by Ty Johnston
“I’ve heard of Verkain. I know what they say about his cruelty, and I’ve known Kobalans, mostly inmates in the Prisonlands.”
Randall nodded. “Most everything you have heard is true. Verkain is more than two hundred years old. He has no qualms with stabbing a cook to death for bringing him the wrong dinner. He frequently has women dragged from the streets, and then rapes the poor things. He wields low magics like no other before him, which is why he’s survived so long. But he is also insane.”
“Why do you say that?”
The healer looked away as if he did not want to face the truth.“According to the Eastern church, the Book of Ashal says in the end times a mighty dark king from the north will slay all of his own, then wage war on the rest of world, conquering everything before him. My father thinks he is this northern king. I’m the last of my siblings alive. If I die, Verkain will launch an attack on the rest of the nations.”
A perplexed look appeared in Kron’s features. “Kobalos is only one country. It would be impossible for one nation to conquer the rest of the continent.”
“It does not matter if you think it is possible. Verkain thinks it is possible. Even if he cannot fulfill his plans, he can still bring much suffering.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
Randall looked to the other man again. “I told you he was insane.”
“It was Verkain who sent the demons,” Kron said, more to himself then Randall.
“Yes.”
The man in black blinked and his world changed. A decision was made in an instant. “Verkain must be dealt with. He is a danger to more than you.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Now it was Randall who looked perplexed “You’ve no chance against Verkain.”
“He needs killing.”
“Maybe he does, but that is easier said than done. He has an army and demons and mages and only he knows what else. Verkain is a powerful wielder of magic himself. Markwood might stand a chance against him, and Markwood is a powerful wizard. You have just told me you are no mage. You would stand no chance against Verkain.”
Kron’s eyes locked on those of the healer. “I will hunt him alone if necessary, but the truth is your aid would prove invaluable.”
“My aid?” Randall clutched his head and turned away. “Now I know you are insane, too. I’m never going back to Kobalos! Haven’t you been listening?”
“I’ve listened, and it is time you stood up to your father.”
“No, no, no.”
Kron grasped the healer by a shoulder. “Wyck is dead because of this maniac. There will be more deaths on your hands if you don’t deal with your father.”
Randall’s features were full of a sad anguish. “There will be deaths on my hands regardless.”
“Perhaps, but at least you will know you did the right thing in trying to prevent all this.”
Randall turned away from the man in black. He tried to think of the right words to make Kron understand. Growing up in Kobalos, especially as a member of the royal family, had not been something to take lightly. Kron didn’t know about the hours upon hours of physical and mental torture. Kron didn’t know the level of suffering caused to slaves and others unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of Verkain, suffering Randall had been forced to watch since he was a baby. That suffering had been why Randall had always wanted to be a healer, to ease pain and not bring it. That suffering was why Randall had fled Kobalos and had sworn to never return. Verkain was the worst, but he also had generals and servants who were more than willing to hand out his punishments.
Randall could describe the tortures, the crucifixions and the beheadings and worse, but he knew it would not stop Kron from his path. “I don’t know what to say to you except this is madness.”
Kron sighed. “You do not have to come with me.”
“What about Belgad?” Randall asked, hoping he might be able to at least delay Kron. Trying to destroy Belgad was foolish enough, but not near as dangerous as taking on the lord of Kobalos. “You still have not dealt with him.”
“I will deal with Belgad before we leave Bond.”
Randall plopped into a chair behind a desk. “You don’t understand. It is impossible to defeat Verkain.”
“Again, your help would be invaluable.”
Randall looked up at Kron, his face and voice pleading. “Go away from here. Live a normal life. Leave Belgad behind, and Verkain and all of it. There is nothing but death along that path.”
“Yes ... death. Theirs.”
Randall slumped. He had thought he was getting through to the man.
Flustered, Kron pressed on. “All I ask is that you heal me. I have coin. I can pay you. After that, we part ways. I’ll do what has to be done, and you can run away, hiding from your father and your responsibility.”
“Responsibility?”
“Your responsibility to the people of your country. If to no one else, you owe it to them to end your father’s reign of horror.”
“I don’t even know who I am.” Randall’s voice was vacuous, ethereal.
“You are royalty. Act like it.”
Was Kron right? Randall had been in hiding for three years. He was tired of it, but he had found some kind of life in Bond. Now that was shattered. He couldn’t go back to being a healer, at least not in this city. He would have to move on, find another place to hide. Perhaps in a few years he could send a note to Maslin to tell him he was safe, but until then he would have to cut all ties with Bond and West Ursia. It would mean a life of hiding again, a life on the road searching for something never to be found. Verkain would always be after him, especially now that his father had been so close to capturing him. Randall knew it was only a matter of time before he was caught, returned to Kobalos and slain. Was he running for nothing? Was delaying the inevitable only bringing more pain and death to others?
For the first time in a long time, Randall felt as if he was back in Kobalos, wrapped in iron chains within his father’s dungeon. Death was inevitable.
The healer stood. “By Ashal, I don’t know what to do.”
“Stop allowing things to happen to you and take action.” Kron held out a hand. “Come with me.”
