by J. P. Ashman
Inquisitor Makhell cried out as the barbed spike plunged into his left shoulder, snagging and jolting all the way. He screamed all the more when Ellis Frane removed it slowly.
‘I hate you, all of you!’ the royal scribe shouted. ‘For what you’ve done to them, to me… for what you’ve turned me into!’ He stabbed the inquisitor again, several times in the same shoulder as before.
Tears running down his face, Inquisitor Makhell coughed repeatedly, struggling to take in a breath.
Ellis Frane stepped back, breathing heavily as he looked at the mess he’d made of the man’s shoulder; shredded muscle and tendons barely allowing the arm to hold onto the body which hung from it.
‘Why would you want ancient riddles about the Wizards and Sorcery Guild’s tower, Tyndurris? What could it gain your church?’
The inquisitor said nothing as his head hung low, his chest rising and falling with the ragged breaths he was drawing in after his coughing fit. He jumped, however, when Ellis Frane stepped in close and flashed the spike across his vision.
‘Access,’ he said, almost as quiet as a breath.
‘To what? Tyndurris?’
Inquisitor Makhell nodded weakly.
‘For what purpose? Ellis Frane shouted. ‘You stretched me for a damned riddle…why?’
‘You think,’ the inquisitor said, struggling to lift his head as he spoke, ‘any of this will make a difference? That those guardsmen will come back for you? That my men won’t break down your barricade first and rip you to pieces for what you’ve done to me?’
Ellis Frane glanced to his hastily erected barricade across the door then, his thoughts switching to the two men who'd said they would come back for him. He'd heard fighting for quite some time after they'd left the room, but it had seemed like a lifetime since they'd gone and he genuinely feared the worst for them.
‘They’re dead, you fool,’ the inquisitor said, a leering grin stretching his bloody mouth as he stared at the royal scribe, who’s fears were plain to see. ‘It won’t be long before I am missed and my men break through here, and when they—’
The inquisitor gurgled and then tried to cough as the barbed spike was jammed into his throat.
‘And when they do,’ Ellis Frane whispered, his face almost touching Inquisitor Makhell’s, whose life was draining from his open throat, ‘they’ll see what revenge looks like before they take me.’
***
A bloody corpse in a yellow gambeson with a black griffon rampant emblazoned on its unmoving chest lay on the cold stone of the main archway into Wesson’s prison. A bell rang, its clear tone sounding twice, then pausing before sounding twice again as it called the internal guards to the main gate. The sound of metal on metal ringing out and echoing around the stone walls of the courtyard accompanied the sound of the bell.
A young runner who'd brought a letter to the prison’s Castellan from the Lord High Constable, faltered as he reached the prison’s external gate, a small crossbow bolt embedded deep in his right thigh. The young man collapsed after bravely struggling on two or three steps towards the freedom of Executioners Square, beyond where he'd hoped to rouse the City Guard.
He nearly passed out as he pulled the bolt free from his leg. Doing the best to cope with the agony the action caused, he attempted to crawl onwards, dragging a dark red stain across the cobbles as he went.
As he struggled to pull himself through the opening, using the weight of the slightly open gate to drag himself across the hard ground, another bolt slammed into the back of his head, splitting the links of his maille coif and his skull after that.
The witchunter responsible turned to find a new target to loose his small but deadly bolts at.
Sir Bullen had been summoned to his prison’s gate, where a Witchunter General stood with a small force of Samorlian warriors. It had been the second Witchunter General in as many days. The first had come in search of an imprisoned sergeant-at-arms from Tyndurris, just to find the guild’s sergeant had escaped hours before and so he, with two of his men and two more of Sir Bullen’s, had disappeared down the same tunnels as the escapees and never returned.
Sir Bullen had sent men down to search for the witchunter and his men, but had known it was hopeless. He'd done the same after the sergeant-at-arms’ escape, and now… now he had another jumped up Witchunter General stood in his courtyard with a large group of men in tow. He'd hoped that, with the recent letter sent from the Duke of Yewdale, he would have been able to turn away the Samorlians without the use of force.
