Black Guild

by J. P. Ashman

  Before either could make sense of it, the group by the door shifted as half a dozen men-at-arms in green and white livery entered the tavern. Their eyes darted here and there, hands working the hilts of swords, hammers and axes by their sides. The lead man, a knight for sure, wore a dog-faced bascinet, visor clipped up, the others nothing more than maille coifs and padded caps, if that. They looked hard, these men, not like the lazy gate guards, but veterans all.

  With his right hand, Cheung found a bone handle in his satchel, which he used to pull the bag across his lap, bringing the second kama into range of his left hand. He slowed his breathing and sat a little straighter, watching as the bascinet wearing knight leading the group beckoned a tavern girl over. Hushed words were exchanged and a slender hand pointed towards the hooded Eatrian opposite Cheung. The hood gave a subtle shake of the head, its meaning directed at Cheung, who nodded in return and sat back. His stomach churned at what was to come. Masters forgive me…

  Soldiers moved.

  An assassin responded.

  A table flipped onto a brazier, sparks reaching out to people and flames licking high and wide. Burning logs and embers caused screams and curses both. The sudden flash was followed by a darkening of the corner and Cheung watched as his fellow guild member used the confusion to his advantage; he didn’t even attempt to flee.

  Visor up, the knight shouted orders at his men and drew his sword, holding it with both hands, hilt and blade. He stood firm by the door as the others shoved patrons aside and rushed for the unarmed assassin. People scrambled to get across the room. Another table went over, along with stools, benches and pots of ale. A small lapdog yapped from off to the side, unseen. The tavern keeper yelled and his girls shrieked.

  Reaching the moving assassin, the closest soldier reached for the Eatrian’s robes to halt any attempt at an escape. The robes came free and were followed by a pale, scarred hand. The soldier dropped his falchion and fell back, both hands clutching his crushed windpipe.

  ‘I want him dead!’ the knight shouted, advancing towards the confusion. ‘He mustn’t escape.’

  Bare feet flicked and hands flashed across angry faces. An axe missed completely, thwacking into a table. A hastily swung hammer smashed into a retreating bystander, dropping him hard to the ale soaked floor.

  Cheung watched a knee break and the hammer wielder go down, face a picture of agony. The assassin held no weapons but his pale hands and feet. He struck left and right, whilst parrying incoming iron. Cheung’s grip on his weapons tightened as the axe man dropped to one knee and hooked his blade around the assassin’s leading leg. Before the soldier could pull, the leg flicked out, connecting with his face.

  Teeth clattered across the floor and a choking groan added itself to the cacophony. People scattered as the fight moved across the tavern. Most made for the door, pushing and shoving to fit through the small opening.

  Standing, Cheung moved with the crowd. To stay was to draw attention – he would have been the only one to do so. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the assassin dispatch another soldier, before facing the last, who was now backed by the advancing knight.

  The crowd pressed in on Cheung, forcing him to the door, but he held on long enough to turn and look back one more time. Cheung saw, despite the gloom and chaos as he was pushed and pulled backwards through the door, the relief on his guild brother’s face as they locked eyes. He also saw the shock and pain in those eyes as the knight stepped in and ran the assassin through.

  Cursing, Cheung made for the stable. The fight drew more and more people, until Cheung was fighting against a tide of wool, linen, felt and the people it covered. He shoved on through, all elbows and fists. Curses followed, audible, about his rudeness and his smell, but no one was brave enough to do anything about it. Either that, or they were too curious as to what was drawing the crowd.

  ‘Get me a cleric!’

  Cheung grimaced as he heard the knight’s voice above all others.

  ‘I’ve men down,’ the knight continued, at the top of his voice, ‘and they’re bloody heroes!’

  Jumping atop a stone water trough, Cheung risked a look back over the bobbing caps and hoods flocking to the tavern. He wished he hadn’t as the knight lifted a severed head. ‘So ends an assassin!’ he shouted, face spattered with blood.

  The crowd cheered as more arrived, as if a flood.

  Masters forgive me, but I thought I was the only one to be sent.

  Teeth clenched with renewed determination, Cheung moved on.

