by J. P. Ashman
‘Stop his son’s closest friend and ally?’ Stowold shifted in his seat. ‘I fear not.’ He let out the longest sigh of all. ‘My friends—’ he took them all by surprise at that, ‘—I have received the gravest of news. Grave, secret news.’
Biviano’s stomach churned. Hence why the loss of arms and horses have seemingly been forgotten? he thought, with a dread that fell across all present.
Everyone looked to one another, brows creased, throats moving as they swallowed down what was to come.
‘Milord?’ Biviano dared.
‘King Barrison is dead.’
Several intakes of breath, a curse and a groan.
More than one made to talk, but Stowold raised his hand for silence and it was given.
‘I shall discuss this with you further, but you must not… must not, gentlemen, discuss it again, once outside this room. Am I clear?’
Several nods.
‘Am I clear?’ Stowold rasped, leaning forward in his chair, eyes murderous and moving to every face before him.
‘Yes, milord,’ came the chorus of replies.
‘Very well,’ Stowold said, leaning back. ‘I have only just been informed of our loss myself, this evening, but I shall explain all I know and we shall discuss your following mission.’
‘Milord?’ Sir Bollingham ventured once again.
‘You are to openly ride north as a true company of mine, bolstered by Sir Mechel and his. You are to beat Rell Adlestrop to the Reaver families on the border and you are to ride on, into Northfolk, with a message from the King, the Lord High Constable of Altoln and I.’
‘But my lord, you said the King is—’
‘But nothing, Sir Bollingham. Outside this room and outside of King Barrison’s own chambers, he is alive… for now. His chamberlain and immediate staff are aware and in agreement. And so it is that we continue to act as such. Do not make me regret telling you six of his tragic demise. Do not make my trusting you come back to bite me and Altoln both. The firing of cannons and the loss of my horses is nought compared to what is at stake now.’
And there it is, Biviano thought, of the horses lost, although it paled into comparison against all else.
‘Your trust is safe with us, my lord,’ Sears said, with a surety as he looked around the men in the room. ‘It won’t come back to bite you, will it lads?’
Biviano and the others met their friend’s red eyes. Red eyes glistening with the threat of tears from the news that struck them all a blow, and they nodded as one.
Biviano offered his friend a tight smile and a second nod as their eyes met.
And so we head north once more, big guy. On an open mission for our new liege lord and our dead King. North. Back home.
***
‘Well?’ Morton asked, slumping in the comfortable chair Ward Strickland provided.
‘Well,’ Strickland said, eyeing the Lord High Constable. ‘I’m surprised how often it is you seek my council of late.’
Morton scoffed and plucked the glass of wine from the table. He eyed the glass, watching how ruby light shifted as he passed the glass across his view of the chamber’s window, at the top of Tyndurris.
‘Exquisite workmanship, isn’t it?’ Strickland said, indicating the glass.
Morton grunted before gulping down the rare wine. He clunked the glass back down. Strickland flinched. ‘You’re the Lord High Chancellor as well as this guild’s master, Lord Strickland. It is in that guise that I seek you out, to discuss matters of state, not… glass or magic.’
Strickland smiled.
Morton scowled and poured himself another glass of Sirretan red.
‘I don’t know, is my honest answer,’ Strickland said, before sipping at his own wine.
Sighing hard, Morton rubbed his scarred face with his free hand. His wine slopped from the glass during the vigorous movement. ‘I’d like to say I appreciate the honesty.’
‘What can I say?’ Strickland said, a laugh touching his words. ‘I have no idea if Edward will replace me, or you.’ Morton glared at him. ‘Well, come on, my lord, that is what you wanted to know, is it not?’
Morton huffed. ‘Can you not… scry it, or some such?’
‘Matters of state, not magic, you said—’
‘This is serious, Ward!’
Strickland sighed, his mirth falling way. ‘I know it is and you know I know it is, my lord, but I cannot tell you what I do not know. Do you want me to tell you what I do know?’
There was a pause before Morton reluctantly nodded for Strickland to go on.
‘I know that you have agreed to let Severun loose in Dockside again, and completely untethered this time, since you didn’t consult me.’ Morton made to speak, but Strickland held up his finger. ‘Let me finish, my lord.’ Morton nodded. ‘I also know that the Black Guild is near destroyed, but for the brute who sails the seas, and his third of the guild.’ Morton again went to speak and again Strickland stopped him. ‘And,’ Strickland said, his voice low, conspiratorial, ‘a little birdy—’
Morton grunted. ‘Heh, probably literally.’
‘—told me,’ Strickland went on, despite the interruption, ‘that the arrow which took our King’s life was elven?’
Morton froze. He held Strickland’s stare, but froze all the same. After several pounding heartbeats, he asked, ‘How do you know?’
Strickland sighed, exasperated. ‘Does it matter, Will?’
Morton rocked back this time, at the familiar, but conceded the point all the same. ‘I suppose not,’ he said, exhaustion sweeping across his every feature.
