Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  Nodding his agreement, Couig waved towards an incoming trap, which bounced across the grasslands towards them.

  ‘What news?’ Couig asked the boys as they neared.

  ‘Dog bastards, Master Couig,’ the archer of the group said. ‘From the Toye Hills.’

  ‘How many?’ Jevratt didn’t look at the boys, nor slow, so the pony trap rolled alongside the duo, all eyes on the older men.

  ‘Least as many as before,’ another boy said.

  Jevratt spat blood on the floor and nodded. ‘Away with ye and go keep watch.’

  The boy with the reins flicked them and yelled at the pony, which surged forward, pulling them back the way they’d come.

  ‘We need everyone up and the caravan mobile. Agreed?’

  Couig nodded. ‘We’ll need to be quick.’

  ‘Aye.’ Jevratt stopped and took hold of his uncle. ‘Pounder?’

  Couig smiled. ‘I like ye thinking,’ he said, before continuing towards the centre of the eye.

  Jevratt ran off to the nearest camp circle, where men were stringing recurve bows and readying spears, and women were fetching and tethering animals.

  ‘Pounder!’ Jevratt shouted as he ran. ‘Fetch Pounder!’

  Chapter 9 - Pounder

  The ground shook and dirt fell from the ceiling. The resounding thud, thud, thud, continued as Cheung rushed through the tunnels of Grounding, trying to learn what was afoot. He’d heard shouts echoing through the chambers and tunnels, but hadn’t seen anyone to question.

  They know I can speak now, so there’s no harm in asking, he thought, whilst turning a corner and continuing down another stretch of featureless tunnel. It’s a maze down here. He’d taken the opportunity since his vocal outing to talk to Jevratt about the mysterious home the Caravaneers, nomad by definition, made for themselves underground. The subterranean complex was centuries old, according to Jevratt. It’d been built bit by bit, added to each time the Caravaneers camped there. Cheung was more surprised to learn that Grounding wasn’t unique. There were other subterranean settlements, one for all the caravan routes that snaked through the landscapes of Brisance, from the Eastern Planes to The Orphanides.

  As Cheung thought about all he’d learnt, a young woman ran out in front of him, babe in arms. She jumped, startled, as Cheung collided with her. She tried to backtrack, pulling her baby round to the side, away from Cheung, but the assassin took hold of her.

  ‘What’s happening? What’s the thumping?’

  ‘It’s Pounder,’ she said, eyes wild.

  Cheung pulled back a little and asked what that was.

  ‘We’re being attacked,’ she said, before pulling away and running down the tunnel. Cheung followed her, knowing she’d head to others. Following the now crying baby and its mother, Cheung ducked instinctively as the pounding caused debris to fall from the ceiling. He thought about the weight of earth above him and cringed.

  As they rounded a corner, the woman kicked open a door and continued through, Cheung close on her heels.

  The thumping turned into a real pounding as Cheung followed the woman up stone steps to the light above. Reaching the top, he ran through the vardo and out into the sunlight beyond. The woman was lost in the crowd of people.

  ‘Anyone behind ye?’ a man asked, looking past Cheung.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good enough. Heave!’ the man shouted lastly. Cheung turned to see the vardo he’d exited Grounding through lift off the ground. Beneath the vardo was… nothing but grass.

  Shaking it away, Cheung caught his bearings and ran towards Couig’s camp. Vardos were being lifted everywhere. Some with wheels on, others having them fitted. Camels and oxen were harnessed and pony traps darted about, the lads atop them shouting news in a rapid slang Cheung could barely understand.

  The pounding continued and when Cheung traced the source of the sound, his run faltered and he came to a stop. Across the grassland, situated on the outside of a readying circle of vardos and carts, stood a giant of a man with a huge, stone-headed mattock. The man was swinging the mattock around, over and slamming it onto a flat stone, which shook the very ground Cheung stood upon.

  I would have thought it a gnomish machine making that noise.

  Rubbing at the back of his healing neck, Cheung forced his eyes away as the mattock struck once more, and took up his run towards the middle camp and the caravan master.

  Cheung heard Couig before he saw him. The old man was shouting orders at folk, his own vardo having its wheels fitted. Several others were ready, their scaffolds being removed, bundled and loaded onto carts.

