by Ty Johnston
“Anything else?”
“Not that I remember. I seem to think Adara was there, with Randall ... but I’m not sure. I was tired. My mind could have been playing tricks on me.”
“I wonder,” the wizard said.
“What?”
“Within studies of magic there have long been stories of a creator god,” Markwood said. “Ashal spoke of such a being, but this god has never been worshiped. The early church took it that Ashal was speaking about himself.”
“What does this have to do with our situation?”
“Ancient manuscripts say Ashal was in tune with this creator, that Ashal would return one day because of eternal life granted by the Creator.”
“I still do not understand.”
“If Randall has had contact with this Creator, this god, there is no telling what might happen.”
“What do we do?”
“If Randall is alive, we need to find where his body is located,” Markwood said. “It would make sense his soul could still dwell in his original form.”
“You said you had never heard of a healer returning from the dead,” Kron said.
“A powerful enough wizard can do almost anything,” Markwood said. “It depends upon his inner strength, his willpower. Besides, there’s always a first time, and the inclusion of this Creator could change everything.”
***
Duke Roward thrust through the tent’s flaps and slammed down his helm, the silvered headpiece spinning across the floor of packed earth to crash into an iron torch stand. As the general roared and pulled at his hair, the stand went tumbling, flames sparking forth and catching upon a small, folding table loaded with maps of linen.
The fire built swiftly, the drawings eaten away sheet by sheet, but Roward paid it no mind. He spun about, hammering a mailed fist into a stack of armor. The blow rang out, leaving a fresh dent in a chest plate.
The sounds of heavy footsteps outside came abruptly, soon followed by a trio of young officers in chain shirts poking their heads through the flaps.
They found their leader kicking over the flaming table and lashing out at a robe hanging from a tent pole.
The boldest of the three dashed forward, grabbing a pitcher and tossing its contents onto the flames. The fire died swiftly, but Roward’s mood did not.
The duke spun on the nearest of the three, the young man holding the stone pitcher. “Fool! You’ve just destroyed a hundred-year-old Jorsican wine!” Then the general drew a dagger.
The pitcher bearer made haste to flee, his two companions not far behind. They bound down a grassy hill between row upon row of smaller, dark blue tents, soldiers pointing and laughing at them as they ran.
Eventually the runners came to a halt near a brook. The one still held onto the pitcher, but he dropped the object next to a tree stump upon which he soon sat. The other two dropped to their knees, catching their wind after their flight.
“What vexes him?” one asked the others.
The man sitting kicked the jug at his feet, sending the pitcher skittering into the rambling creek. “Ashal knows! But let him try that again and my uncle will hear about it.”
“Your uncle is what disturbs the duke this day,” the third of them said.
“What say you?”
“Have you not heard? The good bishop was to send message this morning, a note proving his safety and relaying the latest from Mogus Potere.”
“There has been no word? My uncle has been silent?”
“The bishop’s messenger never appeared, nor did any other of his retinue.”
“The duke fears betrayal,” the other kneeling man said, standing slowly to ease his knees. “I can’t say I blame him, what with Verkain’s history.”
“Why have we not dispatched spies?” the seated officer asked.
“The duke ordered it, but none have returned.”
The three looked at one another, their gray glances revealing concern. Much was at stake for their homeland of East Ursia, and much hinged on the Kobalans playing their part.
The seated man began, “If Verkain turns against us — ”
“Then it will mean war again,” the standing officer said.
The last man kneeling spat into the brook. “We’re here for war, but we expected it with the Western blasphemers. Verkain may be heathen, pagan and deluded, but he never spit on the Circle of Ashal.”
“I put nothing past Verkain.”
“True enough,” the seated man stated. “I’ve heard tell Belgad Thunderclan is now among his subjects.”
The other two shot hard, surprised glances upon their friend.
“It’s true,” the seated one went on. “They say Belgad has joined Verkain’s inner circle as an adviser or general.”
The standing officer chuckled. “Does Roward know this?”
“I’m sure he does. It was mentioned in the last dispatch from my uncle.”
The kneeling youth straightened. “The man the pope hates the most. I’m sure Joyous III would be gratified to know Belgad was working with the Kobalans. It might change his mind about these dealings with Verkain.”
“We wait to hear from the bishop,” the other one standing said. “And we only act upon the word of the duke, whatever role Belgad should fill.”
The other two were silent.
“Agreed?”
Heads nodded, but none seemed overjoyed.
***
Stelga had been a slave all her thirty years. She had been born into the home of a Kobalan duke, Lord Baritroke. The earliest chores she could remember were helping her mother and father in folding the duke’s fine clothes. When Stelga was old enough, in her early teens, Lord Baritroke noticed her and brought her to his bed chamber; unlike many Kobalan nobles, Baritroke had been gentle, never harming Stelga and never forcing himself upon her. She had done her duty in her master’s bed because it was expected of her.