Randall looked into Kron’s eyes. “It’s certain death.”
“So is waiting for your father to find you. At least my way gives you a chance at survival.”
“What would we do? Two men can’t stand up to Verkain and his armies. And I’m not sure I’m capable of killing, especially not my father.”
Kron’s eyes shined with visions of future conflict. “We will deal with that when the time comes, but first we have to get to Kobalos.”
Randall gave a blank stare to the room surrounding them. What Kron asked was pure lunacy. There was little chance they would survive, but Randall was coming around to believing the man in black. Randall had no chance to survive unless he did something about it.
“I’ll go with you.”
Kron gave an evil grin. “Can your ring get us to Kobalos the same way it brought us here?”
“It’s possible, but it would draw Verkain’s attention again.”
Kron shook his head. “No. We’re in no condition to take on those demons.”
“We’re never going to be in condition to take on even one war demon.” The healer was exasperated at the thought. “Get that out of your head right now.”
Kron’s grin grew wider. “Perhaps we will find out some day.”
Randall ignored the implication. “What about the sergeant?”
Kron’s smile vanished. “I’m in no condition to help Gris, but I know how to find out if he is alive.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Heal my wounds. We’ll wait until nightfall then seek help.
“Who in their right mind is going to help us?”
The smile returned to Kron’s face. “I know of one, but she might try to kill me before I can ask.”
Chapter Twenty Nine
Belgad was no
fool. He did not trust the war demons, but he knew how to deal with them.
Every Dartague child knew the stories about Lord Verkain, the high chieftain of Kobalos who was hundreds of years old, and the demon monsters that did his bidding. Dartague mothers told the tales to make their children behave. Belgad remembered stories of war demons terrorizing villages and slaying entire clans.
It was only when Belgad was older, by the time he was a tribal chieftain, that he discovered the stories were true. Dartague’s western mountain borders touched upon eastern Kobalos, and from time to time the lord of Kobalos would stretch forth his mighty hand and send his minions forth. The attacks were mere skirmishes, raiding parties sent to take what wealth could be found, but they were deadly assaults. Belgad had known more than one brave warrior who had lost an arm or leg in the border battles.
The Dartague also knew of tales of how to survive a war demon. The creatures had been known to spare those who showed the proper respect.
Today that knowledge had saved him.
Unfortunately for Sergeant Gris, it meant a lifetime of pain. A short lifetime of pain.
Belgad swung a fist and cracked the sergeant in the jaw, sending Gris sprawling across the main hall of the northerner’s manor to crash onto a table, sending silverware flying.
A fist was raised once more as Belgad stalked toward the sergeant. “I’ll ask you again, where have they gone?”
Gris slumped off the table’s edge and landed on the floor. From bruised eyes he glared at his tormentor. A split lip spilled red down the front of his orange tabard.
Belgad stopped, overshadowing his prey. “Tell me or things will get much worse for you.”
Gris spat a cracked, bloodied tooth onto the floor.
The Dartague drew back a fist as if to pummel the man again, then lowered his arm. This would take finesse, a delicate touch Belgad knew he did not have. For retrieving answers from someone as rugged as the sergeant, Belgad needed an expert.
The lord of the manor turned to Lalo standing at the far end of the hall between two sentries. “Bring me Percifidus.”
For the first time in a long time, the Finder hesitated upon receiving an order from his master. He did not speak, but his eyes questioned.
Belgad flexed his fingers as if ready to throttle something. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
Lalo nodded, turned and exited the great hall.
The Dartague intertwined his fingers and cracked his knuckles. He did not enjoy this beating. There was no sport in it, no thrill. The northerner would gladly pound an armed man who could defend himself, but he took no joy harming the sergeant in this fashion. The reason he was doing it was because he had bargained with the war demons to save his own life, and possibly for leverage. Though Belgad had no love for Kobalos or Verkain, it never hurt to have a powerful ally.
According to the demons, the healer was Verkain’s son who had been missing three years. The demons’ story explained the ring.
In truth, Belgad did not care about Randall, other than that turning Randall over to Verkain could benefit him monetarily or politically. What Belgad did care about was Kron Darkbow. The Dartague still wanted that mysterious man in black to be punished for what he had done, which was why the northern knight was pounding on Gris.
That, and the fact the demons had said they would return in a few days for word of Randall’s whereabouts. Otherwise, they would not be pleased.
Belgad kicked out, connecting with Gris’s head and sending the man flat on his back.
The sergeant did not move, but his chest continued to rise and fall sluggishly.
“Enjoy your rest,” Belgad said, towering over the unconscious man. “It will end soon enough.”
The bald lord eased his rear onto the edge of the table next to the downed sergeant. Belgad would rest, too. Night was drawing near and he had had little sleep. With Percifidus on his way, it was likely to be another long night.
***
Kron Darkbow was one with the night again. He jumped a narrow alley, from the roof of a baker’s shop onto a three-story building of apartments, and continued running, smiling all the while. It had been some time since he had been able to roam the rooftops of Bond and he had missed it, the night breeze blowing against his face and the soft thud of his boots on rooftops. Now he was fully healed, thanks to Randall, and once more climbing and jumping and swinging, much as he had as a boy in the treetops of the forests around the Prisonlands.