  Chapter 35 – Renewed resolve

  Terrina’s breaths sounded loud in the mask her brother had worn. She didn’t like how it affected her vision, poor on the periphery, but she did like, no… love, how it widened the eyes of those that saw it; of those that saw it alongside the red-raw mask of Rapeel, walking alongside her. He’d done well, for a street-assassin. Nowhere near as able as Blanck was… had been. Terrina snarled. Despite whatever it was Poi Son gave us, I feel Rapeel slowing me in a fight. But he’ll get there, eventually.

  Terrina shuddered, her muscles swelling, rippling beneath her scar-patterned skin. Teeth ground, nose wrinkled. He’ll learn, or he’ll be left behind. She glanced left, looked left, the mask obscuring her glance. Framed by her brother’s mask, she looked upon the red, grimacing visage of Rapeel’s false face… although it looked more akin to his burnt features than her brother’s mask did hers. A shiver ran up her back at the thought of Rapeel’s wounds, her wounds, her late brother’s wounds and death… by her own hand. Rapeel looked back, his eyes visible through the holes, visible and set as hard and cold as Terrina’s own.

  Terrina looked forward once more, saw a man run from their path. She smiled. A humourless thing, and for no one but herself, it being hidden and all.

  Hissing, she found the hilts of her stilettos and broke into a mad dash, after the fleeing stranger. Reaching him with ease, she drove her blades into his back, dropping him to the floor where he coughed and cried together, a mangled, strangled attempt at some noise anyway; in fear more than pain, Terrina considered.

  On she walked, calmed through the violent act, her steps accompanied by a double thud, the man’s whimpering silenced.

  Rapeel was alongside her once more. Neither bothered to sheath their blooded blades. They ploughed on, Terrina increasing their speed, scattering folk as they made their way to their rendezvous with Pangan and the watchers; impatient, Terrina wanted to ask what striking Mistress Bronwen’s poison pad had to do with slashing Longoss and his green-haired bitch to pieces.

  ***

  It felt different now, but Cheung knew he had to harden himself to it. Wiping away the blood from a fresh cut across his ankle, he rode the palomino across Rowberry’s wide, house-lined bridge. His scarred face was shaded by the wide brimmed straw hat he now wore. His urine soaked robes were gone and he wore the common braes, hose and shirt seen on most of the men about him. He had a well-worn jerkin rolled and tied to the saddle and a flea infested cloak wrapped about his satchel.

  He thought about the previous owner of the clothes, before pushing the brutal scene from his head. Anger wasn’t something Cheung had been used to before the start of his journey. Not like he’d felt just now, at the sight of one of his guild brothers falling, anyway. At least he used it to his advantage; the stabling of the Palomino had cost him nothing, nor had the clothes.

  A group of scantly-dressed girls called out to him as he rode past, commenting on his fine steed, amongst other things. He knew what they were about. It wasn’t as if there weren’t whores in Eatri, but Cheung had never had the inclination or curiosity of most men in that respect. He presumed the masters had seen to that long ago.

  He longed for the open road once more. If he couldn’t have the rooftop gardens of his home city, he would rather have the fields and woodlands of Altoln, compared to the crowded town and its crooked houses perched on a bridge.

  Once across the wide river, Cheung guided the horse to a busy gatehouse. The
large, central gate was open to horses and carts, the two smaller doors to either side funnelled those on foot. It was far busier than the gate he’d used to enter the town through, as had been the town this side of the river.

  More guards, Cheung thought, eyeing the black and white clad men talking to a group of merchant travellers. As he approached, the closest one raised a hand without looking. The man was intent on a woman walking through one of the side doors, so Cheung made the best of it.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ Cheung said, in the trader tongue.

  The man turned. ‘You don’t speak Altolnan?’

  Cheung bit back a retort. If I didn’t, what would be the point of asking that whilst speaking it? He shrugged instead. ‘Trader tongue?’

  The guard turned his head, offering his ear, frowning as he did.

  ‘Trader,’ Cheung sounded out. He glanced across as the woman from the small gate passed. The guard’s eyes caught her and followed. A hand waved.

  Pathetic. Cheung waved back and rode on through the gate. ‘But fortuitous,’ he whispered, in Altolnan.

