Black Cross

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘And then he invaded us?’ Sav blurted.

  Both Severun and Errolas shook their heads.

  ‘No,’ Errolas said. ‘That is where the Samorlian Church twists the story and most of Altoln’s history on the subject.’

  Severun turned to the elf with the others, wanting to hear the elf’s version.

  ‘Some of what I will tell you,’ Errolas explained, ‘Severun and his guild already know, for they recorded it all as well as we did. It was the Samorlian Church’s interference that stopped them teaching the truth, but the church has never had any power over us.’ Errolas smiled, knowing he had all three – as well as Starks who'd moved his horse closer – hanging on every word. The elf continued then, his voice rising and falling melodically as he told his tale. ‘After the entire nation on the Eastern Planes had been mutated, transformed, whatever you choose to call it, a large number of them, well, small in comparison to the rest, rebelled against their black dragon overlord. They were outraged at what he'd done to them and their people, and outraged at how they were now treated; no better than slaves in their own cities.

  ‘The rebellion was swiftly put down, however, and so they fled. They fled their homeland and headed west in a desperate bid to escape their tormentor and his loyal – probably through fear more than anything else – Naga. The rebels travelled down through the Moot Hills and south of our forests, but not through them, and so we watched the strange creatures we had never seen before rather than engaging them.

  ‘Into Altoln they then travelled, and before long they were met by a human army who attacked without question. The Naga, wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Crackador’s armies as possible, fought back against the attack. After winning the battle, they attempted to move on through Altoln, but although Altoln was a relatively young nation at the time, it was still far larger than the Naga could have anticipated.

  ‘More armies were thrown at the Naga and more armies fell, but every time they were attacked, the Naga were pushed further north, first between Knipewood and Broadleaf Forest and then further still, never able to cross the River Norln. Once past the wetlands and the lakes of this area,’ Errolas waved his arm to encompass all that lay around them, ‘the Naga encountered the largest human army ever to have formed in Altoln.’

  ‘The rebels were trapped,’ he went on, ‘and to make matters worse for everyone, Crackador had arrived with tens of thousands of his own loyal Naga. They came through the very valley your army had pushed the rebels into. Because of this, the rebels took up defensive positions on either side of the valley, hoping your army would not follow. But after human scouts reported a larger host of Naga approaching from the east, entering that very valley, the King of Altoln gave the order to advance.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t have known any better,’ Sav said.

  ‘When the King gave the order, he didn’t,’ Errolas agreed, ‘but my people did. We had learnt the true nature of the rebels shortly after Crackador’s forces had after been spotted, and so moved swiftly to inform the humans. We also managed to make contact with the rebel forces on either side of the valley, declaring our intentions and offering our aid to them. The Naga thankfully agreed, so we stood and fought shoulder to shoulder with them as Crackador’s loyal Naga marched through what is now Naga Pass and ploughed into the Altolnan lines. The humans fought bravely, taking losses in the tens of thousands, whilst both the rebels and the elves attacked the enemy’s flanks.’

  ‘Then Sir Samorl killed Crackador?’ Starks asked excitedly, but both Errolas and Severun shook their heads.

  ‘Not quite,’ Errolas said. ‘It was the combined magic of the human mages and the elf mages that turned the tide in the end.’ Severun nodded proudly as Errolas continued. ‘A group of human mages realised their occasional bursts of magical attacks from different positions within the valley were not enough to defeat Crackador, who continued to slay hundreds of men as the battle raged. The mages hoped that if they concentrated their combined powers, or what remained of them, along with their elven comrades’, and locked that power into the lance of the King’s champion, Sir Samorl, they might stand a chance against the powerful beast.

  ‘Sir Samorl knew then what was needed of him and rode forth with hundreds of knights and men-at-arms at his back. They smashed into the ranks of the Naga and caused such destruction it was hoped it would attract the attention of Crackador himself… It did.

  ‘Brave bastards,’ Sav said, and everyone nodded.

