by Ty Johnston
Belgad’s frown deepened. “Cheery place.”
“It serves its purpose,” Shaltros said as Vitman handed him a heavy key. The chief guard turned to a gate in the giant cage around them and inserted the key into a lock.
“Should we be concerned about our safety?” Randall asked as he stared into one of the cells on the second tier and watched a man use his ragged fingernails to peel skin from the side of his jaw.
The bolt in the lock clanked, releasing the gate. “No sudden movements and don’t approach the patients,” Shaltros said, pocketing the key and pushing the heavy gate open. “Otherwise you should be safe. Don’t allow your hands to stray too far from your body. And nothing too flashy or bright.”
A thin smile formed on Belgad’s lips. “Is that all?”
Shaltros looked over his shoulder at the large man. “That should be enough for your brief stay.” He pointed left toward a hallway lit by torches. “We’ll be going that way. Have your men carry the wizard behind me.”
Belgad nodded to his four guards and they eased through the cage’s gate with their burden while the others in their party followed close behind.
Once through the gate, Shaltros retrieved the large key from his jacket pocket and handed it to one of his guards remaining inside the cage. “Stay here and lock it behind us.”
Shaltros pointed at another guard. “Come with us.”
The two guards did as ordered.
Shaltros moved to the front of the group and motioned for the Asylum guard next to him to walk ahead. “We’ll be going down to one of the special cells.”
The guard went forward to the edge of the tunnel-like hallway and pulled a torch from a sconce on the wall. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, pointing into the hall.
“Who was that?” It was an unusual, croaky voice that spoke.
Everyone glanced at one another, then looked down.
Trelvigor’s eyes were wide.
One of Belgad’s men nodded down. “Did he speak?”
Randall stepped forward, hoping to avert any actions of the wizard.
“I asked a question,” Trelvigor said with a weak voice.
The wizard’s eyes were open, but they appeared dazed. Randall was glad to see his potion had not completely worn away. “We’ll answer your questions once we get you in a proper bed.”
Trelvigor’s eyes opened wider, showing a menace in their bottomlessness. “I want to know who was speaking.” His voice sounded stronger.
Randall was suddenly concerned. Perhaps his potion was wearing off. “Give us a moment to --”
“No!” Trelvigor shouted. “I want to know who was speaking a moment ago!”
Randall recoiled at the fierceness of the yelling, raising his hands as if to cast a spell.
Belgad reached between his men and grabbed the wizard by the collar of his nightshirt. “None of that or you’ll get another thrashing.” He held up his other fist.
Trelvigor’s eyes crossed for a moment, then focused on the mustachioed face before him. “Belgad?”
“That’s right, Trelvigor, and you know I won’t stand for foolishness.”
The wizard blinked several times, then his vision seemed to clear as his eyes locked on his employer. “I heard his voice.”
Belgad’s eyes narrowed. “Who? What voice?”
“The voice that caused me pain, the voice that ruined all my fine belongings.”
Belgad’s head snapped around to the guard holding the torch.
Trelvigor’s eyes followed his patron’s glance.
Then the wizard went truly mad. He thrashed and strained at cords holding him tight. “It’s him! I know it’s him!”
Lucius Tallerus did not move for one of the longest seconds in his life. Everyone around him, the inmates and the guards and all those of Belgad’s party, appeared to move slowly, as if they were pushing their way through water. Even the sounds were dull and hollow, as if Lucius were listening through a tunnel.
But Lucius was not a man who panicked. He always planned ahead, as did Kron Darkbow. He had known he might be noticed by Trelvigor the wizard, but he had not thought it would happen so soon. When that time had come, he had thought to knife the magician in the night and blame it on one of the inmates, if worse came to worse.
Belgad’s voice was steel. “Don’t move.”
Lucius dropped the torch and darted for the hallway.
“After him!” Belgad bellowed.
Lucius shot down the hall, charging through a heavy door.
Chaos erupted. Without thinking of what they were doing, Belgad’s men dropped Trelvigor’s cot, spilling the mage onto the stone floor. The Dartague and his guards rushed toward the hall at the same time, knocking into one another and spilling Shaltros onto the ground. Belgad pushed aside his men and kept after Lucius while Randall touched Trelvigor on the shoulder, sending soothing waves of magic that would dull any pain the wizard felt from his tumble.
“He’ll try the back exit,” Vitman said of Lucius. The old man had a smile on his face, as if he was amused with all the excitement. “Though I suppose he might try the downstairs hall to the river.”
Shaltros got to his feet, a stunned expression on his face. “It would flood the ground floor and everything below it.”
In another part of the building, Lucius rounded a corner to find several Asylum guards lounging near the back entrance.
Belgad and his men weren’t far behind. Their booted feet thunked on the stone floor as they charged forward in their heavy armor.
“There!” Belgad shouted at Lucius’s back as he saw the man dodge down a flight of steps.
As Lucius’s feet carried him swiftly into the depths of the Asylum, he was thankful he had taken time to memorize the place. It helped him outmaneuver his pursuers. By the time the Liar and his men reached the bottom of the steps, Lucius had turned into the narrow and dark tunnel leading to the river shore.
