Black Arrow
Third book from the tales of the
Black Powder Wars
J P Ashman
Black Arrow
Third book from the tales of the
Black Powder Wars
J P Ashman
copyright © 2018 J P Ashman
This Digital Edition
1
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The selections in this book are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead; events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Pen Astridge
Series map illustrated by Charles Richardson
Edited by Jeff Gardiner
Author’s Note
I want to give my readers the heads-up on Black Arrow as I did on Black Guild, because neither are your usual sequels.
Black Guild and Black Arrow were originally one book, as I mentioned in the author’s notes of Black Guild. The original Black Guild/Black Arrow was bigger than Black Cross, which proved only just viable to print without pricing it out of the market. Second to that, the original Black Guild/Black Arrow had so many twisting and turning and crossing storylines, my editor and beta readers suggested I split it in two.
Unlike the usual split into halves of such a tome, Black Guild and Black Arrow run side by side in the Black Powder Wars timeline. I know, it’s unusual, but it’s how I felt the split worked best. When reading Black Guild, you experienced events through characters such as Cheung and the Caravaneers, Longoss and his friends, the goblin war galley crew and so on. Within Black Arrow, you get so see events elsewhere in Brisance, that were happening at the same time. Fal and the pathfinders, Sears and Biviano etc. And, you get to read what actually happened to King Barrison!
And now, I’ll let you crack on, because I’m sure you’re eager to find out what’s been happening whilst the caravan was rolling and the Black Guild was falling. Enjoy!
J P Ashman
Contents
Map of Brisance
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
Chapter 1 – An arresting development
Chapter 2 – Evening encounters
Chapter 3 – More than just a game
Chapter 4 – A flash in an alley
Chapter 5 – Overcooked
Chapter 6 – All too much
Chapter 7 – A different light
Chapter 8 – Shore leave
Chapter 9 – And so it begins
Chapter 10 – Cornered
Chapter 11 – Threats
Chapter 12 – Tilt and Parry
Chapter 13 – Spaulders
Chapter 14 – Soldier, soldier
Chapter 15 – Pax
Chapter 16 – Maps, plans and dogs
Chapter 17 – Me, thee and The Three
Chapter 18 – Time to go
Chapter 19 – A well timed kick…
Chapter 20 – Can’t be saved
Chapter 21 – The Adjunct’s Guard
Chapter 22 – To see The Three
Chapter 23 – Sails unfurled
Chapter 25 – The calm before the storm
Chapter 26 – Twin Inns
Chapter 27 – Fells, chambers and the open ocean
Chapter 28 – Wrong turn
Chapter 29 – Our Queen
Chapter 30 - Avunculicide
Chapter 31 – Enemy on the horizon
Chapter 32 – Loot
Chapter 33 – Black sails
Chapter 34 – Boarders
Chapter 35 – A new debt
Chapter 36 – Easson
Chapter 37 – Preparations
Chapter 38 – Sack of meat
Chapter 39 – Besieged
Chapter 40 – Points and pricks
Chapter 41 – White wedding
Chapter 42 – Droning
Chapter 43 – Furious grief
Chapter 44 – Royce’s Reds
Chapter 45 – A forceful connection
Chapter 46 – Family meeting
Chapter 47 – Fight or flight
Chapter 48 – Deceive the best of us
Chapter 49 – The field lay bare
Chapter 50 – Planner of fates
Chapter 51 – A hammer blow
Chapter 52 – Feathers and scales
Chapter 53 – No matter the cost
Chapter 54 – Landon Hill
Chapter 55 – Reunion
Chapter 56 – Cruel to be kind
Chapter 57 – Bender
Chapter 58 – Underkeep
Chapter 59 – A new liege
Chapter 60 – Longsword
Chapter 61 – Back on the road
Chapter 62 – Royce
Chapter 63 – Besieging your own
Chapter 64 – Bangs in the night
Chapter 65 – A bloody smile
Chapter 66 – Tables turned
Chapter 67 – On the run
Chapter 68 – Bedraggled homecoming
Chapter 69 – Assassin
Chapter 70 – Arrow in the dark
Chapter 71 – Tumultuous and bleak
Epilogue
Biography
Map of Brisance
Dramatis Personae
Pathfinders
Correia Burr, King Barrison’s Spymaster & daughter
Falchion, sergeant-at-arms, formerly of the Wizards & Sorcery Guild
Errolas, Broadleaf ranger Sav, scout Gleave, sergeant-at-arms
Starks, crossbowman, formerly of the Wizards & Sorcery Guild
Altolnan Nobility & Households
Barrison ‘The Benevolent’, King of Altoln
Edward ‘The Black Prince’, Prince of Northfolk
Rell Beresford, Duke of Adlestrop, Earl Marshall; son of Earl Beresford, nephew to Barrison
Ellis Frane, royal scribe & former prisoner of the illegal Samorlian inquisition
Grannit, sergeant-at-arms to King Barrison
Will Morton, Duke of Yewdale, Lord High Constable of Alton; brother-in-law to Barrison
Hugh Torquill, Earl of Royce, Lord High Treasurer, Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal
Temn, Baron of Landon Hill, Baronial Marcher Lord of Altoln
Hudd, Captain of ‘Royce’s Reds’
