Black Cross

by J. P. Ashman

  Severun, returning with Correia, was quiet too, and simply shook his head when Fal had asked if he’d received any gifts from the elves.

  When the group finally left the Middle Wood, not long after the training session, the children threw white petals from the branches of trees all around the edges of the glade where the bridge crossed the river. The snow like effect added to the beauty and magic the group had witnessed since their arrival, and proved a fitting backdrop to their tearful farewell.

  Starks had to be dragged away by Fal and Sav as both he and Leiina sobbed, not wanting to be parted. They swore they would meet again in the future and Sav thought he saw a tear on Correia’s cheek, but for once decided not to taunt the Spymaster.

  Elves cheered and handed the group food and gifts as they passed. They wished them luck and bid them a fond farewell. Musicians played music that pulled at the group’s hearts, causing turbulent emotions that swung between regret to be leaving, to joy and happiness to have been there in the first place, all whilst their column of horses and carts crossed the decorated, ancient bridge.

  As the group left Broadleaf Forest and entered the meadows between the forest and the Woodmoat, Fal looked back one last time. He smiled as he met eyes with the Great Stag who was watching them leave. The noble animal bowed low and Fal reciprocated as best he could whilst turning in his saddle. A great sadness overcame him then, and he feared he would never see Broadleaf Forest again. I’ll forever relish the memories, but a part of me will never again be whole after leaving this place.

  Once past the Woodmoat, Gleave showed the group where they'd buried Mearson the morning after the fight with the witchunters. Being Mearson’s closest friend, Gleave had decided Mearson should be buried within sight of the Woodmoat, and the elves that had looked after him and Severun throughout the night had agreed. He said they’d also sworn to keep their eye on the grave marker, which Gleave himself had calved from a fallen branch.

  The group paid their last respects and Fal felt lower still at losing a man he was sure would have become a great friend. ‘I feel proud to have fought alongside you,’ he whispered, before leaving Correia to say her goodbye.

  Mearson… Correia mouthed the words running through her head. It was a pleasure and an honour to have known and fought along side you. You were a true friend to us all, especially Gleave… I’m not sure how he’ll be without you? Not the same, that’s for sure. Correia fought back a tear as she remembered times the three of them had laughed together. Other Pathfinders had come and gone and each one lost was a knife in her heart, but Mearson had been with her for years, and she knew his loss would be felt keenly by her and Gleave especially. Rest easy, soldier, and we shall see you again one day, when it is our turn to fall.

  ***

  Calls and bells rang out as the mixed human and elven column neared Wesson’s eastern gatehouse. Fal looked up to the figures above, the calls bringing him back to the present. So few walk the ramparts?

  It took a long time after Correia announced herself and the elven lords before anything happened, but finally, Will Morton arrived. The Lord High Constable looked down upon them, his face lined and weathered, his expression sour and his mood equally as bad.

  ‘Open it,’ the Duke said to a sergeant-at-arms by his side, his low voice barely audible to the elves below.

  ‘But sire, the King’s order—’

  ‘Open it for pity’s sake, man! They’re here to help.’

  Swallowing hard, the sergeant-at-arms nodded and rushed out of sight. Morton also disappeared, before his distinctive bellowing of orders drifted over the ramparts to the elves below.

  Hold who back? Errolas thought, glancing briefly to Lord Nelem at his side.

  The great wooden gates creaked terribly as they slowly swung inwards and the drawbridge, hardly ever lifted, came crashing down, lifting dust and dirt high. The column’s horses clattered across the wooden drawbridge once the dust and dirt had settled and then echoed as they passed under the great stone arch, the fire wrecked Coach & Cart Inn on sad display in front of them as they entered a crowded square.

  Gods above… Fal struggled to drag his eyes from the scorched ruins of his favourite tavern. So many memories he had of that place and yet now, now it looked as if a giant had put a foot through both of the turret roofs and smashed the joining bridge to pieces, the remains a jumble of smoking blackened timber and piled rubble.

  ‘Clerics and mages to Tyndurris, any dignitaries to the palace,’ Morton shouted, snapping Fal from his reverie. The Lord High Constable looked down on the column as it entered Wesson’s cobbled streets.

