Death to the Grand Guild

“The beauty of trade was infectious, a flower, but the new flower had plenty of thorns as well. In the old days, we traded good for good, bickering over what wheat was worth in salt, and what potatoes were worth in ale.

The Minoans changed all of that. They offered a peculiar metal for our salt, meat, and our ale. The shiny metal created a fever among us; they called it gold and silver, but we called it power. Our goods shipped north as the shiny metal piled in our vaults.

When our neighbours saw the new spoils, the fever spread to them as well. They desired the shiny metal like a drunkard desired ale, and it was in the Guild’s control. And we became the masters of them without having to lift a sword.”

The Grand Guild by Arland Breeston

The Arrival

The booming voice from Bitters, outside the coach, made Edmund pull his nose out of his book. His brother, Harwin, was looking through the narrow slit of the door to see what was happening.

“What is it, brother?” Edmund nervously asked. They had been delayed by a patrol, looking for brigands robbing wagons along the Triad Road. “It’s obvious that we are not criminals,” he replies as Harwin continues to peer outside. “Surely they see the Hayston sigil on our coach.”

“Quiet.” his brother Harwin barked back. He became aggravated as the profanity from Bitter’s escalated.

Looking out the narrow slit on his side, he could see nothing. It was a noble’s coach built for protection and comfort rather than visibility. Jutting rocks and the thick grasses held his gaze while the commotion was out of his view.

“They keep demanding for us to get out of the coach, Edmund,” Harwin remarked while looking for his steel.

“Should we comply?” he answered, baffled. “If it will get us moving again, then I’m for it. I’m tired of riding in this cursed thing.”

“It is disrespectful to make such demands, brother. Something is amiss. Where is my steel, Edmund?”

“Are you serious?” Edmund gasped out. “These are Breeston soldiers! How could we explain our actions if we traded steel with them? Gods forbid we kill one.”

Curses came from his brother’s mouth. “This doesn’t look right,” he remarked again. Their captain, Bitters, was still wound up in heated words with the militia. At least they had them outnumbered, his brother assured him. The rabble wouldn’t dare draw steel against the seven of them he gloated.

Edmund felt at ease; he was sure Bitters would handle this. Their coach had two crossbowmen on the rear seat, with another in the upper nest. Shaking his head, he was reaching to open his book again. Then he heard more shouting from outside. “What now?” he complained.

“There are four men on horses headed this way,” Harwin added.

“Are they, the bandits?” Edmund facetiously asked.

His older brother shrugged as orders from the old captain began as he shouted to the patrol that delayed them. “You two in the back, get off of there and form a line. Not you, dammit, you stay in that blasted nest. They get in range; you let them have it!”

Edmund inquired for more information but Harwin grew angry with him.

“Shut up; I can’t see much either. I can only hear Bitters mouth. He’s ordering Blaine and Tim to have their crossbows cocked and ready.”

Bitters demanded the patrol sergeant fulfil his duties and protect them. Edmund could hear the rough voice replying, swearing to do so. The sound of hooves startled him and he could feel the rumble as the riders passed the door of the coach.

An odd thudding noise followed. A sound he couldn’t describe, and it put a sense of dread in him. Harwin gasped out. “Grab your bow, brother. The two riders just murdered Tim and Blaine — they are dead!”

“The ones behind us?” Edmund asked, startled.

“No, you fool, the militiamen are imposters! We are in a dire situation.”

Ffff-Tttt, the twang of a crossbow, sang. “I think Walter got one!” his brother shouted.

Another crashing sound came from the top of the coach. He was peering through his slit again, and a mortified shock gripped him as the bottom of Walter’s boots passed his view while his body crashed onto a jutting stone.

Edmund’s heart began beating as heavy as a smith’s hammer while steel clashed as insults between Bitters and the imposters echoed within the coach.

Harwin had the door of the coach unlatched, his Kirschner sword drawn and ready to pounce. Then the wagon sped off in a rush as Harwin steadied himself in the doorway while Edmund peered out his narrow slit in confusion.

“Close the door, brother; you can’t jump out now and bust an ankle,” he remarked to Harwin as he scowled back at him in annoyance, cursing aloud that the wagon could never outrun mounted riders.

“Maybe Bitters told him to,” Edmund said out of ignorance.

“Bitters is back there fighting the other two, but thank the gods!” Harwin jubilantly says, glancing through the door’s slit.

