by Ty Johnston
The tips of his fingers grazed the black fist.
***
Randall was knocked to his knees. A tightness so overpowering it felt as if a spear had struck him stabbed its way into the center of his chest, forcing him to cry out in pain. With his head swimming, the healer didn’t know what was happening. He had never had a heart attack, though he had dealt with many patients who had. The pain those patients had described was what he imagined he was feeling as he gasped for breath.
Stilp stood in shock, his one pant leg still higher than the other. One second the healer had been poking at the back of Stilp’s leg, then without warning Randall had dropped.
“Tendbones!” Stilp knelt beside the healer, putting an arm around the younger man.
Randall’s pain was gone as quickly as it had assaulted him. He opened his eyes to find he could barely see from the tears. He shook his head to clear the waters.
Stilp jumped to his feet and turned toward the door. “I’ll get help.”
“Stop,” Randall managed with a croaky voice.
Belgad’s employee halted and turned back to the young man. Randall was still on his knees but whatever had come over him seemed to have released its grip.
Randall’s eyes were strained as he looked up. “Get me to my room.”
Stilp knelt beside the healer again and place his hands beneath Randall’s arms, lifting him to his feet. “You need help.”
“Just get me to my room.”
Not knowing what to do, Stilp grabbed one of Randall’s elbows and helped him through the door, then down the hall. By the time they reached the door to Randall’s personal quarters, the healer was walking on his own again.
The Kobalan didn’t pause to use a key. He said a couple of ancient words and pulled open the door.
Randall stepped into the room, his eyes darting around. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he went to his desk and pulled open one of the drawers.
Inside was the silk cloth. On top of it lay the ring.
Randall lifted the gold band and stared at it. “What have you been up to?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Is everything all right?” Stilp had remained in the doorway.
Randall wrapped the ring in its cloth and shoved it into a pocket of his healer’s robes. “Everything is fine. I am just overworked.”
Stilp glanced around the room as if expecting to see something or someone, then looked back to Randall. “Are you sure I can’t find you some help?”
“That will be all, Stilp,” Randall said, motioning at the entrance. “If you would, close the door behind you. Your leg is fine. I suggest eating less salt to avoid the cramps.”
***
Stilp and Spider had agreed upon a meeting place. Neither had known what Spider would find in the healer’s room, but they had wanted to make sure they were not followed from the tower.
Stilp found the other at the bar in the back of the Stone Pony tavern. The smoke and dim light at first obscured Spider’s face, but a candle revealed black soot around the edges of the small man’s jaws.
Stilp settled onto a hard stool. “What in hell happened?”
Spider’s hands shook as he brought a mug of ale to his lips. “There’s something not right about that healer.”
Stilp paused long enough to order a drink of his own from the gruff fellow behind the bar. Seconds later he had a mug of ale in his hands and turned his attention back to his compatriot. “What are you talking about? You better not report to Belgad all shook up like this, or he’s likely to skin you from impatience.”
“Did you see the ring?”
Ring? Stilp thought back. No, he had not seen a ring, but Randall had taken something from his desk and placed it in a pocket. “Didn’t see anything.”
Spider took another sip of ale to calm his nerves. “It was in the desk. I picked it up to see if it was real gold.”
Stilp nodded for his companion to continue his tale.
“But the second I touched it,” Spider went on, “it was like ... I don’t know ... something tearing at my soul. I felt myself being pulled into the ring, drawn into it.”
Stilp patted Spider on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, and keep your voice down. We don’t need no attention.”
Spider gulped at his drink, his eyes filled with terror. “It was sheer luck I got away from that ring. It was heavy and I’d barely touched it. It just fell off the edge of my fingers back into the desk. I didn’t wait to see if anything else was going to happen. I ran out of there as fast as I could.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Stilp took a swig. “Good.”
“That ring was full of low magic.”
Stilp’s face wore confusion. “What the hell is low magic?”
“It’s evil. And that ring, it had a black fist carved on it. I know I’ve seen that somewhere.”
“You mean like a crest?”
Spider turned to his partner and pointed a finger at him. “That’s it. It’s some sort of crest. I just don’t know what country, or if maybe it’s some noble’s.”
Stilp drank and pondered what Spider had revealed. A heavy gold ring bearing a black fist had been found in the desk of Randall Tendbones, and it wasn’t likely a patient had used the ring as payment. Healers at the tower didn’t take payment, though they did accept donations. A ring like Spider described would be too expensive to have been a donation. Stilp was also positive the ring had something to do with the odd attack upon Randall. Perhaps the magic in the ring was tied to the healer?
Stilp set down his drink. “I think you’ve stumbled onto something, Spider. Belgad will want to know.”
“One more drink?” Spider asked, holding up his empty mug. “Before we face the boss?”
“Sure enough.” Stilp grinned and ordered another round. “I mean, why not? Belgad’s footing the bill, right?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Maslin, I need to speak with you.”