Belgad paused, bringing his men up short. “Listen.” The word was little more than a whisper.
The five men stood quiet, a hall lit by torches to their left and a blackened tunnel to their right.
The pattering of booted feet slapping stone could be heard in the distance.
“This way.” Belgad rushing into the dark hall, his four warriors following.
Lucius kept a hand on the left wall as he ran. Twice before he had brought a torch and followed the tunnel to the river shore. He had not actually opened the exit door, but he had wanted to make sure it was there in case Kron Darkbow should need it. Now he was thankful for those trips because his familiarity with his surroundings allowed him to travel fast in the dark; Belgad and his companions would have to travel much slower, or they would have to waste precious seconds grabbing a torch.
A few more steps and Lucius bumped into the door, nearly knocking himself off his feet. In the distance he could hear Belgad and his gang rushing toward him. Lucius had only seconds. He reached out, trying to find the handle that would give him freedom. Once outside, Lucius was certain he could escape. He would simply drop his hat and jacket and become Kron Darkbow once again; it wasn’t night, the hours when Kron was at his best, but the rainstorm had clouded the sky.
Lucius’s fingers found the door’s bar and he pulled. Nothing happened at first, then a dull creaking of metal on metal screeched through the air and Lucius knew he was almost free. The yellings and noises of the running men behind him were no longer a concern.
“Don’t kill him!” It was Belgad, closer than could be expected.
Lucius tugged on the bar and the door smashed inward, knocking him against the floor. Then a wall of water erupted over him and Lucius went reeling.
***
Belgad knew what was coming before it hit him. The sound of the door slamming open was followed by the roar of river water barreling down the hall.
“Back!” the northerner yelled, but it was too late.
The waters overcame him, knocking the Dartague off his feet and sending
him rolling head over heels. He managed to gulp a last breath of air before being slammed against one of his men. Belgad’s world became a swirling, churning eruption of water. There was no way he could survive, he told himself in the darkness, but his last thoughts would not be of those he had loved. His last thoughts would be of Kron Darkbow. He wondered how Darkbow, or the guard he had believed was Darkbow, had managed to bring the river down upon him. Belgad supposed he would never know, dying in black wetness beneath the Asylum. He told himself it was a stupid death. He should have died on a battlefield far from the city of Bond, perhaps back in his homeland. But it was too late for that now. Death was here and it was not honorable.
***
The rumbling and shaking told those on the Asylum’s ground floor that something terribly wrong was going on beneath their feet. A few of the weaker inmates fell to the floor of their cells from the quaking. Several of the guards had panicked looks in their eyes. Even Shaltros, generally the sturdiest of men, began to fear.
Vitman no longer grinned. “He opened the river door.”
Randall was kneeling over Trelvigor again, making sure the wizard was asleep. At the old man’s words he stood and grabbed the chief guard by the front of his jacket. “How much time do we have?”
Shaltros shook his head as if unsure. “It could be minutes before this level is flooded. There’ll be hundreds killed. All the guards and prisoners on the lower level ... and likely some up here.”
Randall’s mind raced. There had to be something he could do, some way to save as many lives as possible. Randall Tendbones, the healer from Kobalos, had not fled the evil of his homeland only to allow further death wherever he may roam.
Randall reached inside his white cloak and his fingers grazed the gold ring he had kept in his pocket since its discovery by Belgad. Randall did not have the power to hold back the tide of water he could hear rumbling through the tunnels below, but the ring did. The danger was that the ring might kill as many as it would save. The healer didn’t know the limits or drawbacks of the ring because he had rarely used it, and then only in emergencies. The ring drew its strength from the life force of those near it, and it could use that power to its own ends if the mage wielding it were not strong enough to control it. It was possible many might die by Randall’s use of the ring, and then there was the fact that using the ring alerted Lord Verkain of the ring’s whereabouts; the Kobalan tyrant would then find it an easy task to track down the ring’s wearer. Randall did not like that notion. He also didn’t like that hundreds of people would be dead unless someone took action, and he seemed to be the only someone with the power to do so.
The healer slipped the ring onto a finger.
The ground shook harder. A few of the guards, including old Vitman, panicked and ran for the iron cage in front of the exit.
“Open the gate and the door,” Shaltros ordered the guards inside the cage.
Randall stepped away from Trelvigor to face the hallway Belgad and his guards had run down only minutes before. He raised his hands flat to the air, as if he were pushing on an invisible wall.
“I call upon the power of Kobalos within this ring to do my bidding.” Randall’s words came deep from within his narrow chest, but the roar of the water and the growing disquiet among the guards and inmates drowned out anyone’s chances of hearing him speak.
At first nothing happened. Randall closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on the people surrounding him and the others he had seen in the Asylum. It was the darkest of magics he was attempting, magics that normally turned his stomach, but he would dare to use them in hope of saving as many lives as possible.
The ground began to shake again.
Vitman shrieked. “The water’s not causing that!”
Shaltros pulled the gate to the cage open and stared with fear at the old man. “By Ashal, the floor’s giving way.”
With the chief guard’s words, the panic in the guards and inmates exploded. Nearly everyone not locked in a cell charged toward the open cage.