  A boy ran past and Cheung grabbed him by the arm. ‘Adlets?’

  The bare-chested lad nodded, shrugging off Cheung’s grip.

  ‘Is that Pounder?’ Cheung asked, pointing to the giant hammering the rock.

  ‘Aye, Priest, but not the man. The mattock.’

  ‘The mattock’s called Pounder?’

  With a nod, the lad raced off, followed by three others, all of which jumped onto a pony trap and sped away from the centre of the great eye.

  ‘Ah, Priest,’ Couig said, Cheung reaching his side. ‘Yer healing may be needed soon enough.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Master Couig.’

  Couig managed a smile at that. ‘Gods, it must be easier to be able to talk once more?’

  Cheung smiled back, although it was hidden by his hood. ‘It is indeed. Am I best in my own vardo?’

  Couig nodded. ‘Aye, ye stay there, where we can find ye, and protect ye. We’ll be pulling out soon by my reckoning, rather than sticking around.’

  ‘You won’t defend Grounding?’

  ‘Our best defence is those dog bastards not knowing it’s here. Once we’re gone, there’ll be no discovering it.’

  Another horn sounded from a way off, followed by another.

  Couig looked about the camp, worried. ‘They’re closer than I thought.’

  ‘I’ll let you get on,’ Cheung said, moving away.

  ‘Thank you, Priest, you’re a friend to us and I won’t forget it.’

  I’d rather you did, Cheung thought, finding and climbing into his wheeled vardo.

  Master Couig’s caravan managed to pull out of Grounding before the adlet raiders arrived on the plateau, although one vardo was left behind, its wheel damaged with no time to fix it. It was set alight by lads with a pony trap, to ensure adlets couldn’t steal anything or glean anything from that left behind.

  Most of Jevratt’s men were ordered to the rear of the caravan as Couig drove his vardo off the plateau and through the confusing passes towards the River Minor, host in tow.

  ‘I’ve rarely known the adlets to be so bold,’ Couig said to Legg, who sat on the bench beside him. ‘And never to cross the river after us.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Legg admitted, looking behind. ‘I should be back there, with Jevratt and Belcher.’

  Couig planted a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, bringing the lad’s attention back to the road.

  ‘I need ye with me, nephew. I need a good head and good hands up front, as well as behind.’

  ‘There’s to be no adlets ahead.’

  ‘Maybe not, but there could be brigands or goblins. We don’t want to get stuck between a shit and a turd now, do we?’

  Legg couldn’t help but smile. ‘Nope, we don’t want that.’

  Shouting followed another horn blast from way back down the column, and Legg turned again, this time standing. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘Ye won’t,’ Couig said, cracking the reins and urging his oxen on. ‘We’re spread thin with the ragged retreat from Grounding. There’ll be hastily loaded carts lagging behind, but Jevratt and his boys will keep the adlets at bay.’

  Legg sat down and cracked his knuckles. ‘He will, I know it. Doesn’t make sitting here any…’

  Couig turned to Legg and frowned. ‘What is it, lad?’

  Legg looked back. ‘Souch Sader.’

  ‘Shit.�
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  ‘We left him tethered.’

  ‘Someone will have lifted him.’ Couig cracked his reins once more. The oxen lowed, complaining, but continued on at quite the pace.

  ‘That sounded convincing, uncle. Mind,’ Legg went on, ‘he did kill a lad. The adlets can have him.’

  Couig bit his bottom lip and said nothing.

  Legg stared at him a moment or two, as another horn sounded. His eyes widened. ‘Ye think him innocent, don’t ye?’

  Couig continued to look ahead.

  ‘Uncle?’

  ‘Yes!’ Couig snapped. ‘I did think it, at the end, alright?’ He turned to Legg. ‘But there’s nothing for it now. He’ll be dead.’

  Legg sat back and sighed hard before sitting bolt upright. ‘Wait, that means—’

  ‘Sir Xand, aye.’

  ‘And he’ll be with—’

  ‘The girl? No. He’s with Jevratt and Belcher at the rear. At least he should be.’

  ‘And that’s where I’ll be, before going for the poor bastard sorcerer.’ Legg jumped off the vardo and ran back down the column.

