Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘Aye. I know it’s blowing a shit out there, but send your man immediately, and tell him to make haste. Tell him to walk his horse through the night if he needs to.’

  Mits left the tent without another word.

  ‘Can you garrison the watch towers?’ Correia asked.

  Fal had never heard of them. He certainly hadn’t seen one whilst in the area. You’d think they’d have one by the bloody road, he thought, shaking his head.

  ‘I don’t need to garrison them, Correia, just man them with enough to keep constant watch. I’ll have a bird or two at each, or a pair of fast horses. Anyway,’ he said, shrugging again, ‘the bastard things practically garrison themselves. They’re more of a net than anything else. Should one be attacked, they’ll send word and I’ll act with whatever aid comes my way.’

  ‘It’s settled then,’ Correia said. ‘We’ll ride, or fly,’ she looked to Hud, who nodded, ‘on the morrow, once you’ve dropped camp and moved on. I’ll petition Royce and continue to Wesson, doing the same to whomever I see at court once there; with King Barrison’s backing, of course.’

  Giles smiled. ‘And I thank you for it, Correia. Ever have you been a friend to my family.’

  Correia smiled in return.

  Fal scoffed and sneered, the action pulling at healing wounds on his face. She seems to mean that smile, too, Fal thought, as Correia spoke.

  ‘Send my regards to your wife,’ Correia said.

  ‘I will do.’ Giles smiled all the more, although it turned into a stifled yawn. ‘I’m for the archers now, to talk to them. After which I’ll take some sleep, despite the early hour. Good day to you all.’

  A chorus of replies followed Giles from the tent, Fal watching the big man leave.

  Fal realised he’d not seen Amis de Valmont present. He’d assumed the fresh-faced chevalier would be staying in the tent gifted to Correia and Hud, but clearly not. Brow creasing, Fal looked back to the two women stood by the map table, Hud’s knights now moving about in the background, removing each other’s armour and preparing to take some rest.

  As Fal tried to watch, tried to listen from his bunk, the women’s voices blended together, dulled; lulled him into a deep sleep he’d needed for too long. He’d tried to fight it, but it took him all the same. As did the horrific dreams that followed; flames and blades, cuts and burns, the smashing of his two front teeth which pained him whenever he breathed in, ate or drank. Family lost in the past, friends lost in the present, and future. Dignaaln’s face appeared in the haze of the swirling images, and whilst Fal slept, he smiled at the memory of the pleasant man who’d visited him in Easson’s dungeon, between Rasoir’s horrific ministrations.

  Chapter 50 – Planner of fates

  Fal woke with a start. Raised voices pulling him from his slumber. He looked up to the pitched canvas above, white with the morning light beyond; his eyes flicked from stain to stain, some of which were the red-black of dried blood. The voices continued, but he didn’t listen, not yet. He focused on the bloody patches, mixed with damp and mould. A surgeon’s tent once upon a time, of that he was sure. Spurts of blood arcing from severed limbs and the bleeding of every ailment the hackers could get away with bleeding.

  Tentatively biting at his bottom lip, which felt strange to do these days, and ignoring the pain, Fal continued to study the inside of the tent, wiping sleep from his tender eyes as he did so. After a while he sighed and rolled onto his side. His ribs pained him more than anything else at that, but he was becoming used to it, numb to it. Gleave was arguing with Correia, as was Sav, although Sav used words whereas Gleave used grunts and curses and shouts, as he had a lot since Easson. Fal heard it all, but didn’t truly listen. They’d asked his opinion about this and that since they’d landed in Twin Inns and travelled and camped the forest road, trying to include him, trying to act like all was well. He shrugged, if he answered at all, much like he had the thousand times Sav had tried to engage him in conversation or jest, or when Correia had asked him questions about questions asked and answers given.

  What had it all been for? he wondered, as the others talked about hidden dangers and not so hidden ones. The wind and the rain did its best to drown out their monotonous goings on. He huffed. Eyes turned to him.

  ‘Fal, you alright there?’ Sav asked, brow knitted, concern evident.

  Fal nodded and smiled, although his eyes didn’t match his mouth. Reluctantly, Sav turned away, back to his protestations over someone being left behind. Fal couldn’t make out who they were arguing about. He snarled, but hid it quickly so as not to draw attention. He couldn’t fart at the moment without them rushing to see if he was well or not.

