Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘Do it, Terrina. Set him free and avenge him… as both you and him. As one. Brother and sister. Friend and… lover.’

  Terrina gasped again. She’d been doing that a lot in that room. Her eyes narrowed, but softened again, glazed over as Rapeel shrugged.

  ‘Yours was a true love. Now do what you would want him to do for you and do it knowing, as he will, that you won’t avenge him alone. I will be with you, lass. All the way. Until we finish this. Until we finish Longoss and his green haired bitch.’

  Terrina gritted her teeth as she took her brother’s mask. She ground them as Rapeel produced a second mask, this one new. The red grimacing face of the thing slipped over Rapeel’s own, leaving nothing but a demon visage through which he stared at her, willing her to do the same. And she did. She pulled on her brother’s bloody white mask and turned it to the lost face it once protected. To the eyeless, hopeless face she’d loved in too many ways.

  Rapeel fell back as a scarred, mask-wearing Terrina slid across the floor, a flash of light on iron preceding the addition of more blood to the elongated mask that had witnessed so many deaths.

  ‘And so it witnesses its previous wearer’s demise,’ Rapeel whispered, loud enough for Terrina to hear him over the gurgling, bubbling squelches of her brother’s final breaths.

  Terrina fell over Blanck, careless of the hot blood soaking her blonde hair red. She pulled and squeezed and tugged at his lifeless body as the flow subsided and stopped altogether. ‘You promise me, Rapeel.’

  ‘Terrina?’

  ‘You promise me that we’ll make Longoss pay for this? You give me your word like he’d give his, that Blanck will be avenged.’

  ‘Aye lass, I promise,’ Rapeel rasped. ‘I promise. For you, for me and for Blanck.’

  Terrina nodded, sat up, hands gripping her dead brother’s shirt. She turned to Rapeel, mask to mask.

  ‘I want whatever Pangan has given you.’

  Rapeel’s mask moved up and down in a grim nod, but he said nothing.

  Pangan entered the room, face ashen as he took in Blanck and all his blood. ‘You shall have it, Terrina love. You shall have it.’ He held a small vial in his hand.

  Rapeel rose to his feet and Terrina mirrored him, her new partner. She crossed to Pangan, lifted her mask… her mask. It made her shudder once more. She lifted her mask enough to snatch the vial and knock it back.

  The pain was worse than anything else she’d endured. Anything else. And as her fast blurring vision settled on Pangan’s wincing face, she felt Rapeel’s arms wrap around her as her legs gave way, along with her consciousness.

  Pangan walked into Poi Son’s chamber above the room where Terrina had murdered her brother, and slammed the door behind him.

  ‘I don’t appreciate—’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck, Master Son. Not at this moment in time.’ He glared at Poi Son. Glared with a hint of murder, a hint of his trade.

  Poi Son pursed his lips and slid the contract he’d continued to study across the desk, removing and placing his spectacles down at the same time. Leaning back in his chair, he motioned for Pangan to go on.

  ‘It’s done.’ Pangan breathed heavily, chest rising and falling beneath his black coat. ‘I don’t know what I’ve fed them, on your orders, but it’s done. They’re done.’

  ‘They’re done?’ Poi Son leaned forward, eyes narrow.

  Pangan spun on his master. ‘Aye, they’re done, Master Son. Done being them. As nasty bastards as they were, they’re different now, something else entirely. What was it I fed them? And why the fuck did it take you this long to heal their wounds, if you had the ability before? And most of all, why not Blanck?’

  Poi Son sat back again. ‘It took some doing, coming by those vials, Pangan. Believe it or not, the guild doesn’t carry such substances in stock. Well, not unless your name is Bronwen. As for Blanck… well, he wasn’t worth the investment. Wasn’t… there enough to risk trying.’ Poi Son tapped a finger to his temple.

  ‘But what is it?’ Pangan’s words came through clenched teeth, nostrils flaring, eyes locked in a hard stare.

  Poi Son swallowed despite himself. ‘Think of a flame. Think of a candle before you blow it out…’

  ‘It flares,’ Pangan said immediately, eyes narrowing.

  ‘It flares, gutters and dies. That flare, however—’

  ‘How long, Master Son? How long do they have?’

