by Ty Johnston
“What are you?” Randall asked as Stonetalker and the other monks reached the top of the steps.
“We are guardians of the old laws,” the leader of the monks said. “The demons will not attempt to harm you for some while because their retreat will weaken them.
“Now, if you have no further need of us, we shall retire for the night. The matrons will play until morning.”
Randall appeared as if he had other questions, but Kron suddenly stepped forward. “Thank you for your service, Stonetalker,” he said. “We will retire for the night also.”
“Thank you,” the monk said and followed his companions into the temple.
“Why did you do that?” Randall said to Kron after they were back in their private compartment.
“They did us a service,” Kron said, removing his weapons and placing them on a floor mat next to the head of his bed. “Whatever they may be, they are more powerful than those demons, at least to some extent. They are a mystery to us and they seem somewhat secretive. It is best to allow them to be.”
Adara sat on the end of her bed. “They don’t seem secretive to me,” she said. “They welcomed us and have been more than supportive.”
“They are in the middle of the mountains along a trail that is rarely used,” Kron explained. “They have their privacy, and I’m sure they wish to keep it that way.”
Soon the three were in separate beds, and drifted off to sleep with the accompany of music floating to them from the room of blue fire.
More than once before falling asleep, Adara’s eyes focused on the slumbering form of Kron Darkbow.
Chapter Nine
Ybalik was not happy. Truth to tell, Ybalik was never happy, but this was a special occasion, a hate that had built up within his breast that knew no boundaries and no solutions. Killing would not be enough. Torture would not be enough. Even rape could not stem the rage that welled within the demon general.
He had been defeated, driven off, out of the mountains and away from the three mortals he had been forced to hunt. Now he, and three of his lieutenants, were too weak to travel the long distance back to their hated enemies. Ybalik would love to have them in his claws, the man who wore dark and the woman and the puny boy in his white robes. Ybalik knew what he would do with them, each of them. He would rape them, one by one, starting with the one Verkain wanted most, the boy in white. Ybalik would take his sweet, slow time ripping the boy in half, but leaving him alive, just barely, so the demon general could enjoy the suffering of the young man. Next, Ybalik would turn to the woman, and he would make the one called Darkbow watch all the nasty, crass things he would do with her. Then finally, Ybalik would pummel Darkbow to death; that would be a fitting death for one so proud, one who might not break under imprisonment, but who would hate himself simply by being bested.
The leader of the war demons let out a slow growl as he watched the mortal called Belgad approach through the trees. Earlier that day they had arranged to meet here, outside the tiny village nearest the western side of the mountain trail. The Dartague had gathered his once-separated forces to himself again, and they were encamped the other side of the trees.
The large north man paused between two trees and stared upward, spotting the general suspended above one of the thicker branches.
Ybalik realized he would also enjoy tearing this one limb from limb. Belgad was haughty and deserved a nasty death, but Ybalik was no fool. As long as Belgad was working with Verkain, Ybalik could not touch him. But once the healer had been dealt with, Belgad would no longer be untouchable. Ybalik’s black heart warmed at the thoughts of carnage.
“Where are they?” Belgad asked from the ground.
Ybalik flapped his wings as if annoyed, which he was, and stared off into the night’s sky as if uninterested in answering. After a few seconds, he said, “They are safe within Hammer Home.”
“What are you talking about?” Belgad asked. The demon general had said their three foes were in the middle of the mountain range, easy pickings with no protection.
“Hammer Home is hallowed ground, unavailable to us,” Ybalik continued.
Belgad’s stare was full of anger, but he knew better than to tempt a war demon. He averted his gaze lower on the tree so Ybalik would not see.
Belgad knew little of Hammer Home, though he had heard of it. His people, the Dartague, were worshippers of the old gods. The names of the gods were long forgotten, but their symbols lived on in the bear, the eagle and other animals. Hammer Home had been little more than a myth to a young Belgad, who had first heard of it from tribal shamans, but during his time in Dartague and later in the Prisonlands, he had heard tales of an actual temple called Hammer Home deep within the Needles. The war demons had concurred that such a place existed and that Adara, Kron and Randall were there. Hammer Home was what Ybalik had called a place of power, which was how the demons had found Randall in the first place; such emanate magic that grows stronger when a powerful magic item such as Randall’s ring is introduced into it. But the demons had said nothing about not being able to approach Hammer Home.
“So much for the mighty demons,” Belgad said below his breath.
Ybalik screeched, then opened his wings wide and floated to the ground only a few feet from the Dartague. “You would do well to keep such remarks to yourself,” the war demon general hissed.
Belgad looked surprised, having forgotten the sharpened senses of his dark comrade.
“My apologies,” the northerner said, bowing his head.
Ybalik wanted to bite into that head. He doubted the north man meant his apology, and Ybalik would not have appreciated it any way.
When Belgad’s head came back up, he asked, “What do we do now? Wait?”
“I can not travel to them for some days,” Ybalik answered, “but we know they are heading east. We follow.”
“Into East Ursia?”
