by Ty Johnston
Kron gave a brief glance to the Finder before turning his eyes back on the vivisectionist. “Then your master can explain why he was trying to kill the professor’s friend.”
Lalo sneered beneath his crumpled nose. “You mean that healer?”
“Exactly. I don’t think Markwood would appreciate —”
The blade came in high, aimed for Kron’s throat. He barely had time to step back and avoid the slash before Percifidus was swinging the knife around for another attack.
The short, plump man had caught Kron off guard. The vivisectionist no longer looked afraid. The animal instinct to kill had replaced the fear in his eyes. He had used his own deceptive appearance and Lalo’s distraction to his advantage.
Kron mentally scolded himself for making another mistake, for not paying more attention to the possible threat Percifidus presented. But he had no time to linger on his thoughts. The knife was coming in for a killing stab.
Instinct and training took over. Kron sidestepped Percifidus’s blade, twirled and swung his own sword.
A meaty chopping noise followed as the heavy blade cut through the vivisectionist’s throat, spraying streams of blood on the gray walls.
Percifidus remained on his feet. His knife dropped as he grabbed at his throat in a vain attempt to stem the flow of life. It was too late, however, and the man’s froggy eyes rolled back in his head. He splattered to the floor in his own gore.
Kron pointed his dripping sword at the Finder. “Release the sergeant.”
After witnessing the vivisectionist's scarlet death, Lalo wasted no time doing what he had been told. In less than a minute, Gris’s bindings were removed.
Kron’s luck still held. Belgad had not returned.
But the man in black could not leave Lalo free. The Finder was no combatant, and to Kron’s knowledge had never killed anyone. Belgad’s servant would live.
“My apologies.” Kron threw another punch.
The Finder bounced back from the blow and crashed into the wall. He slid to the ground still conscious, but he now wore a black eye.
“Sorry, again.” Kron smirked and stepped forward.
Lalo put up an arm to shield himself, but it was no good. Two more punches and Belgad’s man was out cold.
Kron rubbed his gloved knuckles. “Must be losing my touch.”
***
Unaware of the events going on beneath his feet, Belgad marched into his library, slamming the door open before entering.
Maslin Markwood sat in one of the cushioned chairs facing the desk. The old wizard’s gray beard hung over his dark robes as he twisted in his seat to glare at the master of the house.
Belgad noticed the flames in the fireplace were higher and brighter than he had left them. A bottle of Ursian brandy from his personal stock sat uncorked on top of the desk. A short glass with a hint of brown liquor in its bottom sat on the corner of the desk nearest the wizard.
The northerner had not known what to expect, but he would not have guessed this. From what Lalo had said, Belgad had expected the magician to be in an uproar.
“Welcome. Have a seat.” Markwood waved at the chair behind the desk. “It is your house, after all.”
“Yes, it is.” Anger was building behind the Dartague’s eyes, but he was smart enough to remain wary. Belgad feared no man, but Markwood was more than a man. Magic, in the northerner’s experience, was not to be trusted, and Markwood was said to be one of the most powerful wizards in the city.
Belgad cautiously made his way behind the desk and sat, scanning the room to make sure everything was in place and he was in no imminent danger.
“I suppose you know why I am here.” The wizard reached for the glass.
Belgad watched the old man throw back the last of the drink. The wizard did not appear drunk, but his subdued behavior unsettled the Dartague.
Markwood slammed his glass on the desk hard enough for a narrow crack to appear in the drinking vessel. “Where is he?”
“I know not the location nor the condition of the healer.”
Markwood’s unblinking eyes remained on the much larger man.
Belgad watched the mage tighten his grip on the nearly-shattered glass. “Is that why you have invaded my home and disabled my guards?”