Alas, the letter had failed and the Witchunter General had insisted, quite aggressively, that he had a mission to carry out and no one was to stand in his way. Sir Bullen and his men, however, had done just that, and for that the young knight was proud.
Sir Bullen’s crossbowmen and men-at-arms had initially dropped eight Samorlian warriors as they stormed the archway that opened out into the main courtyard of the prison, but the skirmish had swiftly changed direction for the worse.
Sir Bullen now stood with the last six of his men, young Andrel amongst them, their backs to the outside of the prison’s door as the Castellan faced the Witchunter General himself.
‘Stand aside, Bullen,’ Exley Clewarth said. His face was spattered with fresh blood, and his right hand brandished an equally soiled rapier.
Sir Bullen spat at the Witchunter General’s feet. ‘It’s Lord Castellan to you, witcher!’ His six remaining men took heart at the act of defiance. Sir Bullen was counting on it.
Exley Clewarth grinned viciously as his men slowly moved forward. ‘Very well Lord Castellan, I would rather not shed any more blood, but you leave me little choice.’
The young knight shook his head and pointed his broadsword at his enemy. ‘The Lord High Constable gave me strict orders not to admit any more witchunters or their men, and I will stand by that order to the end.’ Sir Bullen shifted his weight from one leg to the other and hefted the heater shield he'd been handed by his squire just before the fight broke out. The thirteen year old squire now lay dead in the middle of the courtyard, a rapier wound across his throat.
‘To the end it most certainly will be.’ Exley snarled as he and his men lunged forward as one.
A witchunter scored a deadly hit on the prison guard to Sir Bullen’s far right, the man’s padded jack offering no protection against the sharp blade. The body slumped heavily to the ground as the witchunter quickly withdrew his rapier from the dead guard’s chest.
Sir Bullen parried an overhead blow from the Witchunter General with his shield and lunged forward with his broadsword in retaliation.
Exley easily side-stepped the lunge as he skipped across to swing his rapier in again, this time towards the knight’s leading leg. He found his mark but the blade clanged and vibrated as it connected with Sir Bullen’s plated knee. The Witchunter General cursed the armour as Sir Bullen came forward again, crunching his heavy shield into Exley’s shoulder and almost knocking him from his feet. Exley regained his balance just in time to parry another lunge from the much stronger knight.
A cry rang out as two of the prison guards attacked a witchunter that had just shot another of their number with a handheld crossbow. One lunged low as Andrel swung in at head height, his aim proving true as the witchunter attempted to parry the lunge aimed at his stomach. Andrel’s falchion cut roughly through the witchunter’s cheek and deep into his collar bone, dropping the choking man to the floor. The guard who'd lunged, quickly changed direction with his short-sword and thrust it into the fallen man’s chest, before pulling it out to deflect an incoming blow from a warrior monk’s mace.
Sir Bullen pressed Exley while he had the advantage, raining blow after blow towards the Witchunter General, who staggered backwards under the force, his arm growing numb. Fear that his rapier might break under the force of the heavier weapon was almost all he could think about. He took one tremendous blow which forced him to one knee, but managed to use the low posture to roll sideways away from the knight, who
stumbled forward after attempting a downwards chop leaving him unbalanced.
Exley kicked out with his metal studded boot and connected with Sir Bullen’s right knee, which buckled under his own weight. The young knight crashed to the stone floor just as a crossbow bolt took another of his men behind him. The man didn’t scream, for the bolt had lodged in his throat, which gurgled with blood and air as he dropped his axe to bring both hands up in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. The guard slid down the rough stone wall and was dead before he hit the ground. Three were left, their backs to the door, hoping for reinforcements from within.
None would come.
Exley jumped to his feet and brought his rapier down hard at Sir Bullen, the knight’s shield taking the blow just in time. Sir Bullen thrust at Exley’s legs with his broadsword to no avail, whilst the Witchunter General rained blows down upon the splintering shield.