  Poi Son took a deep breath and released it. His hand crept out, touching the edge of the contract from Eatri, touching the blood lettering around the outside that Pangan had seen him glued to since the thing arrived. ‘Longer than us if this contract fails. Longer than us if Bronwen or Alden-Fenn come for us.’

  Pangan rubbed his face hard with both hands, dropped them and paced, hands now clenching at his sides, near the hilts of his daggers.

  ‘They’ll take Longoss, the two of them, Pangan. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What then?’ Pangan spun from his pacing, incredulous at Poi Son’s incessant harping on about Longoss. ‘The damage is done. The red-bearded guardsman made it out and informed the bloody Constable of Alton weeks ago. Mistress Bronwen wants you – us – dead. So what does it matter if those two masks down there slice Longoss from stomach to neck? What does it bloody matter?’

  Poi Son rose, walked across to a corner and began plucking the strings of his tall, black harp. ‘This needs re-stringing soon.’

  ‘What!?’ Pangan gaped at the man in the corner, the man talking instruments when he should have been talking war. This wasn’t Poi Son, not the man Pangan knew.

  ‘I’m going to have the strings made, Pangan. I’m going to have it re-strung with Longoss’ intestines.’ He flashed a dangerous look Pangan’s way. ‘Carry on talking to me the way you are and I’ll have my lute re-strung too, and my fiddle, and my… well, you get the idea. Your intestines would go a long way, I’m sure.’

  Pangan held Poi Son’s stare for a time, before looking to the floor. ‘Apologies, Master Son. This affair is… poor.’ The word didn’t do the affair justice. Poor was poor, but Pangan had nothing else at that moment, with Poi Son’s eyes boring into him. His rage faded as he realised he could do nothing about it, about any of it. Well, not nothing…

  ‘It is all poor indeed, I know that.’ Poi Son moved back to his chair and dropped into it. ‘Have Terrina and Rapeel strike against one of Bronwen’s holds, tonight. Have them test their newfound strength and vigour before moving on to Longoss. I’m not going to sit here until that bitch storms this place, wand a wagging. We shall deliver the first blow, Pangan, and I want her to feel it keenly. If Wesson thought the Black Guild was at war before, because of Longoss’ interference and the squabbling of street-assassins and gangs since the plague’s touch, they were sorely mistaken, and I want the streets to know it!’

  Pangan nodded, but said nothing. Where had it all fallen apart? With Longoss’ betrayal? No, for he wasn’t the first assassin to ever deny an order or walk away from the guild. No indeed, it was with the bloody contract Poi Son was even now keeping close to his chest. With the bloody passing of that contract to another guild, for ’morl’s sake. Another guild! What are we going to get out of all this when the damned contract is being carried out by another guild? Pangan had no idea. It was all unravelling about him and Poi Son had him, caught in the thick of it. He sighed and nodded again. ‘Where do you want them to strike?’

  ‘I’ll let you decide the details, Pangan, but make it good.’

  ‘Oh I will,’ he said. If I’m going to do anything, I’ll do it good, that’s for sure. No half measures. When I act, I act. I just usually have a choice in the matter. Although I do have a choice here, of a sorts. He hid the smile that thought produced. ‘Alright, Master Son, I’ll go and prepare them.’ He turned to leave without waiting to be dismissed.

  ‘Pangan.’

  Nostrils flared. ‘Master Son?’ He didn’t bother turning.

  ‘Where is Alden-Fenn?’

  ‘At
sea, I believe.’

  ‘Good,’ Poi Son said. Pangan heard the tuneless plucking of strings. ‘One problem at a time.’

  One problem at a time? Pangan counted Longoss and Bronwen as two, and that was before all the bastards and bitches that came with them. ‘Very well, Master Son. I’ll report back when I have more.’ It was all he could to not to spit the words.

  Chapter 34 - Rowberry

  Rowberry was pretty. As pretty as a human town could be, anyway. Pink, white and blue blossom trees bloomed late in the mild northern summer, whilst sheep cropped the fields flanking the walled town and river it straddled. Skylarks sang and ewes bleated continuously for lambs recently removed. The golden horse and its pale-skinned rider neared Rowberry’s gates, men-at-arms watching. The man pulled up the hood of his piss-pungent robes and clutched at the satchel by his side.