Markwood’s dark gray eyebrows creased. “I know much of what happened today. Randall’s use of the ring was difficult not to notice. The presence of the war demons was even harder to ignore. I know Randall was at the cemetery, and I know three demons made an appearance. By the time I arrived at the cemetery, all I found were dead men, all of them known to work for you. After that, I do not know what became of Randall. You will tell me.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Are you positive?”
“I cannot tell you of what I do not know.”
Markwood stared a moment further at the northerner, his dark look growing more hard, then he turned to the fireplace. He pursed his lips as if he were kissing the air, then spat a straight line of auburn fluid across the room into the fire.
As soon as the liquid reached the flames, a blaze sprang from the hearth and shot up the wall to catch afire the bottom of a scarlet tapestry threaded in gold.
Belgad looked more annoyed than frightened.
The wizard gestured and the fires attacking the tapestry disappeared as if a strong wind had blown through the room.
The northerner did not look overly impressed. “Very nice, but it will get you nowhere.”
“If I find you are not telling the truth and Randall has been harmed,” the wizard said with gritted teeth, “I will return and burn away everything in this household. I will melt all your gold, slay all your soldiers and watch the bricks of this place crumble to the ground.”
Belgad leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk as his hands formed into a triangle beneath his chin. “I have taken into consideration who you are and what you mean to this community, but do not make the mistake of threatening me.”
“I do not threaten.” Markwood stood, looming. “I only make you aware of certain possibilities.”
“Then allow me to provide my own possibilities. If you ever intrude upon my home again, I will be forced to arrange for one of my swords to intermingle with your intestines.”
Markwood nodded. “It is good we understand one another.”
“Yes.”
The wizard spun, his robes billowing out behind him, and marched out of the library.
The large northern man sat and pondered the wizard’s words. Belgad would have to do something about increasing the magical security of his home. With Trelvigor gone, he would need a new wizard, one who was not so insane.
Chapter Thirty One
Randall and Kron had agreed to meet later in the night at an abandoned warehouse near the Docks.
When the man who wore black met up with the healer again, he brought along three horses, the woman Adara and the sergeant, who was still in a stupor.
Exhausting himself near to passing out, Randall used the last of his strength to heal Gris.
Within minutes the sergeant came around but remained groggy.
He found himself on his back on a floor of wooden beams.“What happened?”
“Much,” Kron said, returning from bedding down the horses in another part of the warehouse. He explained about the war demons at the cemetery, Adara’s leaving Fortisquo and Gris’s rescue from the hands of a man Randall identified as Percifidus the vivisectionist.
“It is probably better for all that man is no longer among the living.” The healer surprised himself at his strong words describing Percifidus.
Gris looked about at his surroundings. “Where are we?”
Kron answered. “A warehouse on the Docks.”
Surrounded by his companions and rows upon rows of stacked crates and barrels, Gris knew he was lucky to be alive. Beneath the only light, an oil lamp Randall had scrounged from a room in back of the warehouse, the sergeant stared into the faces of the three sit
ting or kneeling around him. First there was Randall Tendbones, the young healer who apparently was a Kobalan prince on the run from his father. Second was Adara Corvus, an accomplished sword fighter who had left Fortisquo and Belgad’s service because she felt drawn to learn from the darkest of the group. Finally Gris turned to look at Kron Darkbow, a man who had until recently lived by another name, who showed no fear of his enemies and seemed intent upon destroying them.
The sergeant’s gaze remained on the man he had once know as Lucius Tallerus. “What happens now?”
Kron glanced from Randall to Adara, then turned to the sergeant. “We are heading to Kobalos.”
Gris nearly choked. “What in Ashal’s name for?”
Randall sat on the floor next to the downed city guard sergeant “It is time I faced my father, Lord Verkain. I can run from him all my life, but it will do no good. Sooner or later he would catch up to me, and before then many could be harmed.”
Gris looked to the healer. “What are you going to do when you face Verkain?”
Randall shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Kron spoke up, his words, blunt. “Verkain needs to die.”