A warrior monk ran into the fray by the door, spinning around a witchunter who tried to find a weak spot in a guard’s defence. The witchunter parried a weak blow coming from a shocked guard with an arming sword and buckler, as the warrior monk crunched an ugly looking mace into the guard’s hip, crippling the man and folding him double. The guard cried out and dropped heavily to the floor, whilst the witchunter in front of him easily parried the short-sword of the downed man’s companion, who tried to defend his fallen comrade. The warrior monk lifted the heavy mace and brought it smashing down onto the fallen guard’s head, rendering him unrecognisable.
Sir Bullen managed to smash away a blow from Exley with enough force to throw the Witchunter General away from him, giving him enough time to roll and push himself to his feet, just before another swipe came in towards his head. He parried with his broadsword this time and almost stumbled as his knee gave way. Two warrior monks appeared by Exley’s side then, and Sir Bullen readied himself for their attack.
Remember your training, he thought, tightening the grip on his shield and rolling his sword arm. Thinking back, he could hear the former Castellan’s voice in his head. Don’t overstep, look to their posture, to their eyes, they’ll give themselves away… you should be able to take each one in no more than three moves, you’ve done it countless times before.
A horrific scream erupted from behind.
One of the prison guards had managed to thrust his short-sword into a warrior monk’s groin – the one who'd dispatched his fallen companion with the terrible mace blow to the head. The monk dropped, screaming like a child, and the satisfaction lit up the guard’s face, until the blade of a witchunter’s rapier split his skull in two.
Andrel died quickly then, overpowered by relentless blows from witchunters and monks alike, as their brother monk lay howling in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
Sir Bullen knew he was surrounded as the Witchunter General visibly relaxed. The young knight had nowhere to turn, each movement he calculated left him open to attack. Although fighting the very people who called themselves His warriors, Sir Bullen said a silent prayer to Sir Samorl and charged forward, ignoring the pain of his right knee. He smashed his shield into the nearest monk’s chest, sending the man skidding over the blood slick cobbles and backwards to crack his un-armoured skull on stone. The blow might have been lucky and one to add to the stories of the local bards, but Sir Bullen would never have the chance to tell of his first real battle, the one where he'd killed more of the Witchunter General’s men than any of the prison guards put together.
Sir Bullen’s sword found its place in the stomach of another warrior monk as he fell forward, his knee giving out once more.
Exley Clewarth took his opportunity and swiftly surged forward to sink his rapier deep into Sir Bullen’s neck, the point breaking the links of the knight’s maille coif to find the flesh and bone beneath.
After a brief flare of agony, all fell silent for the young knight and Castellan of Wesson’s prison. His blood pumped out of the fatal wound and onto the cobbles of his prison’s courtyard, but not before he’d felt pride, in both himself and his men.
***
A multitude of lights flickered from lamps, fires and torches, casting a hazy orange glow beneath the forming clouds now filling the dark sky. The sources of those lights were hidden behind twelve foot high stone walls, which enclosed the river town the humans called Beresford.
Overlooking the ancient, walled town, a larger than average leucrota sniffed the floor by its master’s booted feet, the animal held firm by a thick rope collar and lead.
Leucrotas were strange creatures, more akin to large cats than dogs, although their heads were unmistakeably canine, despite them lacking any recognisable teeth whatsoever. Their slim yet muscular feline bodies gave way to thick set heads, much resembling the hyenas of the Mhvari Desert. What made the leucrota different, however, apart from their feline bodies, were the bone-like ridges lining the inside of their mouths.
Although leucrotas were naturally carrion eating scavengers, goblins favoured them over dogs for their ability to instil fear into other beings from afar. Their otherworldly chatter was said to sound like the whispering of the dead. Goblins used leucrota at night to spook everything from cattle to humans, because once confusion and fear set in, it gave the goblins a much needed advantage to their raids. Alas, that tactic would not work on Beresford, the river town’s protective walls would see to that.