  Course I’m not fucking well! Dragged away in the dark by Gleave, iron spilling blood. Shouts around me; screams and death and the orphaning of a little boy, whose father tended to me and showed me mercy where he was meant not to. And what were they saying since they fled? Since they left another town to horrors unbound. Easson; like Beresford. What did they try to make him feel better by saying: that Sergeant Rasoir was a sadistic bastard? That he wasn’t one of Correia’s own? That he wasn’t even a sergeant-at-arms, like Fal!? Well of course they’d say that. Correia didn’t like anyone knowing her men and women on the inside of places, did she? So, it was convenience that had them telling him Rasoir wasn’t one of them. It was convenient to Gleave that he’d had a chance to kill the poor man, telling Fal that Rasoir was an enemy to cover it up. Fal nearly spat. Correia and her lies. But what had they achieved through it all? Through going to Easson and killing Rasoir? Nothing. No, not nothing, quite the opposite. They’d stirred up a bloody hornets’ nest, literally by all accounts, and left Starks behind in the process. Poor Starksy lad, the only decent one amongst them. Now dead. Dead and gone and left behind.

  Fal sighed again, rubbed his face hard this time, catching scabs newly formed with bound, tip-less fingers. He sucked in a painful breath and held it. No one turned. He released the breath and tapped his head against the tent pole he lay against. He preferred the floor to the crates and boxes the others sat on. Cold. Damp. He’d grown used to that in a short time. Short time! His ribs snagged and pained him through a silent chuckle. I swear they left me there days, weeks even, and yet they tell me it was far shorter a stay in Easson’s dungeon. How can I believe that? Convenient again for them that I cannot know for sure.

  Raised voices and gesticulating hands drew Fal’s attention back to the centre of the tent. Gleave was cursing again. He’d done nothing but since his roar and charge at the Orismaran commander in the yard; since losing Starks. Starks had been with Gleave, and Correia, so he, they, had lost him. It was only right that the man should piss and moan and feel ill about it. Correia thought? No. The hard-faced bitch continued on as ever, shaken little by the loss of yet another one of her pathfinders.

  Fal grunted a laugh, quiet, so as not to be heard and harassed. The mirth lasted but a moment. Their words spoilt it. He was to be left. With Gleave, it seemed. To be taken to Castle Bratby, unfit to ride atop winged horses despite their successful flight from Easson riding the very same. They were probably right, mind, considering the many stitches he and Gleave sported. And getting left behind was nothing new, although Gleave bleated continuously about it. Correia was to take the new one, Amis de Valmont. He was fit, strong, handsome even. Correia would find use for him; chew him up and spit him out like Tom and Mearson, and Starksy boy. And now Gleave and… ‘Me.’

  Eyes turned to Fal.

  He looked away from those stares, his own eyes rolling. He heard something said – missed it, although he thought it sounded like ‘walk’.

  Walk, Fal thought, staring into what had been; darkness, a friendly voice. Walking, he thought, remembering the joy in the tale told. Rasoir’s little boy had begun to walk. Incredible! Such little legs. Such will. To stiffly charge forward, barely able but doing so anyway. A brave new world for him to discover. Fal swallowed and licked his lips, slumping further, albeit tentatively, eyes closed
now, lost to welcomed darkness. That poor boy. Orphaned… like I was. He sneered. And we left him and his mother, to them. To my bastard kin.

  He opened his eyes, turned his head and spat.

  Everyone turned to him. Sav made to speak, to approach, but Fal waved him away, turned and curled. The pain flared in various places, but he ground his back teeth and closed his eyes.

  I hope they’re all gone when I awake, he thought, remembering Dignaaln’s soothing voice in the spaces between Sergeant Rasoir’s own.

  Dignaaln: teller of truths and opener of gates, whisperer of strategies and planner of fates.

  Chapter 51 – A hammer blow

  Sav stepped out of the white tent and took in a lungful of wood-smoked air, the camp’s fire nothing but smouldering embers as the men of Suttel dropped camp. The vale descended before Sav, ending abruptly against a wall of trees. He looked upon the dense forest of The Marches and smiled, the scene taking him back to Woodmoat and Broadleaf Forest. His smile faded as quickly as it appeared, thoughts switching to darkness, flashes of light and bangs, one of which had taken Mearson’s life. ‘And now Starks is gone too,’ he whispered, steeling himself and shaking the memories away. He took in another breath and walked over to a canvass laden cart, where Bratby’s men-at-arms were fussing over straps, securing the load.

