Black Cross

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘Master Bevins, to the palace. Ride swift and don’t stop for anyone, that’s an order,’ Fal said. That’ll intrigue him all the more. ‘Starks, keep your eyes peeled for anyone looking to stop the coach and don’t think twice about putting a bolt through them, understood?’ Starks nodded, his jaw clenched with determination.

  Fal quickly climbed into the cab. The coach lurched forward and through the opening gates, turning left onto the cobbled street heading towards Kings Avenue and on towards the palace.

  ***

  Exley Clewarth had just finished explaining all he'd heard whilst above Fal’s home, to the Grand Inquisitor, who sat behind his ancient desk like an overly-fed tavern landlord. Horler Comlay had tried to interrupt several times, just to be silenced by the Grand Inquisitor, who'd held his hand aloft, wanting to hear every detail of what Exley had to say.

  Horler was furious, but didn’t dare undermine the other Witchunter General in front of their master, especially when he seemed to be currently held in such high regards due to his findings.

  After Exley’s explanation of what he'd heard Fal and Errolas talking about, including the names of those responsible for the arcane magic – Lord Severun and Master Orix, much to the Grand Inquisitor’s glee – the large man had only one thing to say, and he said it with a venomous tone, almost salivating at the victory he could now foresee.

  ‘Let them burn!’

  Both witchunter generals smiled.

  Pleased with his findings, Exley Clewarth bent and kissed the hand of the Grand Inquisitor, before turning to leave. Horler Comlay, however, did not.

  ‘You have more to add, General Comlay?’

  Exley Clewarth clenched his teeth and gripped the hilt of his rapier. He knew Horler Comlay well enough to know the man would always try to upstage him in any way he could. Turning back to face the Grand Inquisitor, Exley hid his frustration well, and calmly awaited what his counterpart had to say.

  ‘That I do, sire, although I fear it is not good news.’

  Oh, perhaps this is worth hearing after all, Exley thought, a smile almost revealing itself.

  ‘Continue, General Comlay,’ the Grand Inquisitor said.

  ‘One of my witchunters has been tracking two city guardsmen in Park District, who seem to be investigating the deaths of the merchant and his agent – the latter at my hand, as you well know, sire.’

  The Grand Inquisitor’s nostrils flared as his fat hands curled into tight fists. He paused for a moment before replying. ‘You assured me your man in the City Guard had assigned no one to investigate those murders, General Comlay?’

  Horler nodded. ‘Aye, sire, that's true. However, the two mentioned aren’t just any guardsmen, the two in question are…’

  ‘Go on,’ Exley said, enjoying Horler’s discomfort.

  Looking sideways at Exley with murderous intent, Horler Comlay continued. ‘They’re not your usual guardsmen, sire. They’re never assigned duties, but choose their own, it seems. The witchunter who has been following them has made enquiries and it seems Captain Prior leaves them to their own devices.’

  The Grand Inquisitor looked confused as he spoke. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because, sire, of their results.’ Horler shifted uncomfortably. ‘They choose their investigations themselves and they always solve the cases they choose.’

  The Grand Inquisitor was growing visibly angrier and Exley Clewarth found it harder to hide his amusement and delight at his counterpart’s plight.

  ‘So you are telling me, General Comlay, the City Guard’s two finest detectives are on the case of a murder you had a hand in, which is also linked to the dark deeds we are working towards thwarting without the City Guard’s knowledge?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call them the finest, nor detectives—’

  The Grand Inquisitor stood swiftly – for him at least – and slammed his meaty fists on the desk before shouting, ‘And what would you call them then, Horler?’

  Despite Horler’s authoritative fear of the Grand Inquisitor, Exley could tell that, for the briefest of moments, the fat man standing opposite Horler had come as close as he'd ever come to death. Great restraint held Horler firm however, and he answered the question through gritted teeth.

  ‘On all accounts provided to me, sire, they’re nothing but damned and unbelievably lucky.’