Bagnall, Earl of Stowold, Constable of Wesson, Watcher of the Deep
The Lady Elsane Stowold, Bagnall Stowold’s wife
Sir Bryant & Sir Mechel, Captains to the Earl of Stowold
Sir Bollingham, knight to the Earl of Stowold, former Wesson City Guard
Sears, Biviano, Jay Strawn, Dom & Pelse
men-at-arms to the Earl of Stowold, former Wesson City Guard
Ward Strickland, Master of the Wizards & Sorcery Guild, Lord High Chancellor of Altoln
Giles, Earl of Bratby, Marquess of Suttel, Marcher Lord of Altoln
Sir Allon Bratby, Earl Bratby’s son, commander of the Suttel army
Mits, man-at-arms to the Earl of Bratby
Sirreta
Velenn, Queen of Sirreta
Eudes de Geelan, Marquis d’Easson, Marcher Lord of Sirreta
Croal de Geelan, Seneschal d’Easson, nephew to Eudes
Guiscard, Sieur de Steedon Flavell de Steedon, daughter to Guiscard
Amis de Valmont, chevalier & chaperone to Flavell Jehan, chevalier to Croal
Rasoir, gaoler Salliss de Pizan, witchblade Cateline, maid
Sessio
Captain Mannino
Hitchmogh, first mate Charl Spendley, officer Parry, blade master
Lefey, Kareem, Joncausks, Boxall & Tahir, sailors
Goblin War Galley
Charlzberg, Admiral of the goblin fleet
Tri-Isles
Antreas, Achiad & Andarna, The Three
Rina, concubine to Antreas Emms, waitress
Quinnell Pallister, apprentice shipwright
Badham, Hillside gang master
Stone, Croxon & Pester, Hillside gangers
Others about Brisance
Crackador, the legendary great-dragon
Dignaaln, emissary Molurus, Naga warlord
The Red Goblin, Chieftain of the goblin clans
Core, necromantic shaman & commander of goblin-held Beresford
Stubley, inn-keeper of the Twin Inns, Sirretan holding
Cook, Twin Inns cook, Sirretan holding
Prologue
Kaja Strip, Sirreta, Brisance
Spring - 492nd year of the Alliance
Sudden intakes of breath spread through Guiscard’s line of militia as a small boy staggered into the clearing, his skin pale and his features gaunt. He wore nothing but dirty linen braes and his bruised skin clung to bones like a corpse. Tears streaked down his cheeks as a trickle of blood followed them down from his nose.
The boy didn’t attempt to wipe the crimson line from his face. His bony fingers stretched out towards the line of serfs, cottagers and the like, their heads shaking in disbelief as they looked from the boy to their companions and back.
Guiscard swallowed hard as his bay destrier stepped to the side, pawing at the ground with iron-shod hooves. He held the snorting beast firm, head spinning as he attempted to formulate a strategy in what seemed like an impossible situation. Only days before he’d sent away a good number of his men-at-arms and all of his crossbowmen, as requested by the Duc du Sud. He’d heard nothing since, of his men nor of the Duc’s army they’d been summoned to fight alongside. And now he faced Orismaran raiders on the borders of his own estate. He needed those men.
Looking down his meagre line, Guiscard cursed as one of his men threw down his scythe and ran to the child whose wracking sobs were audible across the otherwise tranquil meadow.
Several men called to their companions as another man followed the first, breaking free of grasping hands despite Guiscard’s orders to hold.
There were noises from the tree-line as the men ran, but no enemy came forth.
The handful of archers with the militia, woodsmen all, fixed broadhead arrows to the strings of their bows and awaited anything that might make a move towards the two men closing on the crying boy.
Rising in his high-backed saddle, Guiscard watched as the first of the men, a thatcher by trade, reached out to grab the dishevelled child. The boy’s dry lips cracked to reveal bright flesh beneath, spreading into a horrific grin. Sharpened teeth parted as clawed fingers snapped forward and plunged into Thatcher’s thighs.
Guiscard swore as Thatcher cried out in pain and terror. The boy’s head jerked back revealing a gaping maw that clamped onto, and came away with, the man’s left hand.
Blood arced up and across the second militiaman as Thatcher turned, chunks from his thighs tearing free in the boy’s hooked claws.
Thatcher’s companion pulled him away, attempting to flee back to the line of men who screamed out, incredulous at the horror they witnessed.
Several backed away from the scene, before experienced reeves, their brows wet with sweat under the glaring sun, pulled and pushed them back into line, shouting orders to make ready their weapons after Guiscard shouted for them to do the very same.
High on his horse, Guiscard moved forward a few paces and raised his lance, unsure what else to do but to steady his men by giving them focus.
The men of Steedon pointed their crude weapons towards the tree-line whilst the two men ran back towards them, colour vacant from their faces, one man’s hand clamped on the bloody wrist-stump of the other.