  ‘Damn ye, Legg!’ Couig shouted backwards. Damn him for his conscience. Breathing heavily before calling out to his oxen, Couig turned his mind to the task at hand. Outrunning the adlet raiders.

  It didn’t take Legg long to reach the back of the caravan. Several Caravaneers cheered him as he ran, and two pony traps turned and followed; grim-faced lads keeping pace alongside.

  He could see the raiders now, hot on the heels of the trailing carts. He saw traps flanking their scouts and Jevratt, Belcher and the lads loosing arrow after arrow and spear after spear at the closing enemy.

  Reaching the carts, Legg deviated off to the side. He ran away from the fighting and up, up onto the goat tracks of the surrounding hills. He knew them well, for when the Caravaneers were at Grounding he would run them, and fast.

  It was said that Legg could outrun a pony, and the traps he’d left behind before accelerating up the side of the pass’ flanking hill was testament to that.

  He leapt over loose scree, before dodging right around a bolder. An adlet appeared on the other side of the obstacle, but before it could react, Legg laid it out with the palm of his right hand, which he’d slammed into its temple.

  Continuing at speed, Legg dodged another adlet. This one saw him coming, but failed to react in time to the swiftly moving Caravaneer. It managed a howl though, and Legg cursed his luck and ran all the harder.

  The carts were lost. They’d fallen too far back from the caravan and more and more adlet appeared. Some ran down from the hills either side of the path, but most came from behind. The numbers were growing and Jevratt knew the speed and stamina of the dog-legged raiders. He’d ordered his men to move to the fortified vardos now at the rear of the column, where they could effect a proper defence. It was there where he now stood, throwing his fists at the leaping adlets that started to catch the caravan proper.

  ‘I’ve never seen so many,’ Belcher shouted. He grunted as he threw a bag of iron scraps. When the bag hit the ground, the pieces of iron clattered out, tripping running adlets and causing others to yelp, drop and roll, snapping legs and shredding bare feet.

  The two men stood on a low platform of the last vardo. Above them, archers and spear-wielding guards stood behind wooden crenellations, like the defenders of a baron’s keep. Arrows flicked out often, as did stones and spears. Many adlets fell to them, but many more were catching the vardo and leaping onto its sides, only to be skewered by spears or struck off by dropped stones. Jevratt and Belcher continued to thump those that climbed the rear platform, knocking all back and killing some through fist or fall.

  ‘Where’s yer man, Jevratt? The fancy sorcerer, eh? Where’s he now?’

  Jevratt cursed as an adlet caught his shin with a crude blade. The cut was shallow, but the impact numbed his leg. He dropped into a crouch and head-butted the raider’s long snout as it attempted to climb aboard.

  ‘Ye know where he is, ye prick.’ Another adlet fell to one of Jevratt’s fists. ‘He’s tethered where we left him. It’s the damned knight I wanna see. He’s supposed to be lending us his skills, here.’

  ‘He came round when I slapped him,’ Belcher said, as an arrow took the adlet closest to him. ‘He were mine!’ Belcher shouted to the archer above. ‘Xand were awake,’ he continued to Jevratt, ‘so no excuse there, although he were messed up pretty good by yerself.’

  Jevratt’s grin showed blood on his remaining teeth. ‘Never mind. Ye see Legg run off, before?’

  Adlet arrows came in, thudding against the side of the vardo.

  ‘Shites are further up, on the hills,’ one of the archers above shouted.

  ‘So stick ’em back, will ye?’

  Jevratt laughed at Belcher, before moving to the side and opening a hatch behind him. The gathering adlets, fast on their feet, fell about themselves to dive away from the jagged stones that tumbled from the open hatch. Most made it to the side of the road, or dropped back out of harm’s way, but some fell, ankles twisted or snapped on the rubble underfoot.

  ‘Ha! Bastards!’ Jevratt danced about, painful leg forgotten, and slapped his forearms, one after the other. ‘We can all do dis, can’t we? We can all do dis, ye flea bitten feckers!’

  Belcher joined in the curses, before remembering Jevratt’s question. ‘Oh shit, aye, Legg.’ Belcher looked to Jevratt. ‘He took off, didn’t he? Up the hill on his goat tracks. Back to Grounding?’

