re right, Biv.’

  ‘Course he is,’ Sears said, pushing in alongside is friend. ‘So, Sir Bollingham, what now?’

  Biviano saw Bollingham start at that.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Bollingham said, all eyes now on him and in a serious capacity.

  ‘We get to asking around,’ Biviano prompted.

  Bollingham licked his wine-stained lips and nodded. ‘Whilst morale is high.’ He met Biviano’s eyes. They nodded to one another. ‘Right, ye shits,’ Sir Bollingham continued, confident now, as he gave his orders, ‘we split up and head out into the camp. Be subtle but be joyful and loud with it.’

  Pelse screwed up his face. ‘Eh?’

  Biviano sighed. ‘Blend in. Make merry. Cheer the fucking cannon, but enquire about it at the same time.’

  ‘Where it’s come from, if there are more,’ Sir Bollingham added. ‘Just don’t get caught asking.’

  Pelse frowned again. ‘Ask but don’t get caught asking?’

  ‘Good,’ Biviano slapped Pelse on the back, ‘ye’ve got it. Now let’s head out, eh, Sir Bollingham?’

  Sir Bollingham smiled. ‘Aye, Biviano. Let’s head out.’

  ***

  A calamitous crash of stone caving in yet another rooftop nearby was followed mere heartbeats later by the now familiar boom, bang and crack of the gun firing its pathetic stone balls at the curtain walls. A cheer followed the cannon’s firing and it was that sound that annoyed the goblin necromancer the most.

  ‘Can you not let me sleep!’ Core shrieked as loud as his hoarse throat would allow. ‘Days of this shit,’ he muttered as he scrambled painfully to his feet. ‘Crash, bang,’ he continued, to himself, ‘thump, boom, bloody smash and trash your own town, why don’t you? Bloody pink skinned pricks of limp bastard whore-pokers.’

  ‘What?’ came a muffled voice from beneath the flea infested blanket Core stood over. A swift boot and the grunted question turned into a stream of curses to rival Core’s own.

  ‘Up, turds. Up I say. The bloody lot of you are with me. Now!’ he yelled the rest, throat be damned, and stormed from the building and out into the night. Cursing some more as he limped along, silver plated cane at his side and stolen hood pulled up, Core rapped and hammered on every door he passed. ‘Up, you gobshites! Up, up, up and at ’em. I’m sick of the bastard noise and stones and arrows
and shit. I’m sick of being woken and I’m sick to the hind teeth of you shites sleeping whilst I can’t.’

  The young apprentice who opened his door before it was knocked on fell back at three raps of the silver cane, which cracked from his forehead, losing him his consciousness for his eager troubles.

  ‘Blood God’s bits,’ Core cursed, rolling his black eyes and limping off once more, a crowd of goblins in his wake, some eagerly, most in barely contained annoyance or rage.

  Another something struck a rooftop further to the south of the gatehouse, for which the gathering goblins were heading.

  A runner came loping down the detritus- and body-strewn street, the goblin messenger nearly as tall as the – now dead – hobyahs that had originally accompanied The Red Goblin when he’d taken the west bank of Beresford.

  ‘What news?’ Core demanded.

  Coming to a stop, hands on knees, the panting goblin answered.

  ‘They’re… tunnelling.’

  The mass of muttering, coughing and grunting goblins gathered around Core and the runner.

  ‘Tunnelling where?’

  ‘That way.’ The runner jabbed his clawed finger south. ‘Under the wall. To burn the foundations.’

  Core sucked his teeth and shrugged. ‘No matter,’ he said, shoving the runner over and setting out once more, ‘they won’t have time for tunnelling when we’re done with them.’ There was a half-hearted cheer at that, followed by an enthusiastic roar as Core stopped and glared backward. Nodding and grinning at the response, the old necromancer limped on, cane thumping as he thought of all his kin lost over the weeks-long occupation of Beresford. And of all the fun they’d had too. But that time was past, because he’d decided it was past. Their work was done and, at any rate, there was hardly food left to sustain them much more than a couple of days, and after that, well, knowing his kin as he did, Core knew he’d sooner stick it to the humans before what remained of the clans turned on one another.