  ‘Can you hear me, my lords?’ Morton’s voice was low, but not too low that the elves below missed it, despite the growing noise from the gathering crowds of people.

  Lord Errwin-Roe looked up then and nodded almost imperceptibly. What he and his kin heard next nearly turned their blood cold. He looked to the nearest cleric and mage, who looked to one another, pained expressions upon their angular faces. Nodding his understanding when they whispered their replies to him, Errwin-Roe looked up to the Lord High Constable and shook his head solemnly. Morton’s face dropped when he saw the answer and an almost overwhelming feeling of sorrow hit him from the elves below. He recovered quickly and nodded his understanding and thanks to the elf lord.

  Correia caught the brief, seemingly silent connection between the elves and the Duke, but when she looked to the man above, he broke eye contact with her, his face once again set to his usual grimace.

  ‘Clear a path,’ Morton shouted to the stretched line of city guardsmen now trying to hold back the gathering people. ‘Make way for our saviours!’

  People pushed and shoved to see the only people to enter the city since the quarantine started. A thin row of ragged and ill looking guardsmen pushed them back with shields, whilst holding a variety of swords, axes and war-hammers high.

  Fal swallowed hard at the sight of weapons rather than cudgels in the hands of the guardsmen. I dread to think what they’ve been through. Fighting their own whilst dealing with the plague’s effects on them and their own families…

  ‘Help us,’ a woman cried out, her face a mess of buboes.

  The group winced as two guardsmen, scarves covering their faces, dragged her from the crowd and pulled her away as more people began to shout.

  A fist was thrown and a guardsman went down heavily, his nose flattened. Before he could recover and climb to his feet, several feet came in kicking and stamping as many others took the opportunity to run towards the open gates.

  ‘Close it, close the gate!’ the sergeant-at-arms shouted from the ramparts above.

  The last carts of the column had only just entered the gatehouse as people rushed towards them, their feral looking eyes set on the perceived freedom beyond Wesson’s walls.

  ‘No one escapes,’ Morton shouted.

  Fal manoeuvred his horse along with the elven warriors – who also drew their curved weapons – to protect the carts from the sudden rush of people as more guardsmen went down under the press of bodies.

  ‘Hold,’ Nelem shouted, to several elven warriors who’d begun to advance. They reluctantly walked their horses back to protect the carts.

  Screams joined the shouts of fear and anger in the crowds as those guardsmen still standing began hacking wildly, doing all they could not to go down, knowing it would be their end.

  Sav, bow swiftly strung and arrow nocked, fought a war within himself as he saw one guardsman hacking down a sick looking woman who'd lashed out at him, the falchion flashing once, twice and blood arcing back as he hit her a third time. She crumpled to the ground. Next to that, Sav saw a different guardsman being kicked and beaten on the ground, a flash of iron silencing him finally.

  There’s no target, Sav thought, his heart pounding as he began to panic. I can’t shoot any of them, they’re not an enemy. None deserve this…

  The rumble of metal on stone alerted everyone to the slow raising of the drawbridge, bu
t no one could free themselves to close the large gates some people were now nearing.

  ‘Correia, orders?’ Gleave shouted from the back of one of the carts, his leg now splint-less, but still of little use in such a situation.

  Correia hesitated, looking frantically about for an answer as her own people tore themselves apart. We need to get the elves out of here. She turned to Lord Errwin-Roe and noticed him flashing rapid hand signals to his warriors and mages.

  A sudden rush of air erupted from one of the richly dressed mages, causing horses to shift nervously and one cart to roll backwards despite its driver’s best attempts to have its horses hold steady. That wind gained strength and as the front runners for the gate reached parallel to the inner opening of the large stone archway, they tumbled sideways, away from the closest cart and away from the open gates.

  The drawbridge was now half closed, and following more directions from the elf lords, several of their warriors dismounted and rushed to the large gates, heaving them closed.

  ‘Protect the gate crew,’ Correia shouted. Fal, Sav and Starks turned their horses and rode into the gatehouse, turning them to create a line alongside the remaining mounted elves.