  Seeing the Witchunter General’s anger barely hidden, the Grand Inquisitor, far from a brave man, took his seat once more. Dabbing his sweated brow with an embroidered handkerchief, he gave his final words on the matter. He wanted to correct the General, tell him there was no such thing as luck, that Sir Samorl had a plan for everything and he should know better, but since General Comlay was on the edge of violence as it was… and since he didn’t fully believe his own dogma anyway, he let it go.

  ‘Have someone deal with them, General Comlay, and make it happen before their luck leads them to you and our investigation.’

  Horler Comlay simply nodded and left the room, leaving the offered hand of the Grand Inquisitor hovering.

  Cursing his luck, Exley Clewarth crossed the room and kissed the bejewelled hand for a second time, before turning and following Horler from the room.

  Chapter 14: Kings Avenue

  From a narrow side street, a black carriage with the heraldry of the Wizards and Sorcery Guild clattered noisily across the dapple-shaded cobbles and out onto Kings Avenue. The black-cloaked driver cracked his whip and the young crossbowman next to him almost fell backwards as the coach accelerated. People stopped and pointed as the coach raced by at an unusually high speed compared to the other coaches and carts trundling along. One pedestrian cursed loudly as he jumped out of the way, whilst another shook his fist and shouted abuse at the driver.

  The driver was following orders not to stop for anyone, although he didn’t know why. He knew enough about his masters, however, to know they wouldn’t give him such an order without good reason. He cracked his whip again and the two bay mares – muscles working harder than they were used to – surged on into a canter, striding towards the looming towers of the palace as their metal-shod hooves struck stone, echoing off the tall buildings to either side.

  The driver’s heart pounded as he steered the two beasts, his mind racing as he wondered why Starks, the lad next to him, had been placed as crossbow rider on a through-city route. Something was afoot, he was sure, what with the sickly smell of burning flesh filling Tyndurris’ courtyard before the coach had embarked on its mad dash through Wesson.

  Alas, before he could think anything else about the strange situation, Casson Bevins’ fast beating heart stopped dead as a crossbow bolt thudded through his black cloak, his linen shirt and his chest, to silence the beating muscle inside.

  Casson’s body slumped to the side and he fell from the coach, his clenched fists taking the reins and whip with him. The horses swerved violently to the left and the two mares ploughed through an elderly couple walking down the path, their bodies causing the coach to buck wildly as it bounced over them.

  The coach’s front left corner, where Casson Bevins had been sitting, collided with one of the large oaks lining the avenue. Wood splintered and an almighty crash turned all heads in the vicinity towards the scene of destruction. Servants and residents rushed to their windows as the black coach crumpled into the ancient tree before flipping over onto its right hand side.

  Starks was thrown clear of the wreckage as the coach flipped, and the two bay mares broke free of their harness, breaking into a wild gallop up the footpath and on towards the palace. People cried out and dived to all sides trying to avoid the large beasts. One man was knocked back and trampled under hoof as he failed to move out of the way in time. Others shouted at the sight and ran to the man’s aid, whilst more people ran towards the couple who'd been ridden down before the coach had struck the tree.

  They soon turned and fled however, as men in black cloaks ran from the nearest side street and more climbed from the doors of another coach opposite
the wreck. They carried a mixture of crossbows and rapiers, with one man carrying both, his crossbow small and obviously intended for one handed use.

  A young man still made his way towards the couple who'd been ridden down, despite the arrival of the men with weapons drawn. He refused to run away and leave the elderly couple who he hoped may still be alive. He was rewarded with a small bolt from the handheld crossbow which thumped into his back. The man stumbled and fell to his knees. He swayed briefly before slumping forward onto the mangled mess of the already dead man and wife.

  Starks rolled around onto his back. One of his legs felt strange and his vision was blurred in one eye; the red blur and the dampness on his scalp indicated he’d cut his head badly. He looked around at the smashed coach on its side, shaking his thumping head at the destruction caused. Looking around further, Starks saw the men in black cloaks, their weapons drawn. He crawled desperately for his crossbow lying a couple of feet away. He prayed – although he'd never believed himself a religious man – his crossbow was undamaged.

