by Ty Johnston
Kron pointed to their left and Adara followed his finger to see Randall sitting in front of one of the stone buildings, his hands tied behind his back and his feet tied at the ankles.
“You’re sure they won’t kill him?” Adara whispered.
Kron nodded, then said, “I can’t guess as to why they want him, but they could have killed all of us earlier.”
The mountain folk below appeared to be involved in some sort of ceremony. A dozen of them danced around the growing flames while the rest huddled together near Randall, whispering among themselves.
Kron played over in his mind a hundred different scenarios, but the most obvious way to save Randall was to wait for the mountain people to fall asleep then sneak into the camp and try to set Randall free. If Randall and Adara were not involved, Kron might have attempted an attack on his own, moving around in the dark and taking out the giants one by one, but he did not think his companions would fare well.
Movement below cut off Kron’s thoughts.
The gathering of giants near the healer had broken apart, most of them moving to the other side of the fire to drink from gourds resting on a table made of flat rocks. Two of the huge folk went straight to Randall, bending over him and seeming to have words with the healer. Randall appeared to answer back, but his speech was cut short when one of the giants lifted him as easy as a grown man would a baby, and tossed him onto his shoulder.
“They’re going to throw him in the fire!” from Adara.
The woman nearly jumped forward, ready for the attack, but Kron held up a hand that brought her to a halt.
“Watch,” the man in black said.
Below them, the giant carrying Randall and the other with him headed off into the dark on the far side of the camp.
“They’re leaving with him,” Kron said as he and the woman eased back behind their boulder.
“What do we do?” Adara asked.
Kron glanced from left to right at their surroundings, then said, “We’ll work our way around the camp. Wherever they’re taking Randall, maybe we’ll be able to free him. At least if they move away from the others we will only have two of them to fight.”
Adara stood, crouching on the balls of her feet. “Which way?”
Kron gripped her by her right elbow and pulled her gently along with him, down the side of the hill and around several towering pine trees, the first vegetation of size Adara or Kron had seen in days. They came to a halt behind the trees, away from the camp, and Kron let go of her arm.
“I believe they went that way,” he whispered, pointing a gloved finger away from the camp and into the total darkness of the mountains.
Adara was about to ask Kron how he could be so sure, when a roar from behind caused the pair to spin as one.
Charging at them full speed through the trees was one of the younger mountain people, his head back and his eyes flashing hate as he bellowed. His hands were raised over his head and gripping a wooden club that looked more like a small tree.
Kron and Adara barely had time to react before the giant was among them. Adara spun out of his path to her right while drawing her sword and dagger. Kron waited until the last possible moment, just as the big man was towering over him, to slide to the side of the behemoth and kick out at the giant’s knee and shove him with both hands.
The giant fell forward, dropping his club and sliding several feet in the loose gravel.
Kron and Adara took a moment to see the entire camp of giants was now aware of their presence and running in their direction with unintelligible yells and screams.
“Finish him,” Kron said pointing to the fallen giant behind them as he stepped into a clearing beside the pine trees and drew forth his bow and several arrows.
Adara had learned much from Kron Darkbow in the last several weeks, and the most important was she had learned to trust his combat instincts. Without thinking, she dove on the back of the giant and jammed her dagger into his back, slicing up with the weapon to increase the size of the wound. The creature screamed in pain at the initial stab, but before he could roll over the knife had entered his lungs and he could not breath. He died choking on his own blood as Adara rolled off the man and wiped her dagger clean on the wolf skins he wore.
Kron let loose with his first arrow, catching the closest giant, a hulking brute of a man, directly between the eyes. The fellow dropped to the ground stone dead but was immediately replaced by another. Kron fired another bolt, but this one wasn’t as good a shot, only winging the giant now nearest in the left shoulder.
Kron loosed one more arrow, overshooting and impaling one of the giants in the back of the pack, then dropped his bow and ripped his bastard sword from its sheath.
Adara was suddenly at his side, her rapier and main gauche pointed forward at the remaining dozen or so giants charging at them.
“Good knowing you, Kron,” she said as a wall of mountainous flesh rapidly advanced from only yards away.
“It’s not over yet,” Kron said, and slung out a hand, a tiny gray ball flipping from the edge of his fingers to smash onto the ground at the front line of the charging mountain people.
Flames exploded from where the grenado crashed, catching fire the clothes of three of the giants in front. Screams of anger suddenly became screams of fear as the mountain people came to a halt, crashing into one another, then turning to flee with screams of “Magic!” One of the three giants on fire ran off into the darkness, while the other two fell to the ground and rolled around in hopes of putting out the flames. They were without luck, as the sticking flames burned into their flesh like acid and melted away their skin. Within seconds one of the two was dead, flames eating away at his face, while the other crawled away with the flesh on his legs being eaten away by fire.
“By Ashal, those things are deadly,” Adara said.
“They should be,” Kron remarked. “They cost a fortune.”