“Yes,” the demon replied. “We do not answer to Ashal’s laws as we do to those of the old ones. The Eastern church can not protect them from us.”
***
The next morning was a strange one for Kron, Adara and Randall. They did not know how to act. They did not know if they should thank their saviors or if they should take to the road with few words.
“How do we thank them?” Randall asked as they finished their breakfast, a hardy meal of sausages and biscuits that mysteriously appeared on the table in their room while they slept.
“I don’t know,” Kron said, and that was the only answer any of them could come up with.
Stonetalker made an appearance, bringing them a sack of food, as they prepared their horses for the day’s ride.
“This will do you well on your travels,” the monk said as he handed the sack to Adara.
“Our thanks to you,” Kron said, then added, “and to those who watch over you.”
“The old gods are pleased with your venture,” Stonetalker said. “They will watch your path.”
With that, quick goodbyes were said and the three travelers once more took to the crooked, rocky path that wove through the mountains.
“It was lucky we were with the monks last night,” Adara noted once they were out of site of the temple.
“I don’t know,” Randall said. “It seemed more than luck.”
“Are you suggesting some higher power is watching over us, healer?” Adara asked.
Randall chuckled. “The only higher power watching over us is probably Markwood,” he said pointing a finger to the sky as if the old wizard were floating above. “If the old gods care, I do not know, but I would think Ashal might be interested.”
As they mounted their steeds, Randall realized he had no idea if Ashal, or any other god, would indeed have interest in their quest. Randall barely understood those around him, let alone the will of the gods.
The healer glanced at the man in black riding next to him. Randall could barely understand Kron Darkbow when he thought about the man. Kron was an enigma. He seemed to want law and order, b
ut he was more than willing to take the law into his own hands, especially once he had decided upon revenge.
The healer turned his gaze upon Adara as they rode. She was a little harder for Randall to figure out. Randall sometimes asked himself why Adara had come along with them. She had said it was because she was learning new melee techniques from Kron, and Randall was aware she had probably come along to flee Fortisquo’s wrath, but it felt like there was more to it.
Kron had told Randall how Adara had once saved him from Fortisquo’s sword, and the healer had been with Adara and Kron long enough to realize there was an attraction between the two. Adara seemed the most interested, but Kron did not fully shy from the woman. Randall smiled at thinking of his two comrades together. He hoped it would happen. The world always needed love.
“Randall?” the healer heard a voice say.
Randall turned to Adara, who had been the one speaking.
The woman grinned. “We’ve been calling your name,” she said from her saddle.
“My apologies,” the healer said. “I was caught up in a daydream.”
Adara gave Kron a tilted look that seemed to say “typical wizard.”
“I was saying we need to find you more adequate clothing as soon as we reach East Ursia,” Kron said.
“Why is that?” Randall asked.
“You can’t go around in your robes,” Adara answered. “You’ll stand out.”
“But I’m a healer,” Randall said. “I wear these robes so people will know they can seek my aid.”
“If any Easterners see those robes,” Kron said, pointing to Randall’s chest, “you are right that they will know who you are, but then they’re likely to lynch you.”
“Or burn you at the stake,” Adara added.
“But I’m a healer,” Randall repeated.
“Doesn’t matter,” Adara said. “Magic is outlawed, and wizards are punished by death.”
Randall gulped as if he could not believe what he was hearing. He knew, of course, that magic was illegal in East Ursia, but he figured the country was modern enough not to have every mage who walked the lands put to death.
“Surely there are others who wear robes,” the healer said.
“Robes are not fashionable,” Adara said. “It’s generally accepted in the East that anyone who wears robes must be a wizard. The only exceptions are priests on holy days, and they don’t wear white.”
“Do not worry,” Kron said to Randall as they rode side by side, “we can mix and match enough of the clothes we have so you don’t stand out too much, but we will have to get you some traveling breeches once we reach a village.”
Randall took Kron’s words seriously, but he continued to be concerned about a reception in East Ursia. The healer, a prince of Kobalos, had been tutored in the customs of other nations, but he did not have the traveling experience to witness those customs firsthand. Randall had spent most of his life in Kobalos, had traveled through Jorsica and Caballerus when he fled his father’s nation, and then had lived the past three years in West Ursia. The world was mostly a mystery to him, unlike it was to Kron who had traveled widely with his merchant parents and who had much experience with people from various cultures during his years as a Prisonlands border warden. Even Adara, herself from East Ursia, was more traveled than Randall, having spent several years on the roads with one sword master or other.
A booming crash like thunder jerked the healer out of his ruminations.
The three riders yanked their horses to a stop. The noise had come from in front of them, but their path curved around a bend allowing no sight of what was there.
Kron turned in his saddle to face the others. “Ride back to the temple as fast as you can,” he ordered, pulling his sword free of its scabbard on his back.
“We’re not leaving you,” Adara said, drawing her own weapon.
Randall could understand their sudden aggressive attitudes. The thunder-like sound was similar to the noise made by Verkain’s war demons when they appeared seemingly from nowhere.
“I told you to go back!” Kron yelled.