  His silent prayers were answered and the bow was remarkably still drawn, yet the bolt had flown from the loading groove. He quickly drew another from the pouch on his belt, fitted it to the crossbow and lifted the weapon, pointing it roughly towards the nearest figure, who was approaching him at speed.

  Without consciously aiming, Starks squeezed the trigger underneath the crossbow and the weapon released the bolt with a crack. The white feathered bolt whipped out and plunged into the oncoming man’s stomach. The black-clad man was propelled backwards, his rapier flying from his hand as he hit the ground hard. He let out a horrific cry, before rolling onto his side and curling up where, if unattended, he would die a slow and painful death.

  Someone shouted and Starks noticed another man, dressed in black, point his way. He too had a rapier drawn, but the man he was shouting to held a crossbow similar to Starks’ own.

  Both Starks and the other crossbowman started to span their unloaded bows, ready to place bolts into the arming grooves. Starks panicked. His hands shook and he now saw the man who'd shouted the order to kill him running his way, rapier held at the ready. Starks managed to span the bow and fumble into place another bolt, just in time to release it with another crack into his nearest attacker’s throat. The man gurgled for breath as he hit the cobbled floor hard. Starks rolled sideways in a rushed defensive manoeuvre, waiting for the dull thump of the iron tipped bolt surely speeding towards him.

  A scream dared Starks to look back; his opponent with the crossbow had dropped to one knee, a long, white feathered arrow protruding from his back. The man tried to reach around, to grab at it, dropping his weapon as he did so, but it was wedged solidly between his shoulder blades. A few more grasps at the long shaft and then he collapsed face down; crimson rivulets slowly spread out between the cobbles.

  About a dozen men in black remained, including the downed and groaning man with Starks’ bolt in his stomach. There was no one other than them in the immediate area now, as most of the people who would have been helping the coach had fled – all but a couple of onlookers who'd been shot by the attackers.

  All of the men, bar two, looked around for whoever had shot Starks’ opponent, forgetting Starks in the process. Starks took the opportunity to crawl painfully back to the crossbow he'd rolled away from as fast as his leg and dizzy, throbbing head would allow. The two men who weren’t looking for the mystery archer rushed for the coach. They didn’t try to get inside once there, but crouched to strike flint on steel. One of them was successful and lit a cloth-wrapped stick, which he proceeded to drag across the side of the splintered coach, attempting to set the cab on fire. As he did so, another long, white feathered arrow thudded this time into the torch wielder’s head. Starks saw the arrow tip appear suddenly through the front of the man’s face as he slumped against the coach, the torch dropping to the floor. As of yet, the coach hadn’t caught light, but the torch still burnt on the floor and was lying by one of the large wooden wheels.

  The second man at the coach dived for the torch whilst the others still shouted and ran around trying to find the hidden archer. Starks managed to reach his crossbow again and successfully spanned it. Placing another bolt on the loading groove, he lifted the weapon and aimed it as best he could with his impaired vision, at the man who grasped for the torch. He squeezed the trigger. As his crossbow cracked and the bolt launched from the groove, another long, white feathered arrow struck Starks’ target, his own bolt hitting the torch wielding man just after the longer arrow. The man spun with the dual impacts before slumping dead over his companion, with both long arrow and short bolt piercing his side.

  The attackers started to panic now as two more white feathered arrows killed another two of their number.

  Two archers. There must be two archers. Starks knew archers were faster at loosing arrows than crossbowmen, but no one could strike two separate targets as fast as he'd just witnessed.

  Fresh shouting, this time from down the avenue, drew Starks’ attention. He saw two city guardsmen running towards the scene. About time too, Starks thought, as his leg began to throb in time with his head. He expected the unknown attackers to flee now, especially as another dropped with an arrow embedded in his face, but he was wrong. Two more men attempted to reach the coach and the flaming torch. They were determined, he gave them that.