“By Ashal, you’re all insane.” Gris glanced around the group. “Taking on Belgad was bad enough, but this is beyond anything I’ve ever heard.”
“Verkain must pay for Wyck’s death.” Kron eased himself down on a crate. “He might not have been directly involved, but it was still his doing. If his war demons had not been — ”
Gris cut him off. “If you hadn’t started this stupid war with Belgad in the first place, none of this would have happened. I knew I should have arrested you that day in your room.”
Kron’s hard features softened into a grin. “On what charges?”
“I could have come up with something. The captain wouldn’t take your word over mine, and I don’t think you would have fought against me.”
Kron’s stare was Gris’s answer.
“Where we are going is besides the point,” Adara interrupted. “We have to get out of Bond and soon. Belgad and Fortisquo will be on our trail.”
The man in black looked to the woman. “I am not finished with Belgad.”
The healer appeared confused. “What are you talking about?”
Gris sighed. “He’s going back to the mansion.” He looked up at Kron. “Aren’t you?”
***
“Stilp!” Belgad screamed.
The little man came running down the stairs into the basement. He pulled himself to a halt when he saw his employer standing in the center of the small room that was supposed to have been Sergeant Gris’s torture chamber. Instead of the sergeant on the table, Stilp found Percifidus and Lalo stretched out on the ground, the vivisectionist looking the worse of the two with his throat split open and drying blood caking his clothes.
Belgad glared at the scene, his sandals splashed with the blood he was standing in. “Darkbow.”
Stilp’s gaze darted about the room as if he expected the man in black to swoop from a shadow.
“If not for Markwood’s reputation, I would have thought he and Darkbow had worked together.”
Stilp moved to Lalo and knelt next to the man. “At least the Finder is still breathing.”
Belgad turned for the stairwell.
Stilp stood and stared at his master’s back. “What do you want me to do?”
Belgad did not answer, and he did not stop climbing stairs.
“Oh hell.” Stilp followed his employer.
Belgad stomped up the stairs to the front chamber of his house. He paused long enough to stare at the unconscious guards at the front door, then headed up another flight of stairs.
Stilp popped out of the door to the basement and chased after his boss. “What are we going to do?”
“I am going to my bed chamber.” The Dartague did not halt his motion. “There I am going to take down my sword hanging on the wall, and then I am going to find Kron Darkbow and chop him into meat!”
“That’s easier said than done.” The familiar voice was above.
Belgad and Stilp looked up the stairs to see Kron at the top landing near the door to the library. The long blade of a sword protruded from the darkness of the man in black’s cloak.
Belgad came to a stop. “You!”
“We’ve not finished our business.” Kron waved his sword about. “You still owe me for the lives of the Tallerus family.”
Belgad half turned to Stilp. “Find any guards you can. If none are awake, wake them.”
Stilp knew better than to ask a question. He jogged back down the stairs.
The blade of Kron’s sword continued to dance in the air before him. “Do you need your boys to do your work for you?”
Belgad launched himself, covering the distance to Kron in a single mighty bound.
A look of surprise on his face, Darkbow backpedaled, keeping the point of his weapon in front to ward off his attacker.
Belgad landed on the top step and crouched as if ready to leap again. “Don’t think for a second that hunk of metal is going to keep me from tearing you apart.”
In control of himself again, Kron grinned.
Belgad jumped.
The man in black slashed. The sword’s tip caught the bulky Dartague across the chest, slicing open his white toga and leaving a gash of red.
The big, bald northerner ignored his wound. He swung out with a fist, missing only because his foe ducked, then powered around with a punch from his other hand.
The blow was not direct, but it caught Kron on the side of the head and sent him trundling back along the railed balcony.
Belgad moved in, his fists still swinging.
Doing the unthinkable, Kron slammed his sword into its sheath on his back. Then he stepped into his foe.
Belgad had not anticipated the move, and was taken off balance as he tried to correct his attack for a nearer enemy.