  A maille mitten lifted, palm forward. The palomino stopped.

  Three men moved out, their black and white gambesons the livery of their liege lord, their shields the same. ‘Hold, stranger,’ the closest said, hand lowering to his sheathed arming sword. ‘What’s yer business?’

  ‘Monk,’ Cheung whispered, hand in satchel.

  The sergeant screwed up his pock marked face and raised onto tiptoes. ‘Eh? Speak up would ye.’ He pulled back when the strong smell of urine hit him.

  Cheung leaned down towards the man. ‘Monk,’ he said a little louder, in poor Altolnan. ‘From Eatri.’

  A sceptical grunt was the sergeant’s reply.

  ‘What’s he about?’ a conical helmed guard asked his sergeant.

  ‘Monk, so he claims. From Eatri.’

  ‘On a horse like that?’ Conical said.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’

  Hooves drummed dry earth and six eyes focused passed Cheung and his mount. Without another word, the sergeant hastily waved the self-proclaimed monk on through the gate and held up his maille mitten to the incoming riders.

  Cheung attempted to listen to the questions and answers coming from behind, but gave up, taking the lucky opportunity he had been given to enter the town without further questioning.

  As the shadow of the large gatehouse passed over horse and rider, Cheung leaned forward and whispered into the palomino’s flicking ear. ‘That was close,’ he said, before rubbing the beast’s neck, followed by one pat then two. Golden head tossed and rider straightened. ‘Now, to find some much needed food and water.’ Cheung smiled and urged his mount and friend on when he saw a worn tavern sign not far away.

  ***

  Pangan sighed, head in hands, elbows on knees and bum on warm tiles. He sat on a Guild District roof and watched, in broad daylight, as the masked duo that was Terrina and Rapeel sauntered up the busy street below. Another duo sat with Pangan, a girl and a boy, although the boy to Pangan’s left was no more than twelve years, the girl only a little older.

  The boy-watcher chuckled and pointed. ‘Look at that man, he near on fell over as he stumbled out of Terrina’s way.’

  The girl to the other side of Pangan huffed. ‘You’re such a boy.’

  The boy frowned and Pangan smirked.

  ‘Uh oh,’ the girl said, nudging Pangan in the ribs. She pointed to four armed men escorting a richly dressed fifth. Terrina and Rapeel didn’t slow as they approached the noble and his retainers, all of whom put hands to belted weapons.

  Pangan hushed the boy before he could speak.

  People fled, aware blood was going to be spilt. Pangan mused that the noble likely thought the two masks were targeting him. The man fell back, his guards moved forward.

  Pangan watched Terrina flick her unarmed right hand out to the side, a clear indication she wanted the men – who had created a line across the street – to move aside.

  ‘No further!’ the one guard with a sword shouted, from the middle of the line. He drew that sword as the masks continued.

  ‘This should be good,’ the boy said.

  The three other guards drew a falchion, an axe and a mace between them. None had shields, but all wore maille and padding. No helms.

  ‘Veterans,’ Pangan muttered, more to himself than the watchers. The way they moved, carried themselves; the way they shifted about one another, without the need to look what their companions were doing. Pangan glanced at the velvet and silk coated noble. The man looked inconvenienced, not scared.

  ‘This won’t be easy,’ Pangan said, ‘but it’ll be a good test.’

  The boy frowned and looked sidelong at Pangan. The girl sucked in a breath.

  The guards had split, two to Terrina and two to Rapeel.

  Dull and shiny iron and steel flashed, was thrust, swiped, slashed and dropped.

  One of Rapeel’s two hatchets jutted from the face of the falchion wielder, who now lay flat and dead for sure.

  The guard with the mace jabbed with the lump of iron, trying to stun, knowing it to be too slow in such a fight for swinging.

  ‘Clever,’ Pangan said, head now out of his hands.

  The boy winced as the swordsman’s length of steel came close to piercing Rapeel’s leather-clad chest.

  It was then that it happened.

  Pangan couldn’t help but stand, step down the roof a little, eyes wide. The children gawked.