Unfortunately for Baritroke and his household, he had sided with the rebellion against Lord Verkain almost four years earlier. The house had been burnt to the ground, the family slaughtered before Lord Baritroke’s eyes, then the duke had lost his own life, the flesh torn from his body by some kind of torturous worms. The slaves had been more fortunate, separated with families broken apart and scattered to other households. The less fortunate slaves became playthings for Kobalan officers. Those with the least fortune were sent to Lord Verkain’s slave pits beneath the castle where they would never be heard from again.
Stelga had been one of the luckiest, in her opinion. These days she had another master, Prembus the baker. He wasn’t the kindest of men, but he rarely whipped his slaves and he was generally too busy to force himself upon any of the women. The worst part of being owned by Prembus was that one was always in a rush, chasing to the mill for flour, or running to the well for water, or rushing to a farmer for butter. Which was where Stelga found herself the morning Sergeant Kargus took notice of her.
She ambled along between the narrow row of two-story dark buildings typical of Mogus Potere. There were four sticks of butter from a local farmer waiting for her at the market in the center of the city, but Prembus was busy dealing with customers and would likely not realize if Stelga were gone a few extra minutes. There was no reason to hurry.
She paused near an alley and stared across the street at a display of wool dresses in a shop window. Slaves were not allowed to handle money, but her master did have to keep her clothed. Stelga wondered if she could talk the master’s wife into purchasing a few of those dresses for the house servants; winter was only a couple of months away, and the wool would be warmer than the thin muslin she now wore.
A strong hand landed on her shoulder.
Stelga glanced back to find a big man in black leather armor staring at her. He had a cruel look with crooked teeth showing between a black, unkempt beard. A sword at his side and a shield on an arm revealed his was in the Kobalan military. The white markings on the metal shoulder plates of his armor revealed he was a sergeant
of the city watch.
“You daydreaming, girl?”
Stelga noticed he was standing near the alleyway and his hand had not been removed from her shoulder.
“Answer me!”
“I am shopping for my master, sir,” Stelga said.
His eyes drifted to the storefront across the way, then back to her. “Dress shopping?”
“Butter,” Stelga said. “I was only thinking of the dresses for winter.”
“You’re a slave. You don’t have money to afford no dresses.”
“My master can buy them for me.”
“I know something better than wool to keep you warm,” the sergeant said.
Stelga looked around and saw no other soldiers in sight. In fact, even most of the usual street traffic, slaves and workers, had disappeared.
He tugged on her shoulder, gently pulling her toward the alley. “Why don’t you come back this way and let good ole Kargus show you how to stay warm?”
“I have to get to market.”
“You weren’t in such a hurry you couldn’t stare at some dresses.”
Stelga sighed and lowered her head. This was the life of a slave in Kobalos. A slave never knew when he or she was going to be beaten, raped or worse.
“Come on,” Kargus said, gripping her by the arm. “This will only take a few minutes, sweetheart.”
Stelga allowed herself to be pulled along. There was no reason to fight, unless she wished a quick death.
The sergeant drew her into a cul de sac of shadows that would not allow anyone from the street to see and he began to work at the buckles of his leather jerkin.
“Leave the armor on,” a voice said from above. “You’re going to need it.”
The sergeant looked up. Stelga looked up.
Perched above, on the edge of a roof, was a man wrapped in a black cloak.
The sergeant reached for his sword.
The man in black dropped, landing in a roll that brought him to his feet between the open street and the two Kobalans.
Kargus yanked his sword free of its sheath.
The man in black kicked out with a boot, knocking his opponent’s heavy blade away.
Stelga pressed deeper into the alley to avoid the conflict.
Kargus swung his shield trying to slam it into his foe’s head, but the man from the roof was too fast. He ducked and came up with a hammering fist that cracked the sergeant’s jaw.
Kargus went sprawling, slamming into the woman and knocking the breath from her.
Then the sergeant dropped unconscious to the ground.
“Damn,” the man in black said.
Stelga could only stare. She had been saved from rape, but she didn’t know what fate this new devil had for her.
Kron blinked, seeming to notice the woman for the first time. “My apologies. I was hoping to take this man awake.”
A puzzled look crossed Stelga’s face. “Why?”
“I need information. Do you know where the late prince has been laid to rest?”
“Prince Kerwin?”
“Yes.”
“He is still laying in state,” Stelga said. She heard all the local rumors from her master’s wife.
“Where?” Kron asked.
“The Temple of Verkain.”
“Again, my apologies,” Kron said, “but I am none too familiar with the temple. Can you tell me where it is located?”
“Near the East Gate. It used to be a church of Ashal.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Kron said with a two-fingered salute.
Then the man in black slung a rope and grapnel to the roof and pulled himself up and away from Stelga and her unconscious companion.
She watched the last of him, the flapping edges of his dark cloak, disappear over the edge of the building. Then she glanced down at Sergeant Kargus.
“Serves you right, you bastard.” She kicked him in the groin.
***
Kron eased the door open and slipped inside the room.
“What did you discover?” Markwood asked from the ragged bed.
“Randall is in a temple near the East Gate.”