‘Question is, why didn’t you tell me? You made out a bloody incubus stole Barrison’s life. A damned demon that travelled with Correia Burr of all people. Magic take me,’ Strickland breathed. ‘Why the lies?’
Morton sat forward and placed his glass on the table, carefully this time. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, deadly serious, exhaustion forgotten, sword across his lap as ever. ‘The demon was there.’ He let that sink in. ‘I witnessed the fucker myself!’ he added, for effect. ‘The incubus travelled as a Sirretan chevalier, as you have been told, and assaulted Barrison in its true form. He reached Barrison’s chamber after I bloody led him there with Correia, whilst others dealt with an Eatrian assassin. Eatri! Of all bastard places. Then…’ Morton said, temper rising from the memories of the fateful day. ‘And then,’ he said, calming himself, ‘we bested the beast, or rather the Sirretan Witchblade, Salliss de Pizan, did. Sent it crashing from the window by Barrison’s side.’
Strickland frowned at that; at the change of the story he’d been told.
‘And then…’ Morton winced at the thought of it.
‘An arrow came in through the window? In rain-filled winds… at dusk,’ Strickland said, incredulous at the thought. ‘Just like that?’
Morton nodded. ‘Through the fucking window. Just like that.’ He was red faced now, shaking with anger and sorrow both. He sat back into the chair and rubbed at his face with both hands, rubbing away the tears that threatened him. ‘He was my oldest friend, Ward,’ Morton said through hands. ‘I loved him as a brother… I married his sister and it meant something,’ he said, lowering his hands and looking to the magician. ‘I loved her. Still do despite her losing my first and only son at birth. Despite her leaving me at the same time.’ He grunted a bitter laugh. ‘I can only thank the gods that she wasn’t around to live through this.’
Strickland offered a tight smile. ‘They’re all together now, if you believe it. Brother and sister and your son.’
‘I don’t know what I believe in that regards, Ward. I really don’t.’ Morton laughed it off and shook his head, burying it all back where he kept it. ‘And now? Now we have a war brewing. We have Orismarans, and worse, marching through and besting Sirreta, by Correia’s accounts. We have the shitting Beresford’s smashing up their own town with cannons of all things and sending men north. North? Fuck knows what for when the little twat Rell has holdings and men up there already? But Stow
old’s trying to find that out, so I’ll leave him to that and the shit that goes on below our feet, whilst we take on the stress of Sirreta and…’ he paused. He looked to Strickland and held that look. Drew it in. ‘And Crackador,’ he said, with as much weight as he could put behind the ancient name.
Strickland frowned. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Frowned some more.
Morton nodded. ‘Severun confirmed it. Your very own—’
‘Not our own. Not now. I know what he did wasn’t—’
‘Shut up and listen, Ward. I beg you.’
Strickland rocked back, but nodded all the same.
‘He’s as if a weight’s been lifted from him, your wizard. Take that from me. He’s clearer than I’ve seen him, ever. Although to be fair, I’d never taken the time to listen to him much before the damned plague. But that… that right there, Ward; that was sent to us in that bloody arcane scroll, by Crackador! Severun swears it. Swears the great-dragon has returned and wants Wesson.’
‘Wesson?’ Strickland asked. ‘Specifically?’
Morton was impressed the man had taken the return of an ancient, great black dragon so well. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Wesson specifically, according to Severun. Says he had a feeling of it. From the will the beast was trying to impose on him these past months; since the scroll.’
‘Why?’
Morton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He doesn’t know. Who bloody knows? But we have all I said to contend with, plus a fucking dragon of all things, plus—’
‘What else?’ Strickland balked now, at it all. He looked lost with the world, at the thought of yet more.
‘What else?’ Morton grunted. ‘We have the return of Alden-bastard-Fenn to contend with, after near on wiping out his guild – small fry compared to the dragon and his armies and demons, I admit, but a more immediate threat than the rest, I have to say. That and—’
‘And?’ Strickland gaped before draining his glass. He reached for the bottle of red and took a swig from that. ‘And?’ he repeated, whilst Morton finished his own wine and offered his glass for more. Strickland obliged.
‘And, my lord Strickland,’ Morton went on, ‘we’ve got Edward the Black fucking Prince’s coronation and reign to organise and survive! I’ve not even sent him word of his father’s demise yet… Because I don’t know where he is? And so I haven’t sent word of it at all, to anyone! Not to Royce of all people, Keeper of the Privy Seal as he is. Not to anyone. In fact, I’ve taken liberties and replied to a dozen written requests for shit and bollocks in Barrison’s stead, with his bloody seal; had myself appointed Regent, secretly, temporarily. And if that’s not bad enough, Ward…’ Morton took a deep breath before going on. ‘…Edward’s been playing with The Three, according to a new source.’ Morton let that sink in; let the news of everything sink in along with their soon-to-be King’s dallying with three of the most unpredictable and dangerous beings on the continent. ‘Although I know not where he sailed from there,’ Morton admitted.