“What is it?” Edmund became excited, some good news.

“The other four just passed Bitters and are heading for us, so he has a chance now.” His brother was aching to engage the bandits.

Edmund wished he had the same courage, but he wasn’t the swordsman his brother was, not even by half. Confidence with his bow, he didn’t lack. If he were up in the coach’s nest, he was sure he could pick off the pursuers.

Sounds of horses passed them, and he could hear shouts of their attackers around, then from the front of the wagon, a ringing of steel frightened him. Grunts and vile screams brought dismay while the coach slowed to a crawl. They could hear a dull thunk, and it was apparent the driver of their coach had perished.

“I see one of them reaching for the horses’ bridle,” Harwin tells him bluntly.

“We have to confront them now, don’t we, brother?” Edmund was in knots. Harwin was as tough as they come. Unfortunately, his skill in the practice yard was minimal. His mind was restless, and he became nauseous; he felt he was about to die.

Harwin became excited, ready to go as he lacked the fear that had him paralyzed. Harwin laid his back across Edmund’s lap, giggling, as Edmund looked at him in bewilderment.

“Are you mad? We are about to die! What is so bloody funny?” Edmund says, annoyed at his brother’s disturbing desire to leap out to his death.

“These rubes think we’re fat old nobles soiling themselves in here. They’re going to open this door with dirks drawn and drag us out to bleed us.” Harwin laughs aloud. “When they see me fly out of here, then we will have the numbers. You follow me out and shoot the first one you see.”

Harwin had his knees pulled to his chest, his feet up in a crouch while lying still as disbelief struck Edmund. Of all the times he had seen his brother batter his fellow militia, he picked a moment today to lose his senses.

Edmund clutched his bow with his hands shaking, unconvinced that he would have a chance to draw an arrow before these brigands had them taken out and gutted.

Loud noises echoed as one approached. The door had a dull thud from the bandits’ momentum as he grabbed the outer latch of the door. Then came a clicking sound, and it was about to be yanked open.

His brother then kicked out his feet like a striking viper, sending the coach door into the brigand’s face. A loud smash followed, sending the man’s momentum into another waiting behind him, sending them both toppling to the earth.

Harwin was fast upon them, burying his Kirschner into the belly of the one who ate the door. His face became a red strain as Harwin pulled the blade out of him. Like an asp, he slashed the second man across the face.

The horror shocked Edmund as the man grabbed at the gaping wound, and a shroud of blood poured through his hands, toppling him as he kicked and screamed in fear.

Two others were mounted as Harwin ran at them like a charging bull. The one who slowed the horses saw his brother. He reared his mount with his eyes fixed upon Edmund as he followed his brother out the coach’s doorway.

With the numbers evened, he turned cravenly to flee, trying to rear his horse in a quick motion to retreat. Edmund did as his brother beckoned, finding buried courage and letting his arrow fly at the fleeing rider.

His arrow sailed fast as he released the string of his yew bow, striking the rider in the neck. His hand clenched around the shaft sticking from the wound as blood began gushing, covering his wrist. Panic overcame his mount, and it kicked in fear, sending the bandit bouncing out his saddle, flying off his horse, and falling head over boots hard to the rocky ground.

Edmund then notched another arrow, looking to aid his brother and discovering that Harwin had dragged the last man off his mount, hacking him over and over. The man was well past dead, but his brother didn’t care and kept burying his blade.

Harwin was in a rage, and, after a few more hacks, his eyes began darting in many directions, looking for something else to kill. His focus became fixed on Bitters, and in foolish haste, he raced in a mad sprint to aid him, forgetting about the wagon behind him.

Their captain was trading steel with the two imposters. Both were unmounted as the old captain had cut their horses out from under them. Bitters was good in a melee, but so was the other, Edmund noticed.

His foe, the imposter, acting as a sergeant, had a mace, matching Bitters blow by blow. The other was a rube who was more annoying than lethal. The captain could knock back the rube in one hack, giving him time to parry the other’s mace with his buckler shield.

The loud hammering of banded ash wood and iron clanged while he turned his bow upon the group, scanning to see if he had a shot.

The fighting was too close, and he did not want to miss and hit Bitters. His brother was closing fast, but it was still a great distance, and the men had the captain swarmed.