  The tallest man, wielding both a handheld crossbow and a rapier, managed to reach the coach. He sheathed his rapier swiftly and picked up the torch. His companion, just two strides behind him, took two arrows to the back. Whoever the archers were, they were good; very good. The tall man threw the torch into the window of the cab facing the sky, turned with his cloak spinning out behind him – which inadvertently caught another arrow in its folds – and ran for the coach on the opposite side of the street. That was the first arrow Starks had seen miss. The rest of the men fled for the coach as the city guardsmen – two of them – reached the wreckage.

  ‘There’s people inside the coach and a lit torch. Hurry!’ Starks shouted.

  One of the guardsmen climbed up on top of the coach, but as soon as he reached for the door handle, a crossbow bolt struck him in his leg. He fell off the coach backwards as he let out a cry.

  The bolt had come from the coach on the far side of the avenue just before it pulled away, the driver clearly armoured under his heavy black cloak as a long shafted arrow glanced off his shoulder. He cracked his whip repeatedly and the coach charged off down the avenue, away from the palace. Two more white feathered arrows struck the coach as it left, but neither managed to penetrate the rear of the wooden cab.

  Starks looked back to the coach wreck, where the second guardsman was attempting to open the door after climbing on top. He pulled away from the door's window as flames suddenly licked out at him.

  Starks and the guardsman on the coach both gasped in fear for those inside.

  As soon as the guardsman pulled back and Starks saw the flames, a loud whoosh erupted from the coach as a jet of water shot like a geyser from the door, extinguishing the flames within. The guardsman fell backward and only just managed to stay on top of the coach before regaining his balance and reaching for the open door. The water stopped as suddenly as it started and began to fall back to the ground as a light rain.

  Someone else shouted then and Starks immediately recognised the name being called.

  ‘Fal… Falchion?’ An archer approached from across the avenue, yew bow in hand and a scout quiver of long, white feathered arrows on his back. Close behind him ran another tall figure carrying a re-curve bow and a similar quiver to the first man’s, also holding long shafted, white feathered arrows.

  Starks realised the second archer was an elf. The guardsman on top of the coach reached down into the cab and lifted out a small bearded gnome in sodden robes.

  Master Orix. Starks sighed with relief.

  Orix was passed down to the tall human archer who Starks now recognised as Sav, a border scout and a
known friend of Fal’s. Orix had a bright red face and seemed to be cursing and muttering under his breath. Sav climbed up on top of the coach and helped the guardsman lift out a similarly soaked Severun and Fal.

  Fal quickly looked around and pointed to Starks as soon as he saw him. He said something to the elf by his side, who immediately ran over and knelt by the injured crossbowman.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ The elf’s voice was soft and pleasant.

  Starks shook his head, his mouth slightly open. He'd seen half-elves before, but although they occasionally venture into Wesson, he'd never seen a true elf.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Errolas smiled as he moved to lift Starks to his feet.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ Starks said quickly. ‘My leg, sire, I think it’s broken.’ Starks patted his leg and immediately wished he hadn’t. The adrenaline had clearly left his system.

  ‘Just stay still and we will sort you out as soon as possible.’ Errolas held out a hand to stay the young man. ‘You did well today, I’d like to see you shoot when not blinded by blood and crawling about with a broken leg.’ Errolas smiled again, stood and ran back over to the group at the coach.

  Starks couldn’t help but grin to himself despite the pain. He'd impressed an elf and was already thinking about how best to tell the story at his local tavern.

  ‘Is everyone alright?’ Fal looked around at the chaotic scene. ‘How’s Starks… the crossbowman?’ he asked Errolas, as the ranger came running back to them.

  ‘He has a broken leg and taken a bad knock to the head, but he should be fine. He saved your lives, you know? We would have been too late if he hadn’t acted so swiftly.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to remember that, and thanks to you two, too.’ Fal clasped both Errolas and Sav by the shoulders. ‘I notice both your arrows around here.’