They looked up in time to see a boulder fly out of the darkness from the direction of the huts and the bonfire. Kron and Adara dove to the ground, and the rock crashed into a tree behind them.
While getting to their feet again, Kron turned to Adara. “Nearly half of them are dead or gone,” he said.
“What of Randall?” Adara asked.
“If we can capture one alive, he can tell us where they’ve taken Randall,” Kron said.
“Let’s do it,” Adara said, hefting her weapons before her and marching with Kron directly toward the camp.
Along the way, Kron sheathed his sword and snagged his bow from the ground.
Another boulder flew overhead, but it too missed, as Kron launched two arrows.
The first bolt caught a giant man in the throat, not dropping him but sending him fleeing into the night where he would bleed to death alone. The second arrow slammed into the back of a giant who also ran off into the darkness.
By the time Kron and Adara reached the bonfire, Kron had dropped his bow again and brought forth his sword, but they had no opponents to face. The giants had fled or taken refuge in their houses of stone where Kron’s arrows could harm them.
Feeling fortunate to be alive, and playing with the momentum of the moment, Kron lifted a burning ember from the fire in the middle of the four huts and held it high over his head. “One of you come forward!” he bellowed.
Sporadic whimpers or moans could be heard from the huts, but none of the mountain folk came into view.
“If no one comes out, I will let loose my flames within your homes!” Kron threatened.
Some scurrying sounds came from inside one of the huts, quickly followed by one of the hulking females stepping into view in a doorway. The woman was obviously distraught, tears dripping down her face.
“Your people have my friend, the man in white,” Kron said. “Where has he been taken?”
The giant woman sniffed and wiped tears from her cheeks, then said, “To village.”
“In the East?” Kron asked.
The woman nodded her head.
“Why di
d your people take him?” Adara asked.
“He wizard,” the giant woman said. “The army take our cattle, so we trade wizard for food.”
Kron glanced at Adara. “It sounds as if the Eastern army has confiscated their cattle,” Kron said. “The local constable or bishop must be trading with them for mages.”
Both knew what that meant for Randall. Magic was outlawed in East Ursia, punishable by death.
“Is Wester’s Edge the name of the village?” Kron asked.
The giant woman nodded again.
“Very well,” Kron said. “We will be leaving. If any of you follow, we will slay you, then we will return to your homes and burn out your families.”
Kron grabbed Adara by the elbow again and pulled her away from the fire and out of the village. Once they were past the pine trees, Kron tossed his makeshift torch and let go of Adara’s arm.
As they continued to move, again making their way around the camp back the way they had originally come, Kron glanced at Adara and noticed tears streaming down her cheeks.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
She continued to move, thankful for a cloud that blocked the moon and the image of her crying. “All those people,” she said, waving a hand back at the homes of the mountain folk, “we killed them, destroyed their lives.”
“They were the ones who took Randall. Keep that in mind.”
“You’re saying they deserved all that death?” she asked.
Kron was quiet a long time as they rounded the side of a hill, then softly he said, “We all deserve it.”
Chapter Twelve
Randall had to admit the mountain folk had treated him decently. At least they had not eaten him, but also they had not beaten him or been overtly threatening. He had been uncomfortable riding on the back of one of the big men, especially since his hands were tied by hemp cords and that along with his jarring mode of transport had prevented him from being able to cast any spells that might have helped him escape, but overall he was in good condition and glad to be alive.
As the two giants traveling with Randall neared the bottom of the mountain slopes, green pastures dotted with occasional trees stretching miles before them, the healer’s worries turned to Adara and Kron. He had heard the screaming from the mountain people’s home the night before, though his two big companions either had not heard or did not care.
As the giant carrying him set the healer on the ground, Randall spotted the rocky path coming out of the mountains he and Kron and Adara had been taking, and hoped to see them riding down the trail soon.
The two giants moved away from Randall some little distance and sat on large stones at the foot of the mountain. Though large and hardy, they had traveled through the night, taking turns carrying the healer, and were obviously winded.
Fear suddenly gripped Randall’s heart. Not only was he worried about his friends, but he had his own life to think of. From what he had been able to understand of the mountain people’s guttural speech, they were taking him to a village for some sort of trade. Randall didn’t understand what was happening, but it didn’t look as if he was to be killed. He also didn’t like the idea of becoming someone’s slave. Slavery was legal in one form or another in much of the world outside West Ursia, and Randall had grown up around it in Kobalos though the idea of slavery had always struck him as uncivilized. No one should belong to another. It wasn’t right. People weren’t sheep or cattle.
Another fear was that he was now in East Ursia, a nation notorious for its intolerance of magic and all things having to do with wizards. If he was recognized as a spell caster in the village, it was likely his life would not extend much further. At least he had had time to remove his royal ring from his finger and place it inside his robes; there was no telling what would happen to him if he were found to be a prince of Kobalos.
The two giants said a few words to one another, the language familiar to Randall but nearly unintelligible because of their rough voices, then they stood. One of them lifted Randall onto his shoulders again, and the three made their way east on the trail out of the mountains, which soon turned into a dirt pathway.