Greater numbers and fire would be needed to bring Beresford to its knees, and the goblin chief who led the approaching war band was confident that, after the victorious battle over the last humans he'd encountered, he could do just that. By morning, the chieftain would be relishing the sound of screaming humans; their men dead, chopped and fed to the leucrota, the children dined on by him and his followers, and the women – the younger prettier ones – brought to him for his pleasure. It would be a good night indeed for his tribe, and he felt safe in the knowledge his force had left the only threat for miles around butchered in the golden fields not half a day’s ride to the north west.
***
Despite a near miss with a group of what Biviano could only imagine were gangers, he'd finally managed to make his way out of Dockside and into Park District, where he’d swiftly found a patrol of city guardsmen.
He’d briefly told them enough of what had happened so the sergeant-at-arms agreed to escort him to Park District’s barracks. Once there, Biviano requested an audience with the captain of the guard. It was with understandable shock he learnt Captain Prior had been taken ill with what was thought to be symptoms of the plague.
With no one to take the captain’s place, Biviano learnt the Constable of Wesson himself was dealing with all of the captain’s duties.
Sometime later, after lots of worrying on Biviano’s part, he was finally granted an audience with the Earl of Stowold.
‘If what you’re telling me is true,’ Stowold said, his eyes boring into Biviano’s for any sign of a lie, ‘then we need to act immediately.’
No shit. ‘I agree, milord.’
‘I don’t give a rat’s shit-hole whether you agree or not, Biviano,’ the Earl snapped. ‘We have enough going on in this city, and almost a third of our own men, in this district alone, are dying or already dead from the plague and resulting riots. If what you say is true though, and I’ve no reason to believe otherwise, then I need to see it for myself.’
Biviano’s eyes widened, but he managed to keep the smile from his face. And here I was hoping to be backed by the captain of the guard, never mind the bloody Constable of Wesson.
‘The Samorlian Church has been ordered to halt all activity by the King himself, and I for one, aren’t going to let the fact they’re ignoring that slide.’ He pulled a thin chain on the wall which rang a bell elsewhere. Both men stood in awkward silence for a few moments before Stowold continued. ‘I’m surprised you left your partner, Biviano. Especially since I hear the captain has never managed to separate the two of you.’
Biviano’s obvious relief at the constable’s agreement to act o
n his news fell from his face as the words left the Earl’s lips. He nodded slowly and scratched under his arm, wincing as he did so before answering. ‘Aye, well Sears wanted to go, sire, and we both knew he was this Elleth girl’s best bet.’
‘Split up over a whore,’ Stowold said, clearly amused, ‘and here I was thinking you two were lovers, by all accounts from Captain Prior that is.’
Biviano bristled, despite it coming from his superior.
‘There’s no ulterior motives with the lass, sire. Sears is saving her as I would’ve done, nothing more. It is also leading us to information regarding the Black Guild, as I already informed you,’ he said, the latter in an upper district accent.
‘Yes, I’m sure it is,’ Stowold said, clearly unconvinced and not missing the accent change either.
‘As for Sears and I,’ Biviano continued, ‘that is absurd! Anyhow, even if I were into blokes,’ he added, back to his lower district accent, ‘ye think I’d want that hairy bastard?’
Stowold laughed and then shook his head in disbelief, never quite knowing what was going on when he was hearing about or dealing with Biviano and Sears. Where are you from anyway Biviano? Come to think of it, I don’t even remember when either of you were recruited by Captain Prior, never mind from where, or who trained you? Before Stowold could voice his questions, his squire appeared at the door.
‘You called, my lord?’ the squire said, replying to the bell Stowold had used.
‘Prepare my armour, weapons and have the stable prepare my horse.’
‘Destrier or town horse, my lord?’
‘Destrier,’ Stowold confirmed.
The boy nodded and turned to leave, stopping just long enough to hear Stowold’s last words. ‘Oh, and send a messenger to Lord Yewdale. Inform him I’m marching on the Samorlian Cathedral, in person.’
‘My lord,’ the squire acknowledged, before leaving the room.