  In silence, masks eerily inactive, staring, the two assassins rushed forward, through openings in the guards’ positions, shrugging off the bite of sword and axe to run with incredible speed at the shocked nobleman.

  The man, frozen, tense, shaking, fell in a spray of arterial blood as stiletto and hatchet found their marks simultaneously.

  Without turning to even consider the two remaining guards, who were howling rage-filled threats, Terrina and Rapeel ran to and kicked their way through – with ease – the door to the tall building they’d been intent on throughout the fight, their would-be mortal sword and axe wounds seemingly forgotten.

  Pangan was stunned. So were the watchers.

  ‘How…’

  ‘I don’t know, lass,’ Pangan lied, mind on the vials he’d given them both.

  Screams came from within the tall building. Pangan looked down and saw the two guards running in the opposite direction. They’d stripped their comrades, and their former master, of purses. Looking back up, drawn by more screams, Pangan saw a man in simple clothes run from Bronwen’s property. A flash of light on steel as a knife followed him. He fell to the ground, face smashing on cobbles. He didn’t get up. Didn’t even stir.

  In the time Pangan would have thought it would take to get to the first floor unchallenged, a woman crashed through a shutter and fell to the ground below, head splitting and spilling its contrasting contents onto the bland stone beneath.

  Another woman followed the first, her scream cut short by a similar impact. Her leg twitched, Pangan noticed, and continued to do so as he looked away.

  ‘Who were they?’ the girl breathed. She licked dry lips and hugged herself, unable to tear her eyes from the scattered bodies.

  ‘It was a Black Guild poison pad,’ Pangan said, voice dry, hoarse even. ‘I need a drink,’ he added, as Terrina and Rapeel emerged from the building, blooded, wounded yet calm. They walked back up the street, narrowly avoiding the bodies they’d created. They looked like masked death. Bloody masked death. When both looked up to Pangan, in unison, he shifted, almost losing his footing. He managed a nod whilst swallowing hard.

  The masks nodded back and went on their way.

  Pangan turned to the ashen faces of the children, saw the boy wiping tears from his face, embarrassed. Motioning for them to follow, Pangan moved to leave the rooftops, a reassuring, clasping hand on a shoulder of each of them. It was more to steady himself though, he had to admit.

  Flay me, Poi Son, he thought, guiding the children away from the bloody scene. What have we done? What have we created?

  ***

  The soup was good. Watercress and onion apparently, although Cheung cared not. It had been countless days since he had eaten a warm meal. He
knew he had to eat slowly and not be a glutton, otherwise he’d bring it all up to waste. The road had been long, but uneventful, with nothing but gibbet trees and way stones to mark most of it. The odd inn had appeared by the side of the road, but he’d avoided them, with thoughts of the last one, and Dignaaln, haunting him whilst skirting around the dangers they presented; the mounted patrols he’d seen and narrowly avoided.

  His nights had been spent off the road, without fire, and it had taken more than a couple of days to manage to wake before the palomino’s morning ablutions. Much of the route had been flanked on the right by a distant forest and on the left by low hills and fields scattered with distant farms and hamlets and the odd village, their Samorlian church spires pointing to the sky like giant, dead, branchless conifers.

  Cheung appreciated the open spaces he’d travelled through. It had given him time to clear his head; meditation had come to him, eventually, from within the saddle. He had learnt to trust the horse early on, which allowed him to fade from the world and find his centre once more.

  Mopping up the last of his soup with stale bread, Cheung smacked his lips and sat back against the flaking daub of the wall. He could see the whole tavern from where he sat: every brazier, table and smoke filled corner. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Cheung’s eyes settled on a man opposite him. The man’s hood was up, as was Cheung’s, but from the way he scooped at his own bowl with pale fingers, Cheung knew he was Eatrian.

  It’s not uncommon, Cheung thought, scanning the tavern again before settling once more on the hooded figure. His hand dropped to his satchel, its presence a comfort. We’re not the only two in here with hoods up, either. A lardy man on a nearby table wore his long-tailed hood up, the embroidered mantle of it crenelated like the stone teeth of a rampart. And a young man by the door wore a leather hood up, whilst talking to a group of men.

  The bowl on the far side of the room joined the table. The hooded Eatrian looked at Cheung. Shrouded eyes met. Neither moved.