by Ty Johnston
The duke laughed. He shoved away the dark chin and spun to face his men. “Slay this fool.”
Lendo, his sword taken from him upon nearing the camp, saw only one opportunity. He jumped to his feet and lunged, grabbing for the general.
Too late.
Half a dozen blades sank into the former captain of the Kobalan king’s guard. His chain shirt knocked aside two blows, but other swords found homes where his armor did not protect. One silvered tip even sank into his throat, stealing the opportunity for Lendo to scream one last curse upon the Ursians or Ashal or the universe.
Roward glowered over the body of the Kobalan. He spit, the white of his phlegm mixing with the blood splashed in the dirt before his boots.
Then the soldiers’ swords drew back. Men went to work cleaning their blades on cloths hanging from their belts, cloths kept for just such occasions.
Roward’s eyes raised to stare beyond his encircling men.
The camp’s life outside the ring of death continued as if nothing had happened, as it had during the confrontation. Thousands upon thousands of East Ursian warriors, officers and servants went about their daily chores. Goods were carried from one spot to another. Cooking fires were built with flint and steel or doused with buckets of piss or creek water. Horses were tied. Weapons were edged. Links were cut for armor rings.
“What is your command, your highness?” one of the younger officers asked.
Roward did not glance at the man. His eyes wove a route over the camp, watching the life that went on around the death at his feet. “We pack and leave,” he said.
The nearby officers glanced one to another, questioning looks on their faces, but none dared to ask questions.
The duke finally looked to his men. “There is to be no war this day,” he spoke. “The pope himself must decide what direction we must travel now.
“Tell the men. Prepare to move out.”
Shifting eyes still held confusion.
“Move out!”
Booted feet went running, drubbing the dirt beneath them.
Minutes later horns blared and banners were raised. The activity within the giant encampment grew to a new level, a new pitch, as the thousands prepared to go home.
Duke Roward turned his back on the work. He stared across a brook, into the dark forests of the Prisonlands and the heights of the gray Needles above. “Not this day,” he said barely above his own breath, “but there will be another, Belgad Thunderclan.”
***
It was several days later when Kron and Randall found themselves atop steeds outside Mogus Potere’s southern gate. Gone were the legions of soldiers and the city of tents; all that remained of the departed warriors were the burnt circles of their cooking fires and flattened, gray grass where they had been encamped.
The city’s gigantic gates stood wide, casting long shadows beneath the morning sun. Sentries were stationed atop the battlements, and others stood their ground just inside the doors to the city.
Passing around the horsed pair were hundreds of former slaves, families freed by their new ruler. They marched alone, in pairs and in groups. None seemed overjoyed at the unfamiliar future that lay ahead of them, but not a one glanced back to Mogus Potere as they passed out its gates. At the least, freedom was a beginning. They had other family members to find, distant homes to return to and new lives to lead.
“Not all of them are leaving,” Belgad said from the ground next to Randall’s horse, Sergeant Lerebus and a pair of guards behind him. The new king still appeared as his self, a simple white tunic above sturdy boots, but a scarlet robe trimmed in white rabbit fur encompassed his shoulders. “A good number are heading to the mines to the south. Without slaves, we have a new economy to build. I have offered them employment.”
“I am surprised.” Kron’s voice was flat, his eyes pointedly not gracing the bulky ruler.
“Slavery is a detestable practice,” the Dartague said.
“I agree,” Adara said as she approached the gathering of men. In her hands she carried a pair of heavy saddlebags.
Kron kept his eyes averted.
Belgad took one of the leather bags from the woman, then approached the left of Kron’s horse. “For you.” He held up the bag.
“What is this?” Kron asked, his steel gaze falling on the Dartague.
“A parting gesture.”
Kron lifted the saddlebag into his lap and pried apart leather straps to peer inside. “I cannot accept.”
“Yes, you can.” Adara offered the other pack to Randall. “It is for services rendered to the crown of Kobalos.”
Randall looked inside his own saddlebag to see silver and gold coins blinking beneath the sunlight. “The healing towers in Bond will appreciate the donation.”
“I do not want this.” Kron held out his saddlebag to Belgad.
The new king waved the man off, refusing the return of his gift. “It is not a bribe.”