  ‘Morning, lads,’ Sav said, grin wide. He nodded to the cart. ‘Your lord left you to it?’

  ‘As usual,’ the younger of the two said, eyes on his work.

  Mits looked to Sav and smiled. ‘Morning. Earl Bratby left at first light. Took our horses and half the archers. Nothing changes, eh?’ Mits laughed and continued securing the cart’s load. There was no grievance in his words, only jollity. ‘Once the rest of your lot are packed and ready, along with Hud’s own, we’ll have yours and their tent down and packed away. Then we’ll be off too. Your elf friend and the Sirretan lass left at first light with two of Hud’s knights,’ Mits added, as if Sav didn’t know.

  ‘Aye,’ Sav said, looking back to the forest below. ‘Hud said we’ll be swift to Royce, but need to stop half way. She wanted Lord Temn ready to receive us at Landon Hill.’ Mits nodded and Sav went on. ‘Anyhow, the others shouldn’t be long. You taking Fal and Gleave?’

  Mits nodded. ‘The injured lads, aye. They’ll be good with us, don’t you worry. It’s a short journey where we’re heading. A day at a slow walk with but one stop off overnight, so they won’t be on the carts for too long. Better than aback a winged beast, methinks.’ He laughed again and slapped the white canvas he’d finished securing. ‘Well,’ he said, smiling once more at Sav, ‘must crack on. Need to whip those archers into line.’ He winked and headed off behind Hud’s tent, where Sav could hear laughter.

  Sav smiled and wandered away, hearing voices behind his own tent. Moving around the back, he caught sight of Correia talking with Amis. Sav wasn’t sure whether hunger churned his stomach or something else as he watched them together.

  The sun appeared in the sky to the east as a cloud shifted aside; a mist began to lift from the wet grass as Sav strode towards Correia and Amis, jaw set, eyes on the man squeezing Correia’s arm. Amis turned and walked away before Sav reached them.

  ‘Sav,’ Correia greeted, turning his way. She nodded curtly. No smile, not even in her eyes.

  ‘Correia,’ Sav said back, trying to keep the shake from his voice.

  ‘How’s Fal?’

  ‘How’s de Valmont?’ Sav said before he could stop himself.

  A frown was his only reply. Correia grabbed Sav’s thick arm, hard, and pulled him away down the hill. She didn’t look back at him as she walked, fast. His frown matched hers, before turning into a wry smile.

  ‘You finally in the mood?’ he asked. It was mostly fun. Mostly. It’s not like he thought she was actually going to jump his bones on the side of the hill, below the camp. One could hope though.

  She continued on, without a retort, without even one of her famous glares. They reached the bottom of the hill and continued on a while, on a level with the forest and within clear view of the dark tunnel that was the forest road. Finally, Correia turned to Sav, released his arm and took hold of his face in her hands. She raised up to him, on her toes.

  Sav’s smile disappeared. As did his nerve. His stomach churned all the more and his heart quickened. He didn’t even return the kiss Correia planted on his lips. There was more truth in that kiss, from her, than Sav had seen or felt from the woman since they’d met. He stood there, frozen to the spot as she dropped back down and stood looking at him, hands now on hips, a neutral expression on her hard face despite the passion she’d revealed to him. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t react at all. Sav just stared at Correia. He licked his lips.

  ‘Is that what you wanted, you fool of a man?’

  The words struck him and he took a step back. ‘I…’ was all he could manage. He searched her face, her eyes, for any sign of emotion. He’d felt enough of it in the kiss, but she seemed void of it now.

  ‘We’ve been through this, Sav, not that long ago, after Towton and again at Twin Inns.’ She sighed and shook her head a little. ‘I’ve too much in here,’ she tapped her head, ‘to add anymore.’ He made to speak but she continued. ‘I need you to trust me—’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘So stop with the glares and the huffs and the pining, Sav. Stop it, please.’

  Sav shifted, said nothing.

  ‘I need you to be there, as my pathfinder, as my trustworthy man.’