  As the shouting and screaming continued, Sav noticed the occasional arrow or bolt whipping down from the gatehouse into the crowd around the few remaining guardsmen. Their well placed shots cleared a path for the men to back swiftly towards the column in front of the gatehouse. They’ll close on us fast now and what then? Will I kill whoever comes close or will I fall, unable to cut down unarmed people who have been through so much.

  ‘We need get the carts out of here,’ Fal shouted, as the gates behind him finally thudded shut. He felt the tall elves that had closed it and remounted press their steeds along side his and his companions to form a solid line. ‘Simulate a charge,’ Fal said, ‘they may break!’

  ‘And if they don’t?’ Sav was now several elf riders away to the side.

  Fal shook his head. I don’t know…

  ‘Severun!’ Correia shouted suddenly, and all eyes moved to the hooded figure rushing out into the narrowing gap between the column and the crowd. The wizard passed between two running, injured guardsmen and then stopped dead. He threw his arms to the side, white staff held out horizontally, and then lifted his chin high.

  Silence…

  The whole square fell silent and the oncoming crowd faltered and then stopped just short of the hooded wizard, who broke the silence with a voice filled with malice and hatred, a voice that carried to every man, woman and child present. ‘I am Lord Severun, burnt at the stake by this city for my crimes, but here I stand again before you now! Who here shall challenge my revenge? Who here will share in the pain I felt upon that pyre?’

  Those closest to Severun tried to back away, but the crowds behind them stopped their retreat.

  ‘Who here, shall burn?’ he shouted, and as his voice echoed from the buildings, his arms ignited, sending thrashing flames up and all about him.

  The resulting ripple of fear that swept through the on-looking crowd acted like the ripples of a cast stone on the surface of a lake. After a brief delay from those behind the terrified people at the front, the whole crowd surge outwards from the burning wizard.

  As the crowd spread out and away from the gatehouse, the heavy clatter of hooves on stone alerted everyone in the square to the arrival of eight heavily armoured knights riding muscular destriers. Colourful thick trappers covered the horses as the knights cantered up the street from the direction of the palace, the Duke of Adlestrop at their head atop a particularly richly caparisoned horse.

  The added threat of the Duke and his retinue dispersed the crowd even faster, many dragging off the injured and dead they knew.

  As the rapidly approaching riders looked upon the inferno that was Severun, the lances of those in front lowered as swiftly as the crowd departed, and with a roar, the first three – Rell of Adlestrop at their head – spurred their mounts on; powerful legs thrust the snorting beasts forward as their riders leaned into the attempted lance strike upon the blazing demon that had assaulted their city.

  ‘Hold,’ Morton ordered from the ramparts above. ‘Hold, damn you!’

  Adlestrop and his two knights couldn’t possibly hear the order through their padded caps, maille coifs and great-helms as they charged.

  The remaining knights formed up to turn their own lances on the elves at the gate.

  ‘Hold, you bastards!’ Morton shouted, waving his arms wildly. This was followed by a swift burst of motion from two horsemen below, as Nelem and Errwin-Roe sped swiftly across the cobbles towards the now dying fire that was Severun. As soon as they’d left the arch of the gatehouse, Fal, Sav and Starks followed on their own mounts, unsure as to what they were going to do, but not wanting to leave Severun or the elf lords on their own.

  The illusionary flames all about Severun had all but gone when he turned upon the sound of rapidly approaching horses. Just as his eyes met the black steed, rich yellow livery, polished armour and deadly lance point of the Duke of Adlestrop, Severun felt the impact strike him. His feet left the ground and the air left his lungs as, along with the magical exhaustion and fear the inferno illusion had brought on, Severun lost consciousness. Lord Nelem had scooped Severun from the ground with his armoured arm and threw him over his saddle a mere heartbeat before the lance would have reached its mark.