Randall’s eyes lingered on the trail coming of the Needles as long as he could, but within minutes his huge captors carried him past a group of tall trees that blocked his view. Twisting his head, the healer could see the tops of houses in the distance in the direction they were traveling. His fate would soon be decided for him.
***
The village of Wester’s Edge was really more of a small town with a score of lumbered houses and an inn and stores and a stone temple to Ashal, all sitting in a circle facing the town’s center, a marble statue of an armored Pope Joyous III that sprouted water from the end of an upraised mace. The water flowed down the sides of the white statue into a pool surrounding the feet of the carving of the pope. Within the pool were scores of coins, mostly copper or bronze but a few silver shining through.
On this fine, warm morning, Bishop Salvus stood staring at the pool, mentally making a balance of the tithes that rested beneath the waters. The bishop did not enjoy this task, as he did not enjoy many of the tasks that came as part of his official duties, but it was necessary; he had to show a monthly accounting to the order’s main temple hundreds of miles away in Mas Ober, even though it cost nearly a fourth of the collected money to send a rider to the capital city and back.
Salvus sighed as he closed his eyes and made some mental calculations. He came up with a sum of twelve gold, and that made him frown. The local tithes were the lowest they had been since he had been appointed to East Ursia’s smallest bishopric three years earlier. It was not his fault. Wester’s Edge had been a dying town for more than fifty years, since the war with the West. The path that ran into the mountains to the west of the town had been a trading route several generations earlier, but after the war a major bricked road had been built far to the south near the coast; since then hardly any traffic came through the mountains except for the occasional mountain folk or someone desperate enough to travel a less populated road.
The bishop’s mental countings were interrupted by a running guard who came from the direction of the mountain trail.
“Your holiness, Jarak and Brok are bringing a man from the mountains,” the guard said, shaking a hand toward the dirt road behind him.
The bishop looked up from the fountain at his feet. “What is this man?” he asked. “A bandit?”
“They say he’s a mage, sir,” the guard said, “and from his white robes I’d guess they’re right.”
Salvus stared down the road and could just make out the tall, lumbering figures of the two mountain men in the distance. Something white did appear to be bobbing up and down on one of the giants’ shoulders.
“You know what to do, sergeant,” Salvus said, then turned away from the man and marched to the temple.
At the temple, he made his way up white marble stairs to push through the main doors, paused long enough in the altar chamber to offer a brief prayer, then moved on to his personal quarters in the back of the building. Along the way he made sure the three acolytes under his authority knew about the approaching mountain men and the bundle they were bringing.
Inside his personal room, Salvus changed into the dark purple robes he wore for trials. He took his time, making sure the clothes were in pristine condition and fitted correctly, then he slipped the golden belt of his office around his waist and hung on it a bronze-headed mace with a wooden handle.
Ten minutes later, after making final arrangements with his acolytes and the sergeant of his personal guard, the bishop found himself standing on the top step at the front of the temple.
Word of the mountain men and the wizard they had captured had apparently spread quickly through the town, as almost every citizen, nearly two hundred men and women and children, were packed into the small, bricked yard in front of the temple.
There was no sign of the two mountain men. The bishop figured they had already been given several
parcels of food, as was the tradition of the ongoing deal he had made with them recently: bring him a wizard and they would be given food.
At the bottom of the steps stood a young man, possibly in his late teens or early twenties, who was dressed in a tattered, dusty robe that appeared to have once been white. The young man’s hands were at his side, but were linked through iron shackles that connected in front of him by a length of chain. The young man’s feet had been similarly connected. One either side of him stood two guards, four men altogether, wearing the dark purple tabards of the holy army, ringed mail shirts and heavy swords.
“A healer,” Salvus said as the shuffling of the crowd quieted and he stared down at Randall Tendbones.
“Yes, I’m a healer,” Randall said.
Salvus chuckled and raised his hands to the sky. “As you have freely admitted to being a worker of magics,” the bishop yelled so all could hear his words, “then I pronounce you guilty of crimes against his most holiness, Pope Joyous III, and our lord Ashal.”
The crowd let loose with a roar of approval.
When the noise quieted, Randall said, “Did you not hear me say I am a healer?”
“I most assuredly heard your confession, young man,” Salvus said. “It is a shame one as youthful as you has fallen under the dark influences of magic.”
“I’m a healer!” Randall screamed at the bishop. “I use my powers to help others, to cure the ill and tend the wounded.”
“Powers provided to you by demons of the nether world,” the bishop said. “Powers brought to you by the side of darkness.”
Randall could only stare with disbelief.
“Take him to the temple jail!” Salvus yelled, a pointed finger aimed at Randall. “He shall face final judgment in the morning, when the sun rises! Then he will face Ashal and be punished for his crimes!”
The crowd erupted into another roar.
As the bishop’s guards drug Randall away, several of the town’s citizens spat on him. Tears flowed down the healer’s dust-covered face, but the tears were not for him. They were for those taunting him.