The voice was Randall’s. It popped into Markwood’s head as he strolled the main hall of the college of magic. As soon as the old wizard recognized the speaker, he knew something was wrong. Sending mental messages from one mage to another was not a common practice because one never knew, without taking precautions, who else or what else could be listening.
“Where?” Markwood whispered as he marched up a flight of stairs to his office.
“The Twelve Chairs,” was the mental reply.
Markwood reached his office and shut the door behind him.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” he said out loud.
There was no reply. None was needed. The meeting had been set.
***
The Twelve Chairs pub was a common gathering spot of wizards for two reasons. First, the pub was along Mages Way, a major road running from the west through the north side of Bond and ending in the east at the University of Ursia. Many of the town’s wealthier mages, most professors at the university, lived along Mages Way, which was how the road had gotten its name. The second reason so many mages enjoyed the hospitality of the Twelve Chairs was because a permanent spell of protection had been placed over the establishment. This spell blocked nearly all forms of magical spying. Only the most powerful of wizards would be able to break through the spell over the pub.
The Twelve Chairs was a jovial place, small but often full of students and the occasional professor. The place had its name from the twelve padded stools that fronted its long polished counter, those stools apparently having some secret history about which no one knew anything, the secret lost to time. There were no other seats in the establishment. Several tall tables were scattered about the main room, but there were no other places to sit except at the bar.
At four bells in the afternoon, Markwood rushed through the front door of the Twelve Chairs, his robe flying about him. In the dim room he could make out a pair of students whispering together over a pint of beer at the nearest end of the bar, but at
the far end sat a lone young man who appeared to have much on his mind.
“Randall,” Markwood said as he approached.
“Maslin.” The healer helped the wizard to a seat next to him.
The Chairs’ bartender approached.
“White wine,” Markwood said quickly to get the man away from them.
Randall nodded. “The same.”
The bartender moved away.
Markwood turned slightly on his stool to better see his friend. “What has happened?”
“Someone found the ring.”
Markwood’s eyes widened. “Do you still have it?”
Randall patted a pocket of his white robes. He had not taken the time to change out of his healing garb.
The old wizard glanced from the pocket back up to the healer. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure they got the shock of their life.”
“What happened?”
“The ring has an alarm ward cast upon it,” Randall said with a tired sigh, “a rather nasty alarm ward which my father cast. It induces pain in the rightful owner. At first I thought I was having a heart attack, then the person must have released the ring. As soon as I had my wind back, I realized what had happened. I rushed back to my room and found the ring where I had left it in my desk.”
The bartender suddenly appeared in front of them with two glasses of white wine. The two mages were quiet while their drinks were placed before them, but then the bartender was gone. He was a smart bartender, knowing when he wasn’t needed or wanted.
Markwood paused only long enough to lift a glass. “Where were you when struck by the pain?”
“I was in a recovery room, casting on Trelvigor.” Randall blinked, thinking. “No, wait ... I was with Trelvigor, but I had finished for the day. Belgad’s man Stilp came into the room and asked me about the wizard, then he wanted me to take a look at a bad leg of his.”
“Is that when it happened?”
The healer nodded. “I was down on one knee checking the leg when the attack came. Stilp wanted to find me another healer, but I had to get to my room as soon as possible.”
“And no one was there.”
“I got there as fast as I could, but I was still shaken from the warding spell. Anyone in the room easily could have fled before I arrived.”
Markwood took a sip of wine. “It’s odd they didn’t take the ring.”
“They might have tried,” Randall said with a slight grin, “but they probably received quite a surprise. The ring can protect itself.”
Markwood took another sip then set his glass on the counter. His face grew serious. “You have to assume Belgad will know about the ring.”
Randall had not touched his own wine, and now moved his glass aside. “What makes you say that?”
“Stilp being there when you had your attack. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Will Belgad know what the ring means?” Randall asked. Then he shook his head. “Of course he will. The man’s from Dartague.”
“He won’t know how you obtained the ring. He has nothing of which to suspect you. What he will do, however, is try to use the ring to his benefit, financially or otherwise.”
Randall nodded. “I could have much to fear from this man.”
“Not immediately,” Markwood said, sliding his glass off to one side. “Belgad has no ties to Kobalos of which I know, and I don’t believe he’s foolish enough to try and build such ties with Verkain. It will take him a while to decide what to do.”
Randall turned a pained gaze upon his friend. “Is it time for me to leave Bond?”
Markwood stared at his glass of wine. There were too many uncertainties. He didn’t know for sure if an agent of Belgad was the one who found the ring, but what he did know made him suspect as much. Regardless of who had seen the golden band, what could they do with the information?
“I think you are safe for the moment,” the wizard finally said. “I see no manner of profit for Belgad in trying to use whatever information he can surmise about you and the ring. He is not going to contact Kobalos, and if he told someone here it would not matter, at least not locally. A number of local officials would likely welcome you.”
Randall grasped the glass before him and sucked down a good gulp of wine. The alcohol was refreshing as it rushed down his throat. He was still drained, and his nerves were at their end. The drink helped, but Randall knew he couldn’t afford to let his senses get away from him.