Kron smashed out with a gloved fist, connecting with the center of the larger man’s face.
The Dartague’s body shook for a second and a glazed look crossed the man’s eyes. Then he blinked and focused again. He glared at his opponent with a grin.
“Damn.” Kron swung another fist.
Belgad was ready this time. He twisted to one side, and with his longer reach snapped out a hand to grab his foe’s wrist.
Kron suddenly found himself held in place, but that did not mean he was helpless. His free hand yanked a dagger from his belt and stabbed.
The blade did not travel far, barely breaking the skin before Belgad’s other hand grabbed the wrist holding the knife.
The two strong men struggled in place, their feet planted wide and their arms locked together. Sweat dripped off each of their brows as their breathing grew heavier and their eyes locked on one another.
Belgad pushed down on Kron’s arms, trying to lower his opponent’s defenses for a head butt, but the man in black proved as strong as the barbarian.
Kron tried to push his dagger home, to impale his foe on the small weapon, but Belgad was no weakling to allow such to happen.
They were at a stalemate.
Sounds of running feet and jingling chain armor from below drew their attention.
Stilp and a handful of guards were running along the hall for the stairs.
“Your time draws near.” Belgad’s wide grin showed blood in his teeth.
“As does yours.” Kron bent back the dagger in one of his pinned hands and slashed with it, cutting into Belgad’s bare wrist.
The Dartague screamed but held fast to his adversary.
Kron pushed and twisted the knife, cutting deeper and deeper until scarlet was flowing from the bulky northerner’s arm.
Stilp and the guards were at the bottom of the stairs, charging up.
“Damn!” Belgad shoved back on Kron, freeing the man in black.
Darkbow saw a chance to escape and launched himself over the balcony railing.
Belgad slung out his good hand and snat
ched a fistful of Kron’s cloak. “Got you!”
Kron was jarred, suddenly caught and hanging by his cloak, his feet kicking at air with the ground swaying below. The dagger bounced from his hand and fell, crashing to the floor.
“Get under him!” Belgad shouted.
Stilp and the guards turned and charged back down the stairs.
Kron gagged, the cloak tight around his neck cutting off his air. With blurring vision he glanced up, saw Belgad’s outstretched arm holding him, and tried to reach the other dagger in his left boot. He pulled up his leg and stretched forth an arm, but the weapon was just out of reach.
The guards clambered toward his position.
Kron had no other choice. He slipped one of his precious grenados from a pocket of his belt and flipped it up and behind.
Belgad didn’t know what hit him. Fire burst from behind the big man, spraying flames. Surprised and singed, the Dartague dropped his heavy foe, allowing Kron to fall to the ground.
The man in black landed in a roll, a hand sliding out to retrieve his dropped dagger before he came up on his feet. Stilp and the three guards suddenly found themselves facing a ready and armed Darkbow, but their eyes were pinned on the fire above.
Belgad screamed and moved back along the upstairs rail, fire licking at his heels.
“Good day, gentlemen.” Kron waved a hand, turned and fled deeper into the house.
Stilp and the others did not follow, suddenly busy scurrying for buckets and water.
Several minutes later, from atop the high wall surrounding Belgad’s grounds, Kron watched the flames growing in strength the front hall of the house. Screams and yells still came from within.
With a grin, Kron dropped outside the fence and took off at a run.
***
“It is done.”
The others in the warehouse stared at the man in black in surprise, as if they found it difficult to believe what he had said.
Randall was the first to speak. “Belgad is dead?”
Kron nodded. “I believe so.”
Gris did not appear overjoyed with the news. “Thus falls a legend.”
Adara’s mood was little better. “It’s not over. Fortisquo will be after us, or at least after me.”
“The war demons might be able to follow us, too,” Randall pointed out. “I definitely won’t be able to use the ring again, or it will draw them to us.”
Gris patted the healer on a shoulder. “Markwood could handle them.”