  ‘Aye, but for what?’

  They both cursed. ‘Souch Sader.’

  ‘Stupid bastard,’ Belcher said, grabbing a bag of pottery shards and broken glass and emptying it out before the re-approaching adlets.

  ‘Or clever,’ Jevratt said, noticing yet more coming down from the hills. ‘What’s making ’em so determined, eh? What’s driving ’em?’

  ‘I dunno, Jevratt, but whatever it is, Legg’s gonna be running straight into it.’

  Jevratt spat at that, and killed a leaping adlet with a single punch.

  He’d more close calls than he’d want to count, but the dense clumps of gorse on the hills allowed Legg to hide and avoid most of them. Several encounters saw him come to blows with iron-armoured adlets, and he’d thought that strange, since the raiders normally wore no more than boiled leather, if that. Those encounters pushed him to the limits of his skill, but he’d won out, each and every time. He’d ducked blows, side-stepped thrusts and pummelled faces to get past. His fists throbbed like never before – adlet faces were harder than humans’.

  Reaching the edge of Grounding’s plateau, Legg did his best to slow his breathing. He’d crawled through skin-scuffing gorse to look across the hastily left camp-rings, and by one of them, where he’d been left, was the tethered sorcerer, Souch Sader. He wasn’t alone.

  Legg crawled closer, bit by bit, clenching his teeth at the thorns snagging his linen braes and skin beneath. His underside took the worst; bloody chest, arms, legs and… he barely bit back curses as certain areas caught and scratched.

  Why the feck am I doing this? He might be a murderer. Legg grunted a laugh and shook his head. He might be our saviour.

  Coming to a stop, Legg saw more of the maille and plate armoured adlets. They carried clean weapons and walked with an air of vicious confidence that sent a shudder through Legg.

  A runner came in, not far from where Legg was lying. The bare-chested adlet loped across the grassland to the group of armoured raiders, who parted, allowing the scout an audience with the biggest adlet Legg had ever seen. The beast was a head taller than the rest, and much broader, although it was possible his padding and pouldrons made him appear so.

  The warlord reveals himself. Couig was right, there was no way all of this was random…

  Legg stopped crawling as another figure stepped forward from the throng of raiders, previously obscured by the smoke from the burning wreck of the one vardo left behind.

  A human? Legg shuffled that bit closer and sq
uinted, but the distance remained great. If only I could hear.

  The human looked his way.

  Legg didn’t duck, for he feared the movement would betray his exact position. His lungs burnt after his recent exertion, but the man looked away again and Legg managed to release the breath he’d held and suck in a lungful of warm air.

  An argument? Interesting, he thought, the adlet warlord pointing his bardiche at the tethered sorcerer before him whilst shouting at his human ally. Several of what could only be the warlord’s bodyguard turned on the stranger, but he didn’t show any fear, not from what Legg could see; the man’s relaxed posture never changed. He did, eventually, bow low to the warlord, who shouldered his pole-mounted blade before moving to and crouching over Souch. Again, Legg wished he knew what was being said, but as he thought it, the warlord swung his shouldered weapon down in four clean chops, severing each of Souch’s bonds.

  Legg pulled his head back in surprise. Didn’t see that one coming, he thought, brow creased. He twitched his nose as a spider crawled across it, and watched as two of the adlets dragged the gagged mage to his feet. As Souch hung from their grasp, the warlord gave an order and a third adlet moved about the prisoner, tying what looked like wire snares above Souch’s knees. Legg could see Souch struggle as the adlet wound the wire tighter and tighter. Satisfied with its work, the adlet moved away and the other two pulled Souch across the grass towards another dog-legged raider. This one wasn’t quite as tall as the warlord, but he wasn’t far off. Legg’s eyes flicked to the warlord and human, who were talking again, before looking back to Souch. The sorcerer was being strapped to the back of the tall adlet, who, as soon as Souch was secure, took off at a steady pace in the direction of the fleeing caravan.

  Soon after, the rest of the raiders followed, warlord included. The only one left behind was the human. Legg considered sprinting towards him, and almost did when the man dropped into a crouch and inspected the earth near to where Souch had been tethered. Legg thought it likely the fighting ring Jevratt had defeated Sir Xand in.