“Get that door open!” Shaltros shouted as he pushed past a guard and lunged for the front exit.
Randall stood his ground as the building around him trembled, the stone floor and walls creaking and growling in protest of the pressures being placed upon them. The young healer knew the stress on the structure did not all come from the roiling waters below his feet; he was responsible, with the aid of the magic of his homeland.
A guard managed to unlock the front door and Shaltros shoved it open, spilling himself into the mud outside. A second later he was trampled by a guard running out the exit. Shaltros pushed up on his hands, but was shoved down by the next guard rushing out to freedom. The chief guard was forced onto his face in the mud. As a steady stream of Asylum inmates and guards stormed out of the building, the chief guard found he was not able to breathe.
Shaltros was the first to die, suffocated by soggy earth that filled his nose and mouth.
While dust and pebbles from the ceiling peppered the floor, those still lurching for the freedom of the front door were jammed together and fighting for escape.
Randall’s face showed his disgust at using the ring and the strain of reaching out with his mind to the souls of those around him. The ones fleeing were close enough to not escape the magical pull of the ring, though they would not know it until the workings of the magic were finished.
Randall mentally asked the spirits of his fathers for whatever aid they could send. Coming from a land where Lord Verkain was worshiped as a living god, Randall had never been a follower of the almighty Ashal, but his mind reached out to the god of Ursia in hopes it would do some good. The ring was doing something, Randall could tell, but so far he had not been able to make it do what he needed. The healer’s faith in the magic of the golden band began to wane.
Without warning the floor in the center of the main room erupted in a fountain of water and flying stone. A giant geyser shot forth from the explosion, the huge ray of water bursting upward and crashing into the ceiling three stories above to shatter a monstrous hole through to the outside. Stones, timber and roof tiles plummeted to the ground, killing many before settling in the water spilling across the floor.
A falling brick knocked Randall aside. He landed on his hands and slid on the floor covered by several inches of water. He turned over and looked about the room at the destruction being wrought.
Death was everywhere. Screaming men continued to fight near the front door in desperate attempts at escape. The gigantic geyser continued to shoot forth from the basement, spraying the interior of the Asylum. Many of those still in the building lost their footing and fell into the growing waters to drown or to tumble into the pit created by the eruption. Debris from the ceiling continued to rain down, killing some and injuring others so they were unable to save themselves.
Vitman lay motionless near the open gate of the cage. His gray hair flowed around his face, blood from a gash to his forehead spilling out to join the waters. Randall hadn’t seen the man die. The healer wondered if anyone would care about the old man’s death, if the guard had had any family or friends. Who was there to tell?
Trelvigor too appeared dead. The wizard lay where the guards had spilled him onto the floor, his gray patient’s robe billowing in the waters. A board of lumber nearly as long as the wizard was tall protruded from his chest. Randall pondered Trelvigor’s death. Would the wizard die without anyone caring?
Horror covered the healer’s face. However much damage the flooding waters would have caused, it should not have been this bad. The power of the ring had done this, calling upon the spiritual power of those around the Asylum to wreak its havoc. Tears sprang to Randall’s eyes. He should have known better than to use the ring. It had only brought about more death.
The healer raised a hand and stared at the large gold band that rested on one of his fingers. Everything from Kobalos caused chaos. He promised himself he would never use it again.
Then something hit Randall
from above and he was knocked into the rising water.
Chapter Twenty Two
“By Ashal.”
They were the only words Sergeant Gris could use to describe the scene before him. He could only imagine his god having the power to cause the destruction that lay before him at the Asylum. It was beyond his experience, beyond anything he could conceive. He lived in a world of magic and in a nation where magic was legal and sometimes on display, but nothing this extravagant had been known in the city of Bond in a generation, since the war with the East.
From inside the grounds’ walls, the sergeant’s eyes followed the huge stream of muddy water that blasted from the roof of the Asylum’s main structure.
Chunks of the roof shot forth and rained down upon the growing number of gawkers on the street in front of the Asylum’s front gate. Rain also continued to fall, making the ground more of a mess, but it did not deter the crowds. More and more citizens of the Swamps slunk out of their houses to see what was happening at the strange building. Those who had survived the flooding of the Asylum ran their mouths, spreading stories as soon as they were safe among others again.
Outside the wall enclosing the grounds, a line of survivors had been laid out in the mud. A few had been injured from falling debris or the powerful waters, but a large number had succumbed to fatigue, many having a difficult time breathing.
Surveying the damage, Gris did not know what to believe. He had been behind a desk when the first calls of alarm had come to the Swamps barracks. The sergeant had wasted no time rounding up a group of men, climbing aboard his horse and galloping to the Asylum. What he saw caused him stunned disbelief as he stared at the building from horseback.
“Where is he?” The concerned voice came from behind the sergeant.
Gris recognized the speaker. It was Stilp, one of Belgad’s lieutenants. The sergeant of the guard turned in his saddle to stare at the gate of the Asylum’s wall where Stilp stood with Spider, their clothes and hair drenched. A handful of city guards Gris had stationed at the gate kept out the curious lined up several yards back from the wall, stretching their necks to peer through the gate.