Strickland stared at Morton. He stared and drank his wine. Morton did the same, for what else was there for them to do when their futures, and that of Altoln, appeared tumultuous and bleak.
***
Errolas’ heart quickened as footsteps entered the dungeon corridor. It quickened more so as the footsteps stopped outside his cell.
‘Correia?’ he dared, hoped.
‘Lady Burr won’t be seeing you, elf,’ came the gruff voice of the palace gaoler.
And here I hope I’d be seeing her as Fal and Sav did, in Wesson’s prison. How long ago that seems…
Keys tinkled and clattered and locks clunked and turned, the sounds loud to Errolas after his recent stretch of near silence in the small, cold cell. The glow of lantern light forced its way through the gap that appeared between wall and door, causing him to flinch.
‘Food?’ Errolas asked, again hopeful.
‘Aye, food.’
The bowl slid, rolled and spilled its contents across the stone slabs. Errolas dived for the pottage, scooped and scraped the slop, tasted and winced at the slop. He managed to get at least some of it down before the lamp light escaped where he could not. The door slammed and the lock turned, the click-clunk a familiar sound to him now.
Errolas sat back in the darkness, hands cold and wet. A shudder ran through him at what he endured, what he may have to endure; what Brisance would endure with all that was to come. And he despaired.
Epilogue
‘I must see him.’ Dignaaln strode up to the uncoiling sentry, the moss- and lichen-padded pyramid towering above them both, framed by the collaged greens of the Orismaran jungle.
‘You wouldn’t want to if you saw what mood he’s in.’
Dignaaln turned to the rasp of a voice behind him. He hated that he never heard the Naga warlord approach. ‘Ah, Molurus. You please me with your—’
‘No need for lies, Dignaaln,’ Molurus hissed, sliding past and moving the sentry aside with a flick of his hand. Dignaaln followed the length of Molurus into the darkness of the temple. He followed the serpentine humanoid in and watched as he stretched out down the stone steps, kinking to control his descent, muscles rippling under his patterned scales. The temperature dropped as they descended further into the carved passageway. Dignaaln’s confidence dropped to match. A shudder ran through him whilst, after hundreds of steps, the temperature rose once more. It was becoming as hot as the jungle above, hotter still. The glow of the under sanctum flared from an opening as they levelled out and turned a corner, a grinning red face greeting them as they approached an archway, lit beyond by Him.
‘Good day to you, Chieftain.’ Dignaaln wore his most charming smile, despite wanting to rend red skin, flesh and muscle from goblin bone.
‘Long has it been, Dignaaln,’ The Red Goblin said, grin unfaltering despite Dignaaln’s lingering regard. ‘Long indeed.’
Dignaaln merely nodded as he continued on, brushing past the sickening excuse for an ally.
All three: goblin, Naga and Dignaaln, dropped low from survival instinct alone as a rumble shook dust from the ceiling and vibrated, bounced even, stones across the floor.
Dignaaln turned to the semi-reptilian commander and The Red Goblin.
The latter shrugged. ‘He lost his tether to someone important a while back. Hasn’t cheered up since.’
Molurus winced as the under sanctum shook once more, his tattooed face wrinkling, scars deepening and body-come-tail curling tight about him.
And I lost my fucking horse. Woe is me, Dignaaln thought.
‘Dignaaln?’ The voice shook inside and outside of Dignaaln’s head and he feared for his last thought’s security.
‘Master,’ Dignaaln said in return, holding his breath thereafter. He released it after a pause where no one spoke, albeit filled with the rasping breath like a hurricane’s wind through so many trees.
As Dignaaln opened his mouth, dared to attempt a prompt, his master spoke again; boomed again.
‘Enter.’
Molurus offered Dignaaln a sympathetic smile before sliding away in pursuit of The Red Goblin, who’d wasted no time in leaving the scene.
With a deep breath, which he hoped would not be his last, Dignaaln did as he was bade and stepped into the gargantuan chamber to see the great-dragon within.
So ends the third book from the tales of the Black Powder Wars.
Thank you for reading:
Black Arrow
Third book from the tales of the
Black Powder Wars
Reviews are more than welcome and incredibly helpful.
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Black Martlet
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Fourth book from the tales of the
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Biography
Born Lancashire, England, J P Ashman is a Northern lad through and through. His parents read to him from an early age and encouraged his imagination at every turn. His Career may be in optics, as an SMC technician, but he loves to make time for writing and reading every day. Now living back in Lancashire after five years in the Cotswolds with Wifey and their little Norse Goddess Freya, he is inspired daily by everything and anything, from history to science, his reef tank to the environment.
Writing is a huge part of his life and the medieval re-enactment background and tabletop gaming lend to it; when he’s not writing the genre, he’s either reading or playing it. He plans to keep writing, both within his current series, and those to come, whether short stories or epic tomes.
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