“There’s no need for that,” a familiar voice said from the turn in the bend.
The three riders faced forward again, this time to see the old wizard Maslin Markwood making his way toward them while brushing gray dust from his shoulders.
The riders trotted ahead, stopping near the wizard, then dismounted. Randall ran into the arms of his old friend as they hugged.
“Good to see you again, my boy,” Markwood said stepping back to look over the young healer. “Appears as if you’ve lost a little weight, but otherwise you’re in fine condition. I’m glad to find it so.”
“We could have killed you,” Kron said, putting away his sword.
“Not likely,” the wizard said. “That’s one reason I apparated around that corner up ahead, and why I didn’t appear at the temple. It would have been rude, and would have disrupted those that worship there.”
“We thought you were a demon,” Adara said, sheathing her sword.
“My apologies,” Markwood said. “It’s a displacement of the air that causes the noise.”
“Well, it’s about time you made an appearance,” Randall said. “It’s been three weeks. I was beginning to worry.”
“Worry? Of what?” the wizard said with a chuckle. “The worst trouble an old professor can get into is boredom.”
Cutting through the courtesies, Kron asked, “What brings you to us?”
Markwood gave the man in black a disapproving stare. “I saw what happened last night at the temple,” he said. “It was hard to miss, one of the most powerful manifestations of magic since ... well, since the Asylum.”
Randall appeared saddened at the wizard’s words, but he wouldn’t allow that to stop him from asking questions. “The monks, or whatever they truly are, saved us from the war demons,” he said. “We are only an hour or so from the temple, but we are out of danger for now.”
“For now,” Markwood repeated the healer’s words. “Soon you will be in danger once more. The demons will regain their strength and will regroup. They will hit you again in a few days, and you no longer have the protection of Hammer Home.”
“Won’t we be safe in the East?” Adara asked. “The demons surely wouldn’t meddle in the church’s domain.”
“Despite the teachings of the Eastern church, one of Ashal’s tenets is free will, for all of creation, including the demons,” Markwood explained.
“We flee or fight, depending on the situation,” Kron suddenly said.
“Without being properly prepared, that is a rather foolish notion,” Markwood said.
“We have no other choice,” Kron said.
“There is always another choice,” Markwood said. “Randall could simply go into hiding. As long as he cast webs of protection over himself and did not use the ring, he would not be found by his father.”
The healer glanced down at the ring on his left hand. He hated the ring, but kept it there as a reminder of their journey’s purpose. “I have thought of that already, Maslin,” Randall said. “As long as I am in hiding, more people will suffer while my father searches for me. I have to face him. I have to end this, one way or another.”
“You didn’t think that way before he came along,” the wizard said with a raised voice as he pointed a finger at Kron.
“Do not blame Kron. He opened my eyes to the world,” Randall said, trying to reason with his friend. “He opened my eyes to my father.”
The wizard growled deep in his throat and turned to face the former border warden. “You have put the boy up to this nonsense,” he said, jabbing a finger into the center of Kron’s black shirt. “If he is harmed, it will be on your head.”
Kron’s only reaction was a yawn. He had heard most of this before from the old wizard.
Adara decided to break the tension. “You mentioned other dangers?” she asked the wizard.
Markwood turned his gaze from Kron to Adara. “I have been
watching Belgad and the demons and that’s why I have come, to warn you. They plan to attack you again once you reach Wester’s Edge.”
“Wester’s Edge?” Randall asked.
“A village at the other end of the trail out of the mountains,” Kron explained.
“There are also the mountain people to consider,” Markwood said, “though I have not scryed upon them.”
“We have seen no sign of them so far, and I do not expect that to change,” Kron said. “They normally keep to themselves if not bothered, and they would not confront us so near Hammer Home.”
“Let us hope it remains that way,” the old wizard said. “Also, I wanted to let you know of the happenings in Bond.”
“What news?” Randall asked.
“How is Gris?” Kron said.
“Sergeant Gris is alive and well,” Markwood said.
“Has he had any problems from the house of Belgad?” Kron inquired.
“Little,” Markwood said with a grin. “Belgad’s man Stilp went to question him at the city guard barracks, but was sent away with a beating and a warning. After hearing the good sergeant’s version of the events surrounding the Asylum and the old cemetery, Captain Chambers has threatened to arrest every Belgad employee in the city and to confiscate all of Belgad’s belongings.”
It was Kron’s turn to grin. “I’m sure that has gone over well.”
“Not as badly as you might think. Lalo the Finder has a strong hold over Belgad’s camp while its chieftain is away,” the wizard said. “And Belgad has many important friends. The captain would be facing a good deal of resistance if he moved against Belgad, so I would say the threats were somewhat hollow. Still, if Belgad pushed too far, the magistrates would be forced to deal with him.”
“Speaking of Belgad, we should be on the move again,” Kron said, taking in their surroundings as if the expected the muscle-bound northerner to appear at any moment. “I hate to leave you so soon, Master Markwood, but we need to put distance between us and Belgad. It’s also possible we might be able to make Wester’s Edge before the demons can find us again.”