“I’d rather not know how you discovered this.”
Kron grinned as he glanced through the cracks in the shutters to watch the pedestrian traffic. “I don’t think anyone saw me.”
“No one did.”
Kron turned with one eyebrow raised.
“It was only a little spell,” the wizard said. “Just something to protect us.”
“You won’t heal if you keep casting.”
“If I don’t cast, we will soon be dead.”
“You might draw Verkain’s attention.”
“Verkain has his own mages,” Markwood said. “If my minor spell is even noticed, he likely would confuse it with one from his own people.”
Kron looked outside again. “Will you be able to move by dark?”
“I could probably move now,” Markwood said, “but I won’t be in condition to fight for some time. I won’t underestimate Verkain again.”
“I will slip away tonight,” Kron said. “Perhaps I can get to Randall.”
“And what will you do?”
“I don’t know,” Kron said, glancing at the wizard again. “I feel I’m supposed to do something, but a plan escapes me.”
“I can’t be of much help to you if I am here.”
“I mean no offense,” Kron said, “but you are not in condition to be of aid.”
“You don’t believe we can wait?”
“From what you’ve told me, Verkain is going to invade the Lands any day. We need to act.”
Markwood nodded, appearing frustrated but realizing the right of Kron’s words.
“I’ll go when it’s dark,” the man in black said.
***
Sergeant Lerebus was counting spears lined against a wall just inside the South Gate when a runner in a leather vest trotted up to him.
Lerebus turned an eye upon the young man. “Speak your word.”
“One of the watch sergeants was attacked near the merchant district, sir,” the young man said. “Sergeant Fanto sends for you.”
“Why am I needed?”
“The perpetrator was not caught, sir,” the soldier said. “Sergeant Fanto said you were the best tracker in the city.”
Lerebus called to another soldier, one among a dozen milling about the open gate, and gave orders to continue the weapons count. Then the sergeant turned to the young runner. “Lead the way.”
***
Sergeant Kargus was still unconscious. His snoring body lay flat at the back of the alley where he had fallen.
Lerebus bent to his knees next to the burly figure and sniffed the air. “There was a woman,” he said, “and a man.”
“It must have been one of them that did this.” Sergeant Fanto stood behind the kneeling Jorsican.
Lerebus got to his feet and continued to inhale sharply. “It was the man. Our perpetrator smells of sword oil and dust. The woman smelled of bread.”
“You’re making a lot of guesses over a few sniffs of the nose,” Fanto said.
Lerebus sniffed one last time and glanced to the tops of the near buildings. “The man fled by the roofs.” He pointed along the alley back to the street. “The woman walked away into the road.”
“What does this mean?”
“A guilty person wouldn’t simply walk back to the street,” Lerebus said. “A guilty person would try to conceal their tracks, such as by taking to rooftops.”
Fanto gave a disgruntled look to the unmoving Sergeant Kargus. “We’ll never find him.”
“I can find him, but it might take time,” Lerebus said, “and I’ve a guess as to who he is.”
***
Kron slept a few hours, then slipped away from his and the wizard’s hiding space to steal some loaves of bread that had been placed in a baker’s window to cool. The two men couldn’t remember their last meal and both were near starving. The bread was still warm as Kron brok
e it and passed it to Markwood. The warrior in black grinned as he chewed a hunk of rye and watched the mage bring forth a chunk of butter from the palm of his left hand.
“I’ve been wondering how you always had food when we were on the road,” Kron said with a grin.
Markwood smiled back. “The best mages never tell their secrets.” With his fingers he smeared the white butter on a piece of bread.
“I brought you these, too.” Kron lifted a pile of dark clothes from the floor and tossed them on the end of the bed. “It’s not much, a cloak and tunic and shoes.”
Markwood nodded his thanks. “It will suffice.”
A pale line of light moved along the far wall and Kron turned his head to see the last of the day’s glow through a line in the shutters. “It will be dark soon.”
“Wait a little longer.”
A pounding at the door jarred the room and the two men.
“Open in the name of Lord Verkain!”
Kron drew his sword.
The door shook again, dancing in its frame. “Open this door!”
“I’ll hold them off as long as I can,” Kron said, stepping in front of the portal with his weapon gripped in both hands.
Markwood began to pull on the new clothes Kron had brought him. “I will deal with this lot.”
“You don’t have the strength!” Kron snapped to the dressing wizard.
Another hammering on the door.
“You need to get to Randall,” Markwood said.
“You are in no shape for this,” Kron said. “If you must, take us away again, but do not try to fight Verkain.”
“The king is not here or I would sense his presence.”
A splintering noise filled the air as the door shook once more.
“We don’t have time for this!” Kron spun to face the door.
“Kron,” Markwood said softly.
The man in black hesitated, but faced the wizard again.
Markwood pointed toward a boarded hole in a wall in the back of the room. “Out the window.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You saved me once,” Markwood said. “Now let me return the favor.”
The door cracked again, splinters of wood showering Kron’s back.