  Chapter 36 - Fun and revelations

  ‘Ye well, lass?’ Longoss took hold of Coppin’s arm, felt the dampness of the linen sleeve. It wasn’t a cold day, it being summer and all, but nor did it warrant such sweat. They were in a shaded alleyway after all.

  Coppin nodded but didn’t meet his eyes.

  Longoss frowned. He glanced around the corner, watched as Severun and Egan knocked on a freshly painted red door on the well-to-do Guild District street they’d travelled to. He ducked back and looked at Coppin, who looked away.

  ‘Lass?’

  ‘What?’ Coppin snapped.

  Cheeks filled with air, Longoss shook his head, released his breath and looked back around the corner. Severun and Egan were gone, red door closing.

  ‘Ye ready, lass?’

  ‘Get on with it, will ye.’

  ‘King’s teeth, Coppin.’ Longoss turned and took Coppin’s shoulders in his big hands. ‘What’s the bloody matter with ye? What’ve I done?’ He’d stooped so they were at eye level with one another. He forced her to look at him, firmly but with care.

  Coppin swallowed and licked dry lips. She blinked, a lot, and sobbed as the big man pulled her close, wrapping his arms about her, his chin on her head.

  ‘Gods, ye stink,’ she said, bringing a chuckle from her own lips.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘I know. There,’ Longoss said, Coppin’s hair tickling his chin, ‘I’ve admitted that I stink. Now admit what vexes you?’

  Coppin looked up, the movement pushing Longoss’ head back. ‘Vexes?’

  Longoss shrugged, pulled his hand back to scratch at his ear-hole. ‘Heard Severun saying it.’

  ‘Doesn’t suit ye, Longoss.’

  He looked down, eyes narrow. ‘Quit skirting the question. Tell me what—’

  ‘Vexes me?’

  Gold shone. Longoss nodded and Coppin sighed, rubbed at her eyes and turned to look back down the alley at the sound of a door slamming.

  Both Coppin and Longoss jumped as a first-floor shutter left its frame and shattered against the wall opposite, falling to the ground as white smoke billowed from the hole left behind.

  ‘That’s us.’ Coppin left Longoss and ran around the corner, to the red door.

  Longoss sighed and followed, jaw bunching.

  Egan stepped back, avoiding the slashing cleaver the brute of a man he’d thrown the glass of wine at wielded. Another swing and the brute’s face reddened to match the wine stain across his shirt. His anger and frustration caused him to flail as Egan leaned this way and that, avoiding rather than parrying the hasty attacks. Egan was surprised this wasn’t one of Poi Son’s street-assassins, since he acted the same as many Egan had faced since setting out on the mission. The brute was dressed better, spoke better, but was still a useless thug.

  As the brute roared and launched himself forward, Egan hopped to the side, rolled his rapier over and forced steel through linen, skin, muscle and heart. He felt the scrape of ribs through the hilt, through his palm and fingers. He withdrew the blade with a squelch as the large man crashed to the floor, dismantling a wooden stool in the process. He didn’t move after that, apart from spasmodic twitching.

  Egan opened the door Severun had gone through and a wall of white smoke filled his vision and assaulted his nose. Not wood-smoke, not oil-smoke; he didn’t recognise the smell and assumed it to be Severun’s work, along with the bang that had sprung him to action.

  ‘Severun?’ Egan said, in the way people do when trying to shout quietly.

  ‘Come in.’ Severun’s calm voice came from the smoke whitened room.

  Egan turned from the door, took a deep breath and strode in, rapier held defensively. The room was beginning to clear as a shutter-less window drew out the acrid cloud. A tall silhouette greeted Egan, accompanied by Severun’s voice once more.

  ‘It is done.’

  ‘Just like that?’ Egan frowned, doubtful.

  ‘Just like that.’ Severun’s features became clear, as did the destruction of the room, of the vials and bottles and tubes and barrels; crates and chests and racks upon racks of shredded books and scrolls.

  Egan’s mouth hung upon. He’d forgotten the smell, the taste of the smoke. ‘What was this place?’

  Severun looked about, wafting his hand in front of his face. ‘The Black Guild’s centre for potions and spells. Very impressive indeed. Most of it arcane, of course.’