The boy gave chase.
‘Take the thing down!’ Guiscard pointed his lance towards the boy, who ran on all fours, gaining on the two retreating men. There was a pause. ‘Take him down, for White’s sake!’
An arrow arced through the air, followed by two more. All three missed as the boy leapt left then right, fast then slow. Three more bounding manoeuvres allowed him to avoid the two arrows following the first three. The sudden speed he released allowed him to catch Thatcher and his friend.
Both men went down hard.
More arrows crossed the gap between horrified line and screaming duo.
The boy was struck twice as he tore into the wailing men, their screams cut short as arrows struck them too, finishing all three simultaneously.
Breathing heavily, and with the heat of the day and the cloying padding, maille and plate he wore agitating him more than ever, Guiscard called the line to hold and, thankfully, it did, but for a moment. From the darkness of the forested Kaja Strip came a bass thud of vocalisation which trailed off before another followed, then another.
There must be hundreds in there, Guiscard thought. ‘I said hold, damn you,’ he shouted, riding along his line, bulbous visor raised and lance held high. He reached the centre and turned his mount to face the trees, to face the children who were sallying forth.
White be with us…
Men shouted and men wept. They wept at a sight more horrific than anything their minds could conjure; scores of boys and girls emerged from the darkness. Some staggered, some limped and some fell and crawled; all looked like victims of torture, all looked like the boy who had torn two men to pieces.
Guiscard didn’t know what to do. He looked left and right along his line, finishing on those few with good weapons, armour and plenty of grim experience. They looked back, lost for answers, eyes pleading for a life-saving order.
Some of the children called out, untainted, their cries pulling at the hearts of fathers most of all. The children looked about them, terrified, hoping and wishing and praying for a father or mother, or any adult, to come and whisk them away from all they endured. They feared each other as much as they feared what hid in the trees behind them; that much was clear to Guiscard, who watched on, pained and helpless, his daughters at the forefront of his thoughts.
A few of the children ran forward as if by some silent command. They ran with a strange gait, twisted in their ongoing transformations whilst others dropped to all fours and accelerated like a hound on a hare.
Arrows flew and children fell. Men fled.
Guiscard’s call to hold was ignored.
The meadow was mottled with flattened grass, red stains and bodies clumped and separated. Men and children. And the tree-line remained dark, remained empty of a conventional enemy. Three more bass thuds filled the space between the remaining militia and the Kaja Strip; thuds issued forth from the throats of men.
‘Why do they hide?’ a shaking, wisp of a lad asked, face spattered with blood for the first time in his life and linen braes damp with piss. No one answered.
The near rout saw men leave the field, but many more rallied to the shouts of their liege and his too few retainers. Some braved the meadow, bringing in the children crying for their help rather than tearing into their fellows. Several of those men returned cut and torn, girls and boys in arms, their relief at rescue not yet understood as their weary, confused little faces stared at everyone and nothing at once, sobs silent, breathless. Others fell to or hacked down those changed; those small people who launched for throats or ripped at bellies. The impossible mix stayed archers’ hands after the first few volleys took the charging, altered children. All those remaining in the open meadow lay dead or dying and no one dared venture forth to check on those who moaned and cried, wept and pleaded for it all to stop; for the White Light to take them beyond.
Guiscard walked his horse up the line once more, grinding his teeth in an attempt to focus his mind away from what he’d witnessed, what he continued to witnes
s out in the meadow. He’d faced Orismaran raids before; faced other creatures before, but this was like nothing seen or heard in a lifetime, and he’d survived four decades. What he would give for a coven of Queen Velenn’s Witchblades by his side, to counter the child-altering arcane with more of the same.
Another three vocal thuds caused many of his men to step back, some to turn, if only briefly, away from the trees and the gory scene laid out before them. The reeves shouted to hold, so Guiscard didn’t have to.
‘Movement!’
Guiscard looked left to the axeman who’d shouted. The long-hafted weapon was held out, horizontally, and Guiscard followed its lead-weighted wedge of a head to the tree-line.
Half a dozen, a dozen, more. Orismaran warriors walked from the trees, square shields painted, heavy bladed weapons and spears held high. Their faces a picture of colour, a myriad of spiral and angular tattoos. Some carried totems, carved wooden poles with crude idols held aloft; living not so long ago. Sirretan children, or parts of them, decorated the totems and square shield-fronts.
The Steedon militia shouted their curses, anger swelling like a flash-flood of sickening rage given focus. Guiscard took a deep breath through his nose, filling his lungs. Jaw set, he lowered his visor, the view becoming little more than a bright strip filled by tree framed savages. It was all he needed to see. His closest men saw the action and cheered, before hammering weapons on shields or stamping their feet; the sacrificial children – their children – enough to harden their resolve. The repetitive clatter and clunks they emitted was met with three vocalised bass booms – the loudest yet.
The similar sized line of Orismaran warriors dropped to a half crouch as one. Tongues out on many, cheeks filled on others; they held their poses with weapons offered offensively, shields out to the sides to reveal tattooed chests. Few wore armour worth mentioning.