  ‘And I am,’ Sav said quickly. ‘I…’

  ‘You puff your chest out whenever I talk to Amis… See!’

  Sav had tensed, clenched his teeth at the mention of the handsome chevalier. He shook himself loose and smiled weakly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t need sorry, I need—’

  ‘Trust. I know.’

  ‘Well, give it to me. Flay me, Sav,’ Correia flung her arms out and turned a circle, coming around to look up at him again. ‘If you’re like this now, before we’re even… anything. Before I’ve even confirmed we can be anything—”

  ‘But—’

  ‘No! Don’t speak, Sav. Listen,’ Correia said, eyes narrow, finger pointing. Sav did as he was told, though his mind raced with all that was happening; his heart and stomach and soul raced with all he felt. ‘If,’ Correia went on, ‘you’re like this now, with me talking to Amis, a man we barely know, but one I need to know much more if I’m to trust him, what The Three will you be like when— If we’re together as man and woman. Eh?’

  Sav swallowed hard. ‘I don’t trust him,’ he said, and began to fill his lungs, push out his chest. He caught himself and relaxed, a little.

  Correia grunted a laugh. ‘Why? Because he talks to me, looks at me; because he’s handsome? Or because I smile back at him once in a while?’

  ‘I just don’t,’ Sav snapped, leaning down towards Correia, face reddening with more than a little anger. He pointed up at the remaining tents, illuminated by the sun. ‘He arrived in Easson with the damned demon bitch you said slit the seneschal’s throat!’

  ‘Well, you’d know all about demon bitches, wouldn’t you, Sav?’ It was Correia’s turn to flush red with anger.

  Sav sighed hard and stood straight.

  ‘Listen, Sav,’ Correia said, softening her tone. She closed her eyes and took a breath before going on. ‘All I need…’ Her face paled as her eyes focussed past him.

  Sav frowned. ‘What is it?’ He turned to look behind him, towards the forest road where Correia stared. ‘Shit,’ was all he could manage. He reached out and pushed Correia without looking. ‘Go,’ he said, eyes on the three riders emerging from the darkness of the forest road. ‘Go!’ he shouted, shoving her harder as he turned and saw her standing there.

  ‘They’re Sirret—’

  ‘I know,’ Sav interrupted, ‘but we can’t trust that.’

  Correia glanced back, up the hill. ‘We won’t make it,’ she said, panic in her voice. Eyes wide, sh
e looked at Sav, took hold of him with both hands, head shaking. ‘We won’t make it!’

  You will. Sav grabbed Correia’s arm, much like she had his, back at the camp, and he launched into a run, pulling Correia along beside him. The sound of hooves thumping the ground reached them, but they couldn’t quicken their pace, the ground wet and uneven. To fall was to be caught; to die.

  ‘Goblins!’ someone shouted from the camp above.

  Sav risked a glance back and sure enough, scores of goblins were emerging from the trees, a dozen riding great boars that followed the charge of the three approaching chevaliers, two with lances pointing to the sky.

  ‘Go!’ Correia shouted, shoving Sav away and turning towards the men closing on them.

  ‘Sav!’ The shout from above turned his attention from Correia, who found her footing and stood ready, twin swords drawn against the three riders bearing down on her. She’d not even made the base of the hill.

  A familiar unstrung bow and linen quiver sailed down through the air towards Sav, thrown by Amis, who was following his throw down the hill, drawing his own sword as he descended. Sav sprinted and caught the well-thrown bow, but had to take two more long strides to retrieve his arrows, all of which took him further away from Correia.

  There was no time to worry. No time to curse or shout. Stringing the bow, Sav took three arrows from the quiver and threw two of them into the earth at his feet. The first of the three he’d taken from the bag was nocked, drawn to his cheek and released before the first rider reached Correia. It corkscrewed through the air and struck the roaring man square in his chest. The coat-of-plates the chevalier wore under his striped surcoat failed to stop the armour-piercing bodkin tip Sav had selected. Unintentionally pulling on his reins as he was punched backwards, the chevalier forced his mount up into a rearing-tumble. Man and beast crashed backwards, horse screaming, man dying as his neck snapped upon impact with the ground.

  Correia took the opportunity Sav had given her to turn and run, back towards him, the hill and a carefully descending Amis, the man’s feet slipping at least once through haste.