  Errolas nodded along with the rest before he went on. ‘Since I am lucky enough to have been told by our elders who witnessed the act, I know for a fact that when Crackador flew down to wipe out the knights of Altoln, Sir Samorl stood in his stirrups at the front of the continuing charge, raised his lance high and plunged it deep into the wyrm’s chest; an act of true heroism, that much is clear. When that lance and the offensive magic locked into it pierced the great-dragon’s thick scales, the beast is said to have killed many more men and elves with his skull-splitting roar of pain. Despite that, it is said Altoln’s remaining army’s cheer was almost equally as loud. It was then that Crackador, in his last defiance against his victors, tore Sir Samorl from his horse, crushing him in his mighty maw and throwing him across the valley. The great-dragon somehow then found the strength to limp away on torn wings, away to the south where he was seen, as recorded by my kin, passing over the very forest where we are heading.’

  ‘He survived?’ Sav blurted.

  ‘No one truly knows,’ Errolas admitted. ‘He was seen leaving the battlefield by all who still lived and fought on, for the battle raged on for several hours thereafter. He was seriously wounded by the enchanted lance though, that much is known. Sir Samorl died as the legend said, but Crackador most certainly did not, not then anyway, as your church has had people believe ever since.’

  ‘Not my church,’ Sav muttered, and Fal couldn’t help but smile.

  Errolas hid a smirk of his own. ‘And so it was the joint effort of the earliest and founding members of your Wizards and Sorcery Guild,’ he said, nodding to Severun, ‘as well as Sir Samorl, his knights and all who fought that day, including the rebel Naga, that allowed us to succeed. Not just Sir Samorl himself as the church has always portrayed. Hence, Sav, the reason we escorted the rebel Naga safely back to their rightful home, the Eastern Planes, where we know they still exist and thrive to this day.’

  ‘Truly amazing,’ Starks said, and the expressions on both Sav and Fal’s faces mirrored the crossbowman’s sentiment.

  ‘That’s why the Samorlian Church and the Wizards and Sorcery Guild don’t get along,’ Severun said. ‘What a shame all they have done over the centuries almost ruins the efforts and sacrifices of three nations joined together to face one evil.’ Severun shook his head. ‘That’s the version, the truth that should be taught and written throughout Altoln, not their self serving propaganda.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Fal agreed, and the group fell silent, each contemplating what they'd heard as they rode on in the sun, a bittern booming from the reed beds behind them.

  ***

  Darkness strikes such fear into the bravest men, and it was just that, after all he'd been through, that tore at Ellis Frane’s reserves as the final torch died. He'd torn cloth and rags to keep them going as long as he could, but with no oil anywhere in the chamber, whatever he used had burnt quickly.

  The last thing he’d looked at was the barricade as the last of the light faded. He was still surprised no one had come, not to save him for he'd given up on that a long time ago, or so it felt. No, he was surprised no one had come to kill him, or worse.

  Why has no one come to find you, Inquisitor Makhell? I hear voices now and then, albeit from far away down the corridors, but not this one, not down here. Could it be that those two guardsmen, Biviano and Sears, did something up there? Drew everybody away? How could I know? Hope is all that is, I fear. Fear… of the dark, yes, It brings out the worst in all our imaginations. I have
read enough in the palace libraries to know that. Every thought, every horrific thought is manifest in our minds, made all the more real by the lack of other things to be seen, real things. But what is reality, truly? Whatever we believe it to be I suppose. You—

  Ellis Frane laughed.

  You? I talk of a body I created, from a living man. I talk of him as if he can hear me, even after I stole his life for attempting to steal mine, for stealing that of those girls in that room. Well he, he believed Sir Samorl was real and so to him he was, as real as this floor I sit on. What do I believe is real? The bodies I can’t stop imagining walking, the dead coming to tear me to pieces. It plagues the back of my mind because I don’t want it to, because I have nothing to see with my own eyes; nothing to see that is real, so my mind makes my thoughts real. Fear is doing this to me, because I have no other options but to sit here in the pitch black of this torture chamber where horrors are brought to life and my biggest fear, the walking dead, comes to me as my eyes search anything to take my mind from that which my mind thinks I want to see. Well I don’t want to see them. Fear makes me think of scary things, it doesn’t mean I want to see them.