  Adlestrop rocked back in his tall saddle at the speed of the elven mounts. His lance missed the demon by a breath. He screwed his eyes up and braced himself, convinced he was going to collide with the riders crossing his path. As his destrier continued, Adlestrop opened his eyes and realised he’d somehow passed the riders unscathed. He heaved on his reigns with the hand of his shield arm and turned his steed swiftly, noticing through the slits of his great-helm two of his knights milling about back where he thought he’d surely connect with the elven riders. Their destriers were just settling as Adlestrop realised they'd pulled up at the last minute, and when he looked across to the gatehouse he realised why. A flush of anger welled within him.

  Will Morton touched down lightly, his breaths coming quick and fast as the elf mage who'd magically lowered him to the ground smiled across at him. The row of knights who'd begun to charge the elves were turning circles, trying to calm their aggressive mounts as Morton glared at them all. None removed their great-helms as they finally settled, finding anything but the Lord High Constable’s eyes to look at.

  ‘What’s the damned meaning of this, Yewdale?’ Rell Adlestrop’s voice sounded muffled but strong through his highly polished great-helm as he addressed his fellow Duke. Adlestrop’s black destrier trotted proudly towards Morton, its yellow trapper bouncing and distorting the black bend and two black hounds’ heads displayed there, which was clearly emblazoned on the yellow field of his surcoat and shield too.

  ‘See to the injured,’ Morton shouted, as he strode across from where he’d been placed down. He headed straight for Adlestrop. Several of the elves took the order well and ran over to the surviving guardsmen, dragging them back to their own clerics. Those that had survived were mainly battered and bruised, but many hadn’t been so lucky and their bodies littered the square, along with those of a dozen or more civilians.

  ‘Lord Adlestrop,’ Morton said, followed by a curt nod as he stopped in front of the Duke. ‘Or should I address you as Earl Marshall now?’ Morton added with a poorly hidden smirk, referring to the man’s latest title.

  ‘Address me how you please, Yewdale, but I’d much rather address the fact the gate has been opened, against my uncle the King’s own orders, and when I arrive to investigate I see a damned blazing demon in the square?’ He planted his lance in its holster on the saddle, and lifted his great-helm free, revealing a smaller – equally as polished – open faced bascinet beneath. His maille coif was of an old tegulated design which was rarely seen in Altoln, but the face that looked upon Morton was far younger than was expected by many of the onlookers.
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br />   ‘That demon, Lord Adlestrop, is none other than Lord Severun, former Grand Master of the Wizards and Sorcery Guild, and you nearly ran him through.’ Morton’s hands rested firmly on his hips and he held his head high as he awaited an apology.

  Several of Adlestrop’s knights bristled, their helms turning towards the unconscious wizard, who'd been laid out on one of the elven carts.

  ‘If I’d bloody well known that, I wouldn’t have missed,’ Adlestrop said, teeth bared.

  ‘Enough!’ Correia walked her horse forward. ‘These carts need moving, now, before the crowds return. We’ve been through enough shit to get the elves here and they’ve been good enough to come, I’m not having them welcomed this way, Rell, you hear me?’

  Fal, Sav and Starks, all three of who’d been somewhere in between the gatehouse and the spot where Severun had been picked up by the elves and nearly skewered by Adlestrop, now flanked the Spymaster as she addressed the suddenly embarrassed Duke.

  ‘Spymaster Burr,’ the young man stammered, ‘I… I didn’t notice you there.’

  Someone’s got an admirer, Fal thought, despite still trying to take in all that had happened.

  ‘No, you were too busy charging in, trying to be a hero. Now, as has been said, we need to get these carts moving. The elves have come to help us, Rell, not invade us.’

  Nodding quickly, Adlestrop’s reddened face turned from Correia and glanced about to his knights, all of which were looking to him. ‘As Spymaster Burr said, we need to move.’

  ‘As I bloody well said too, if I recall, you jumped up shite,’ Morton said under his breath, before turning to the elf lords, who couldn’t help but smile at his comment. ‘Follow the Earl Marshall, my lords, and he and his knights will guide you.’ The elf lords bowed their heads and Morton saluted them, before stalking off towards the gatehouse’s door to the ramparts. He failed, however, to avoid Correia’s eyes as he passed her.