  Egan saw Severun shudder at the word, despite the white shroud about them. ‘And it’s not Poi Son’s place? I mean the thug outside was little different to one of his street-assassins, but I don’t know the inner workings of the Black Guild.’

  ‘Apparently not.’ Severun moved over to a corpse, crouching and placing a hand on the unmoving chest. He pulled his lips into a tight smile. ‘Not according to this here mage.’

  Egan took two steps to close the gap between him, Severun and the corpse. He looked at the woman, dressed more like a handmaiden than a mage. ‘Whose, if not Poi Son’s?’ Egan whispered, crouching alongside Severun. Their eyes met.

  ‘Mistress Bronwen’s.’

  Egan frowned. ‘I’ve heard that name.’ He searched his memory, but came up blank.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Severun looked back to the dead woman before them. There were no visible wounds. ‘The witchunters of Wesson hunted her for decades.’ There was an eerie silence between them after the words. ‘So has the Wizards and Sorcery Guild.’

  ‘And this is her?’ Egan looked to the middle-aged woman, the lines on her face shallow, her features relaxed. She literally hadn’t known what hit her.

  Severun barked a laugh and stood. ‘No, Egan. This is one of her apprentices.’ He looked to Egan as the man stood. ‘If this was Mistress Bronwen and I’d enacted the spell I did here…’ he took a deep breath, looked about the room, out the window and back to Egan. ‘This block would have been levelled, I would think.’

  Egan squeezed the hilt of his rapier. I’m not sure I believe that, but I get the point. ‘Scary thought,’ he said, turning and leaving the room. He heard two sets of footsteps ascending the stairs. He made ready, then relaxed as Longoss and Coppin appeared.

  ‘Is it done?’ Longoss frowned as he looked to the brute’s corpse.

  Coppin cast her eyes about, knife at the ready.

  Egan nodded. ‘It’s done, apparently. There were only two here.’

  Longoss screwed his whole face up. ‘That seems odd. Ye sure this is the place, Severun?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Severun emerged from the haze of the next room. ‘A guard and a mage.’

  ‘Seems easy indeed.’ Coppin sheathed her knife.

  ‘This is Mistress Bronwen’s place,’ Severun said to Longoss. ‘You said it was the guild’s centre for magic and I’ve confirmed it. I doubt Mistress Bronwen operates the same way as Poi Son though, hence the lack of street-assass
ins and young thugs. Hence the ease of it.’

  Longoss nodded slowly. ‘Makes sense. She’s more about political assassination, or so I hear. A drop of poison, a spell to stop ye waking, and so on.’

  ‘You knew it was Mistress Bronwen that ran this place?’ Egan asked, a little annoyed he’d not been given all the information.

  Longoss shrugged. ‘I know she’s mistress of the guild. I didn’t know for sure whether this was one of her places. Magic was never my thing.’

  Egan grunted at that, only slightly satisfied with Longoss’ answer. Is this what he wanted? To move from targeting Poi Son to targeting Bronwen?

  ‘Least we know the boy watcher were telling the truth.’ Coppin turned from the sight of the dead man. ‘We can use him again.’

  Egan shook his head. ‘It’s too risky to go back to him. We’ve made a statement here, to Bronwen or whoever. She’ll know something is afoot when she finds our handy work and questions Poi Son about it. Don’t you think?’

  Severun looked to Egan. ‘If she hasn’t already, considering what we’ve been seeing on the streets; considering the places we moved against that have already been hit? The places we assumed were due to the aftermath of the plague and increased gang activity? I may have made waves in what I’ve been doing with you, against the Black Guild. I may have triggered something between Bronwen and Poi Son. Unintentionally, of course, and I can’t be sure.’

  Egan balked at that, wondering how quickly such waves would travel, be picked up on and acted on. He noticed Longoss grin gold.

  ‘Severun may be right,’ Longoss said, ‘although, if Bronwen knew Poi Son had a contract on King Barrison, a political contract, there’d be less signs and more… all-out war. It’s more likely Coppin and me caused the current conflict, as intended.’

  They froze, all of them, at the sound of shouting coming from the street. A loud thud and another. A scream followed.

  The group looked at each other.