  Ellis Frane sighed, rubbing at his red, smoke irritated eyes. He felt moisture there.

  Pull yourself together man. You’ve been through all this and for what? To fear that which you’ve feared since you were a boy, just because the damned lights went out.

  He laughed again.

  The ironic thing is, that which I want most of all right at this moment, light, if I did see it now, if I got what I crave, it’d most likely be them, coming to kill or torture me… t o r t u r e… again…

  Images flashed across Ellis Frane’s eyes of dead bodies, of his dead body, Inquisitor Makhell, rising from the rack, tearing the ropes free and staggering towards the corner where the royal scribe sat huddled. Ellis Frane shuddered and rubbed at his eyes some more.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ he shouted into the darkness. Silence was his only reply. ‘No, not silence,’ he whispered, as he heard what he thought was raised voices, although he couldn’t be sure any more. ‘Are the bastards coming? The bastards are coming; the bastards are coming, the bastards are coming, the bastards, the bastards…’ Climbing to his feet and keeping the cold wall to his back, Ellis Frane caressed the bloodied spike he’d not been able to cast away after he killed the inquisitor. He took deep breaths, trying to steel himself for what was to come. I will fight back, I will go down fighting like Biviano and Sears likely did.

  Laughing out again, he shook his head, knowing he wouldn’t last long. Every muscle tensed – most painfully – at the sounds of clashing metal. Fighting? Who would be—

  ‘Ellis Frane?’ someone shouted, from somewhere outside the room. ‘We’re coming to get you out!’

  Ellis Frane’s heart raced. ‘Biviano?’ he thought aloud, whilst shaking his head from side to side. His breathing was swift and shallow as he saw the flicker of torchlight through the gaps in his barricade. More clashes of metal and men’s voices. One cried out in pain and then fell silent.

  A curse and a crash of metal on wood.

  ‘Ellis Frane, it’s Biviano, I’m here with Lord Stowold and the City Guard. Are ye there?’

  More crashing of wood and several streams of dust swirled light poured into the room.

  ‘I’m here,’ Ellis Frane said, his voice no more than a horse whisper. Is this real? Is it still dark? My mind… whatever the mind wants you to see is real. This isn’t real, this isn’t real this isn’t real…

  ‘Ellis!’ Biviano shouted again, ‘Ellis Frane?’

  ‘Shit!’ a voice Ellis Frane didn’t recognise shouted, as yet more unknown voices came from the corridor.

  ‘We’ll take ’em,’ someone else said. ‘You two get him out.’

  ‘Cheers, Bolly,’ Biviano said, or so Ellis Frane thought, still shaking his head and not wanting to believe what he was seeing and hearing, in case it was his mind and not reality.

  Not real, not real, not real…

  Wood crashed down and light flooded into the chamber, silhouetting two men, one holding a short-sword and wearing a kettle-helm, one in long robes.

  ‘There he is,’ the armoured one said. ‘Effrin, we need to get him out.’ Both men moved forward, one either side of the rack.

  ‘Back!’ Ellis Frane shrieked, pointing the bloody spike towards the men as someone screamed in the corridor and more weapons clashed.

  ‘Ellis, it’s me, Biviano.’

  An outstretched hand and, finally, a face he could see was real. ‘Biviano,’ Ellis Frane blurted, his words erupting along with uncontrollable sobs. He dropped the spike and fell painfully to his knees as the robed cleric rushed forward, wincing as he grabbed his arms and began pulling him back to his feet. ‘You left me,’ Ellis Frane said between sobs. ‘You left me.’

  ‘I know…’ Biviano reached out and took a fist full of the padded gambeson Sears had given Ellis Frane to keep him warm. ‘I know and I’m so, so sorry.’ Pulling Ellis Frane in close, Biviano wrapped his arms around him. His tears joined that of the man he held and as much as he wanted to magic the man away to safety, keeping him from any more bloodshed, he knew he had to keep moving, he knew they had to fight their way back out.