Randall had been left exhausted from his healing, unable to go with Kron, which was fine with the man rapidly crossing rooftops. The healer likely would be unable to keep up with him above Bond’s many streets. The young man had remained at the Southtown tower to rest while Kron had changed into the clothes Wyck had brought him. Then Kron had slunk forth into the night.
Springing across another alley, thoughts of Wyck forced a frown onto Kron’s face. He would never forgive himself for Wyck’s death. The boy had brought a level of childish joy to Kron’s life he had not known since before the death of his parents. Growing up in the Prisonlands, Kron had known humor, but it had mostly been the rough and tumble humor of grown men who carried swords for a living.
Kron swore to himself, and not for the last time, that justice would be served and the man responsible for Wyck’s death would pay dearly.
But before dealing with Verkain, Kron had to help Gris.
Still moving, he placed a gloved hand on the ledge of a two-story structure and spun his legs around to plummet from the building feet first. He landed on his boots and rolled over into a kneeling position. He stared outward, from between two buildings, and across a wide street to the Swamps’ healing tower Randall had called home for almost three years.
It was early night and numerous people still paraded along the street, but Kron did not think he would be recognized with his cloak’s hood pulled forward. Once inside, he did not fear recognition because he was not known in the tower. His face would draw attention only if one of Belgad’s lackeys were present, and Kron was hoping one would be.
More suffering was ahead for Belgad, especially if Gris was dead.
***
Adara Corvus waited in Randall Tendbones’ office. She sat in a chair with her feet propped upon the healer’s desk next to a burning candle, her arms crossed over the sheathed rapier on her stomach. Her eyelids fluttered as her mind drifted. Her body sought rest while her mind raced. She had had a long day of doing nothing, which had been tedious to her, especially when she had heard about the business at the Asylum that morning and the action at the old cemetery.
Fortisquo lay asleep in the attached room. He had been scheduled to be woken earlier in the day, but the healers on hand had decided against it because they feared an infection in his empty eye socket.
Despite hearing from Stilp that Randall was an enemy, Adara wished the young man was present. He was a good healer, one of the best Adara had known, and she wanted Fortisquo healed. It had been three days since her lover had lost his eye, and Adara wanted an ending. She did not believe she and the sword master would remain a couple once he woke, but she did not want to walk out on him without knowing if she still had a friend or if she had made an enemy. Either way, she had decided to leave him, even if he still wanted her. She had learned all she could from Fortisquo, and it was time to find another tutor.
A sudden, metallic sound gave Adara cause to open her eyes. She turned her head in the direction from which the noise had come, from the door that led to an outer hallway.
Ever so gently, Adara inched her right hand toward the hilt of her sword.
With a long creak the door swung inward to reveal darkness beyond.
Adara stared into the blackness as her hand gripped the rapier’s hilt. There had been lit torches lining that hall the last time she had been out there. The healers who lived in the tower often had to perform their skills at night, and they always left torches or lamps burning.
“I have been looking for you.” The eerie
voice crooned from the darkness.
Adara shoved away from the chair and onto the balls of her feet, her hand drawing forth her sword and aiming it at the blackness beyond the doorway. “Who are you?”
“You know me.” A chuckle followed.
Then the cloaked figure of Kron Darkbow crossed the threshold into the room, a black glove slipping out from the folds of the cloak to gently close the door behind him.
Adara stood her ground, the sword now pointing at the heart of the cloaked man. “You dare show yourself here?”
Kron stood straight, taller than Adara, while one of his gloved hands reached up and yanked back his hood, revealing his dark hair and bold features. He bowed without taking his eyes off the long blade in her hands. “I’d dare much to discover the condition of one dear to me.”
“I heard of your antics today,” Adara said, keeping her sword steady. “You are in better health than last you were seen by Belgad.”
“I am not without aid, but tell me what became of Sergeant Gris. Does he still live?”
“The last I heard, he was breathing. He was taken to Belgad’s for questioning.”
“You mean interrogation.”
Adara gave a brief nod. “They seek your whereabouts.”
“Meaning Belgad and the demons?”
“The demon things have gone.”
Kron took a step toward the woman.
Adara quickly retreated, raising the tip of her rapier to point at Kron’s dark blue eyes. “Stay where you are.”
“Are you going to try and capture me?”
A grin spread across Adara’s face. “If I want to capture you, there will be no trying about it.”
It was Kron’s turn to grin. “It would be an interesting contest, but I have no time. I need one more piece of information before I take my leave. Why did you stop your man from killing me?”
He was talking about Fortisquo, Adara knew. Kron was curious about the night he had faced off with Fortisquo when he would have been slain had Adara not interceded, blocking the sword master’s blow. Her actions had cost Fortisquo an eye, and Adara bore more than a little guilt.
She had no good answer to give, so she shrugged. “The night you fought Fortisquo, you threw my own dagger at me. You could have hit me, but you didn’t.”