He returned the nearly empty glass to the bar. “What if it wasn’t Belgad?”
“If Verkain knew you were here, we would not be having this conversation.”
Randall nodded again. The old wizard was right.
“Come back with me to my office,” Markwood suggested. “I’ll place wards around you. You should be safe from any magical eyes and the wards will help keep you safe from physical dangers.”
The offer did not improve the healer’s mood. “It wouldn’t be enough against Verkain. It would never be enough. But I’ll humor you.”
As he finished the last of his wine, Markwood was thankful Randall wasn’t going to argue with him about the protective wards. It was true the spells might not be effective against someone as powerful as Lord Verkain of Kobalos, but someone like Belgad could be hampered quite a bit by such magics.
Before leaving the Twelve Chairs, Markwood made up his mind he would do some spying of his own. If he should find out Belgad was the one involved in finding Randall’s ring, then he would deal with the Dartague personally. It was safer for Randall if the young healer were not involved. The less contact he had with Belgad the better.
***
Belgad watched as Stilp and Spider retreated from his library, then turned his attention to the only other person remaining in the room. “What do you make of this development?”
Lalo stood in his usual spot by the door nearest his master. “There are two possibilities. Either Randall Tendbones has stolen the ring, or he is a member of the Kobalan royal family.”
“None of this tells me if he is Kron Darkbow.” Belgad grimaced. “It only confirms the healer is Kobalan. However he came upon this ring is irrelevant.”
Lalo raised an eyebrow. “Even if he is Kobalan royalty?”
Belgad paused, staring at his servant. A Kobalan royal in Bond would be unexpected, mainly because there were so few living Kobalan royals. If Randall were truly royalty, why was he a lowly healer and not living the life of a diplomat or a traveling prince?
Years of Belgad’s time had been consumed with running his own empire within Bond. The lives of a royal family far away had held little import to the Dartague. He mentally cursed himself for not being more aware of foreign events. “What is the current situation with Kobalos?”
“Verkain continues to rule as overlord,” Lalo explained. Even if the lord of the manor did not remain aware of current news, it was part of the Finder’s position to be abreast of such matters.
Belgad’s gaze turned thoughtful as he pondered his own past. “The man had an iron grip on his nation even when I was a boy.”
“Longer. Historians record Lord Verkain as ruling Kobalos for nearly two hundred years. Some suggest the name Verkain is merely a title that has been passed from generation to generation. Other writers believe Lord Verkain is a powerful mage who keeps his youth through dark magics.”
The northerner’s gaze darted to his employee. “What of his family?”
“His last wife allegedly died giving birth to a son about twenty years ago. They had two sons. Both princes were reportedly killed by their father during a rebellion several years ago.”
“So there is no royal family?”
“None of whom anyone is aware.”
Kobalans were rare outside their own nation, Belgad knew, but that was because they were not allowed to leave their homeland. Verkain gave permission for his nation’s citizens to remove themselves from the homeland only when they were on a military campaign, of which the
re had been few in recent years. The East Ursians and the Prisonlands to the south of Kobalos kept that nation in check, which was one reason the Prisonlands had been created in the first place sixty years earlier.
Belgad focused on what he knew of Randall Tendbones. The healer claimed to be Kobalan, and now there was evidence to that. Also, Randall had arrived in Bond roughly three years earlier. Could Randall be a refugee from the rebellion? Had he fled across the Prisonlands or west through Jorsica, then making his way south through Caballerus and into West Ursia, finally settling in Bond?
The Dartague slapped a hand on the desk. “Damn. Whatever this healer might be, we have no evidence he is Kron Darkbow.”
“But he is still someone of interest.”
Belgad nodded. “Of course. It could be unfortunate for the healer that he has fallen under my eye, but it is what it is. We must keep a watch on him, even if there is no connection to Darkbow.”
“I’ll put Stilp on it.”
Belgad waved off the man. “No. Have Spider take care of this one. He knows enough about the healer to be wary, and Stilp is too well known to Randall.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Lalo turned to leave.
***
Upon rising from bed the next morning, Markwood had a breakfast of crushed oats with a mug of goat milk. It was not his usual hardy breakfast, but he did not want his stomach heavy for the early tasks he had planned.
After a warm bath heated by his own magic, he changed into the dark purple robes that were proper to his position as a professor in the University of Ursia’s College of Magic. Then the old wizard made his usual morning walk from his home on Mages Way to his offices on campus. The first few minutes in his main office were spent taking care of minor paperwork and answering questions from the few students who arose before the morning bell tolled.
Once the wizard had taken care of his typical morning tasks, he sequestered himself in his private chamber and proceeded to use a piece of chalk to draw a circle on the stone floor. Markwood sank into the circle on crossed legs and closed his eyes. He meditated, blocking the outside world to his senses while opening the inner world of his mind.
It took only a matter of minutes to find the face he was looking for. It was the face of a man in his early thirties. He was short and slim with a head of graying hair atop a rugged face.