His sword slashing, he rushed the leader, pushing him back on his heels and causing him to stumble away. Then, rearing on the other lesser brigand, he pounced. His long sword was of forged steel, and it clashed against his coarse blade, breaking it into pieces.

Bitters then buried his sword into the man’s chest, sending the point of it bulging out the back of his leathers.

The old captain then pivoted as he pulled his blade free, raising his sword to catch the incoming mace while the brigand’s leader regained his footing.

His efforts to evade the weapon weren’t fast enough, as the mace slipped past the captain’s sword, smashing into the spaulder of his armour. The blow was heavy and sent Bitters to one knee.

Edmund, in desperation, aimed his arrow. The brigand began to swing his mace downward at Bitter’s head to finish him. Edmund unleashed the shaft in a rush, but his many hours of practice paid off as it struck the man in the chest, sticking in his leathers.

Its force diverted the mace’s swing short of its target and sent the brigand backward onto his backside. Climbing back to a knee, he rose and looked Edmund’s way.

The shaft was still stuck, not deep enough to kill, but getting shot at again wasn’t the brigand’s problem anymore. His brother was now behind the kneeling Bitters.

The man snarled and backed away, but he didn’t run. He advanced with his mace, slapping steel with Harwin. His brother stood a good head over him, matching his blows fast and heavy.

Tall for a Breestoner, Edmund thought as he looked upon the brigand. A half-breed and broad in the chest, but the man lacked the strength his older brother possessed.

Harwin’s blows came raining in flurries, and he had his opponent on his heels in a backward stumble. His brother had bitten his foe with his Kirschner and blood began oozing down his free arm. Another quick thrust and he had cut the brigand across the left ear.

He appeared to be breathing hard as Harwin circled him. The brigand glanced around, looking desperate. Edmund was peering from afar, looking around at his other men, his mates.

They were dead or near it as Bitter’s had risen with his sword ready, wanting another go at him as Harwin circled back. The man looked afraid, and Edmund knew the feeling. He was feeling it moments ago.

“I yield,” the frightened man yelled out.

“You aren’t yielding. You grip that mace because I’m about to cut you down.” Harwin yelled back.

“Let him yield,” Bitters interrupted shrewdly. “It is better this way.”

“We can’t — he killed our men. He has to pay.”

“He killed my men! Or don’t you remember why we are here?” Bitters snapped back. “You there, throw away that mace and get on your knees,” he said while pointing the tip of his sword toward the hard earth.

The brigand quickly abided, tossing aside his mace, like Bitters ordered, glancing at Harwin, who was wroth in anger.

“This isn’t my fault!” his brother shouted out.

The old captain ignored him, turning to Edmund and waving in a motion to bring the wagon. Edmund moved the dead driver to the other side of the bench, leading the wagon back as Harwin and Bitters were still at a stare-down.

“You shouldn’t include this bloodshed with my little problem,” Harwin added, glaring boldly at the captain.

“It’s not a little problem anymore, now, is it? I have to take four dead men back to Hayston!” The captain yelled back. “I know what’s your fault and what isn’t. It still doesn’t change the fact of what happened here.”

His temper made him wince and go to his knees, the captain grumbled, cursing his wound, dropping his sword when he rose.

“Get the damn bodies!” Bitters screamed at Harwin as he groaned. “Don’t look at me stupid like that. Those horses you see grazing over there,” he says while pointing fiercely. “Get them and pile corpses on their backs.”

“What about him?” Harwin asked, pointing to the kneeling brigand.

“Tie him up if it bothers you,” Bitters growls.

The brigand was snickering while Harwin circled behind him; his brother was glaring at Bitters, then their prisoner.

He raised his Kirschner from behind him while Bitters looked at him in disgust, and in a show of defiance to the captain, he slashed, sending his blade downward and striking the back of the brigand’s head.

The flat of the blade rang hard on his half-helm, removing it, and sending him falling forward as his face planted straight down into the hard earth.

“You big lummox! You better hope he gets up with his wits! Get those bodies picked up now. I’m your captain until I dismiss you in Breeston.” Bitters said in a hoarse gruff. “You keep ruffling my feathers, and I’ll have you sent to the stockade and then to the salt mines.”

Bitters then reeled on Edmund as he approached driving the coach. “You! You tie that man he crowned to one of our draft horses. I want to keep my eye on him. I hope you can follow orders better than your idiot brother.”