  Pulling back suddenly, Ellis Frane looked at Biviano, eyes wide. ‘The tower,’ he said, his face streaked with tears.

  Frowning, Biviano looked to Effrin and back. ‘What tower?’

  ‘The Wizards and Sorcery Guild’s, that’s why they wanted me. They’re attacking Tyndurris!’

  Biviano was shaking his head as the man spoke. ‘It’s a riot, but it’s in hand, we’ve heard about—’

  ‘No, I worked it all out. They’re attacking from underneath, the church is attacking Tyndurris from underneath!’

  Looking swiftly to Effrin, who nodded and took Ellis Frane by the arm, Biviano rushed to the doorway, taking in the scene outside as Bollingham walked back up the corridor, the last surviving guardsman of Biviano’s unit.

  ‘The others?’ Biviano asked, fearing the answer.

  Bollingham shook his head. ‘An inquisitor.’

  Biviano closed his eyes briefly. ‘We need to go, Bolly. Now.’

  Bollingham smiled, his teeth bloodstained. ‘Typical, and here I was beginning to enjoy myself.’ He turned about and headed back down the corridor, a bloodied sword in each hand.

  ***

  Edging up to a black crossed door on a deserted Dockside street, Rapeel glanced sideways at his two companions, who were mirroring him on the far side of the door they were sure the renegade assassin was hiding behind.

  Never thought I’d be taking you down, Longoss, but a mark’s a mark, so here we go. Rapeel nodded to his companions.

  Both burly men stepped away from the wall. They looked to one another and nodded, before stepping forward and kicking the door in simultaneously, swiftly stepping away from the splintering wood in case any missiles came out to meet them. They rushed in when it seemed clear to do so, a hafted-axe held by one of the men, a scramasax by the other.

  ‘Empty!’

  Rapeel frowned and hesitated. He pictured the siblings after their run in with Longoss and knew the man’s word not to kill meant nothing, for there were fates far worse than death.

  Steeling himself, he walked through the doorway, again noticing the black cross on the door now hanging from its hinges. I hope you painted that on yourself, Longoss.

  The small room was almost bare. Two chairs, a woollen robe and some bloody rags were the only thing to draw the eye, apart from the hearth rug, which was rolled up on the straw covered floor to one side of a small opening.

  Sewers, what a surprise. Rapeel grimaced at the thought. At least you’ll smell at home down there, you ugly bastard. Hooking his two identical hand axes in his belt and looking to his men, he pointed at the hole. ‘Check it,’ he said, as he crouched by the rags to see how fresh the blood was. It was still sticky, but only just.

  ‘Clear,’
one of Rapeel’s men said, as he stuck his head down the hole.

  Lucky for you, you dick! Rapeel shook his head as he stood and moved back to the door. Looking outside, he whistled down the street and almost immediately a young boy with an extremely large black rat on a chain came running from an alleyway not too far away. Once the boy and his pet had arrived, Rapeel crouched and held the rags out to the rat, which held and sniffed at the offered clothing, before entering the house and pulling the boy along with it.

  Sneering at the rat as it passed and dropped into the hole, boy in tow, Rapeel’s two men looked to him for orders. They frowned and looked to one another as the street-assassin pointed to the hole and smiled.

  This should be good. Rapeel watched his broad shouldered men squeeze their way down into the passage below.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ Rapeel said to himself. He leaned back outside as grunts and curses came from the hole. He whistled again, this time for longer, and three more boys came running down the street. Chests puffed out, they slowed to a swagger, a mix of crude looking daggers and knives in their hands as they approached the street-assassin.

  ‘The rat’s on the hunt with your brother,’ Rapeel said, leaning against the splintered doorframe. ‘Follow them and my men and I’ll be close behind.’

  ‘Who’re we after, boss?’ the oldest of the group asked, although he was no more than fifteen years.

  ‘A bad man. Now hop to it you little shites, or I’ll have your eyes like the bad man had Blanck’s.’

  The cocky demeanour of the boys never faltered as they grinned at Rapeel and ran into the house, wasting no time climbing down the dark hole.

  Walking across the room, Rapeel took one last look around before following the boys down.