A red scowl came over the captain. Glancing at Harwin, then back at him, he unloaded onto Edmund more curt commands.

“Tie his wrists around that horse’s neck and his ankles around his fat belly. If you need to throw one over his back to keep him from falling, so be it. I want it to look like that horse is wearing a tunic when we march through those gates. There are ropes and harnesses in the strongbox. Now get to it.”

He did what Bitters said without asking. He always did; the old man always frightened him.

The brigand had two good dirks in well-crafted scabbards. One was a good foot and a half that Edmund admired. He then pulled off the leather boots of the brigand’s leader, watching as he was lying still as Harwin left him, flat on his belly like a turtle.

He felt relieved that the man didn’t stir while unbuckling the soft leather straps from his armour with one hand, glancing up in case the man was playing a ruse. His heart was still beating rapidly.

The melee was nothing he had ever seen. He was sucking air in desperation, struggling to find a steady hand as he fumbled with the straps.

Lifting him by the shoulders, Edmund had the leathers free. His limp body just slid out and thumped back onto the dirt. The sudden jar didn’t get a whimper from the brigand. Meanwhile, the old captain watched him, holding his hurt shoulder and leaning upon a jutting rock, thinking about his next move and paying little attention to him.

Lastly, he removed the man’s purse, which contained money. He felt the weight of it in his hand, wondering who this criminal had taken it from and wondering if they were still alive.

Harwin was tying the horse with Tim and Blaine’s corpses to the back of the wagon. His brother walked with a rapid stride, wearing a red grimace and grumbling profane words to protest his captain’s orders. He was used to his brother’s temper, sulking from the scolding from Bitters.

He watched his brother a moment more, then grabbed the brigand by his arm. His face was of a local, not the half-breed he had first thought. Blood covered his left cheek and pooled into his mouth. The man had a large square head, and even unconscious, he looked menacing.

His brother had nearly taken the lobe while it dangled as he looked away from it. Hoisting the limp body onto his shoulder, he carried the unconscious brigand like a grain sack as Bitters had ordered him to. The man was heavy, but Edmund was stronger than his skinny frame would suggest.

Edmund placed him on the horse closest to the driver, looking back at Bitters, who nodded in approval. His body draped on the draft horse’s back like a cloak, arms dangling limply with his legs hugging the horse’s midsection.

It looked degrading, but Edmund wouldn’t suggest a different way. The old captain was still pondering while echoing a chorus of grunts loudly as if he was next to him.

He found ropes in the strongbox and tied them as Bitters wanted, being careful not to discomfort the animal. His brother had two more horses tied to the wagon and was loading the driver’s corpse onto one of them.

Edmund attempted to help Bitters, leading him slowly as the captain winced to the wagon, then he gingerly nudged him up to the driver’s bench.

“Thank you, Edmund, now sit with me.” the captain says. His voice seemed to get weaker as he held his shoulder and cursed, finding strength, he glanced back at Harwin.

“Hey dummy,” he yelled at him as he was attempting to climb onto the wagon. “You ain’t finished, collect the stiffs of the other vagrants. I want them all.”

His brother stormed off while waving his hands in all directions, turning to glare back at them, shaking his head, only to turn around and obey like a scolded child.

“Don’t worry about helping Harwin. He needs to calm his feeble mind, so walking back there to collect the dead ones will do him good.” the captain chuckled with a pained smile.

“The men over there; I shot one,” Edmund mutters with guilt as he looks toward where their attackers lay.

“And you shot that one spread out over that horse’s back. If you didn’t do that, I would be on one of those mounts back there.” Bitters put a hand on his shoulder, trying to ease his mind. “The gods are cruel to put you through this. You should have stayed back in Hayston. Harwin’s crime isn’t yours to pay.”

“I have been with my brother my whole life. No matter how much he annoys or insults me. I will not abandon him,” Edmund replied. “I will consider this an adventure. Write about it in my journals. It could be good for me.”

“This isn’t one of those books you like to read, written by a rich lord or merchant’s scribe, all pretty and nice,” Bitters says. “Breeston is a pure hell of its own, even when my bare feet wandered the wards.” then the old captain spat.

“I spent twelve good years grooming him. He was supposed to take my spot, dammit! I’m too old for this rubbish. Swinging steel and climbing horses. Riding with these wagons back and forth on the Triad Road.” as another rant of tavern behaviour followed as they watched Harwin tote two corpses across his shoulder. The captain calmed, then looked seriously at Edmund.

“Your uncle won’t let him come back to the militia. Not as my second, not as a common brute, nor to muck the stables.”

“Uncle, is that mad?” Edmund asked.

“He is that mad! The whole nobility is worn thin with your brother’s arrogance. The last thing he did, Edmund, are you kidding me?” Bitters says while scoffing. “If he wasn’t in the care of your adopted father — a Parsons noble! — your brother would be resting in a grave,”

Edmund listened as Bitters’ complaints went on, and before he realised it, he was shedding tears. He and Harwin were adopted. They were refugees from Nuhr, losing their father after dying to a thief’s dirk in Hayston.

The decision he made to accompany his brother seemed easier before they departed, but after the long miles and this dark day. He knew this venture would be challenging.

“I am sorry, lad,” Bitters says, understanding how hard this was on Edmund. “I am just heartbroken.”

“I know, sir, I know the circumstances.” Edmund interrupted. “I know what I am leaving, and my father is saddened and ashamed of this as well. I hated leaving him — my uncle even more. I consider you my uncle even though you rarely have anything nice to say.”

Bitters snorted into a laugh, then looked over to Harwin while he led the last of the horses this way. “Did you see how he handled that brigand? He made that man look like a tosser. I don’t know if I could have beat him.”

“You had the second man, too. I would have bet on you, sir.” Edmund replies to change his mood.

“That man was a gnat. I was hoping to cut him down quickly.” Bitters says as he spat to his side. “These criminals I believe are a gang, calling themselves the Yellow Hand. I’ve read about these louts in your uncles’ letters. This man we caught will get tortured until he gives them his mates.”

“What, whose mates?” Harwin asked, not privy to their conversation as he approached. “Are there more of them?”

“I’m afraid so. I got letters from Breeston,” Bitters said. “This Yellow Hand is a real problem, and it’s worse than they even know. That is why I want to show them this grizzly scene. Scare them when we ride to those gates with a load of corpses.”

“Ha, that will be a funny sight,” Harwin replied with a chuckle.

“Shut up, Harwin.” Bitters sniped at him as he barked out to make sure the men were secured before they made their way to Breeston.

“Listen, Edmund, those weapons from the men, put them in the strongbox. The militia won’t claim it; you will need to sell them to a blacksmith.” the captain adds as Harwin was far enough away.

“I don’t need the money. I have plenty.” Edmund protested.

“I know you do, but this fool doesn’t,” Bitters grumbled while pointing to Harwin again. “You got the papers your uncle sent with you. When you get up to the gates, they will stop the wagon to look you over.”

“The scene will look queer to them. They are uneducated brutes, too dumb to come to a sensible solution. You will have to make it for them.”

“Why are you telling me this, Bitters?” Edmund was getting worried.

“I will pass out along the way, I am sure of it. My shoulder is busted, and we are two hours away.” The captain instructs him while groaning in agony. “I’m telling you because your brother will bollocks this. They will take me away to some healer and detain you two.”

Edmund couldn’t believe what he had heard. “We had no choice,” he protested.

“I know that, lad. They only see two Panheads covered in blood. The nice linens you wear won’t mean a squat to them. You go talking about being a Parsons, and they will laugh then arrest you,” Bitters said, interrupting him.

“I don’t need your brother losing his temper over that. You pull out that document, and they will see the seal. I doubt they will be able to read the damn thing. You demand to see Arlo Withers. He is the captain of the constables. Waste no time with Captain Wintergarden of the militia. He’s an arrogant twit.”

“Who is?” Harwin asked, interrupting them. “We are all set. Can we go now?”

Bitters ignored him. “The fool on that horse will lie and say a bunch of outlandish things, trying to turn their prejudice of your skin against you. You stick to what I told you. That man will iron it all out, but they will hold you until you can have an audience with him,” Bitters explained while looking seriously at Edmund.

“You two, don’t lose your wits. Don’t listen to anything you hear, and keep your mouth shut! Especially you, Harwin!”

“I saved your old hide back there.” His brother japed, breaking his train of thought. “You aren’t going to die, are you?” Harwin japed again. “You can’t die. You’re a sour old coot, and the gods don’t care for those sorts.”

“I hope I die,” Bitters replied, “so I can wash my hands of you.”