“Take it, Kron,” Adara urged. “Put it to good use in Bond.”
Kron’s dark eyes flashed on the woman.
“You can begin with a proper burial for Wyck,” she said.
Kron said no more on the subject, but tossed the sack behind him on the back of his riding beast.
Belgad held up his hands as if surrendering. “For the sake of Bond and Kobalos, and to keep the peace among us,” here the king stared pointedly at Kron, “I will be divesting myself of my business interests in Bond. One of my court wizards has already contacted my man Lalo, and he will be buying me out.”
Kron smirked. “Don’t take me for a fool.”
“I am not giving up all ties to Bond,” the Dartague said. “I still have diplomatic relations, and many other connections. But I want you to know I will not intrude further upon the city’s commerce. Those days are behind me. I have begun a new life here in Kobalos, and I seek to break some ties to the old days.”
Adara eased around to the other side of Kron’s horse, grabbing the horn of his saddle. “Let it go,” she whispered. “He is who he is, just as you are who you are.”
Kron placed a gloved hand over hers, then nodded with a weak smile.
“I will miss you,” she said, staring into his blue eyes.
“And I you.” Kron leaned down and pressed his lips to the side of her face.
She returned the kiss, gently upon his lips.
Kron sat back once more, high in his saddle. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into returning with Randall and myself.”
“There is much work here still to be done.” Adara patted Kron’s hands as he crossed them on his saddle. “Verkain’s slave pits were filled, many of those slaves children. Lord Belgad has asked me to take charge of a new orphanage, to help find homes for the children.”
Belgad moved to Randall’s horse. “I wanted you to know I have spoken with my officers and the remains of the Kobalan gentry.” He nodded at the sergeant behind him. “There is to be no trouble from those quarters.”
“I’m glad the transfer of power has gone somewhat smoothly,” the former prince said.
Belgad grinned, showing teeth. “Of course if things had not gone smoothly, I’d have called up a horde of my Dartague brethren and there would have been another war on our hands.”
The healer chuckled with the king.
Kron gave one last pat to Adara’s hand, then allowed her to retrieve it. “It is time we were going.” He turned to the healer horsed next to him. “A long ride lies ahead, unless you will reconsider using magic.”
“Not this time,” Randall said. “I’m looking forward to traveling at a leisurely pace. Besides, we may yet be of some help in the Prisonlands.”
“True,” Kron said, “and perhaps we can spend time in some places we had to rush through before.”
“Just not East Ursia,” Adara said.
Kron chuckled for the first time in days. “Of course not.”
Chapter Thirty One
It was two months before Kron and Randall stood atop a gras
sy hill, their horses grazing below as the two men watched a brick road winding west to the eastern walls of the city of Bond. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys beyond the wall, and the stench of city life wafted to them across fields cut flat for the winter. A sting of cold nipped at the air and the two men, one in black and the other in white, wrapped their cloaks tighter.
“Winter will be here soon,” Kron said, his eyes lingering on the gates in the distance.
“Do you have someplace to stay?”
“I’ve some old friends to check upon,” Kron said, “but if I cannot find shelter as a guest, I will rent a room at the Rusty Scabbard.”
“As long as there are no warrants for your arrest,” the healer added.
Kron grinned at his companion. “Yes, there’s that to consider. What of yourself? Still planning to return to the healing tower?”
“It is where I can serve best.” The healer pointed to the heavy saddle bags astride his steed. “Even if my room is no longer available, I’m sure my donation will land me someplace within.”
Kron’s gaze turned serious, as did his voice. “Before we enter town, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
Randall nodded for his friend to proceed.
“If you are ... if you are the Ashal reborn ... why are you hiding in Bond?”.
“I am not hiding. This is the life I have chosen.”
Kron appeared confused. “Why not spread word of your powers? Surely there are millions you could potentially save?”
Randall’s gaze returned to the city ahead. “I’ve given that much thought during our travels,” he said, “but it comes down to a matter of practicality. My magic has grown greatly, but even I have limits. If word spread of what I am ... who I am ... I would be deluged with the sick and wounded, the dead and dying.”
“You fear it would be too much for you?” Kron asked.
“I don’t believe other men could control themselves,” Randall explained. “It would start small, with men shoving aside others to get to me, but eventually it would lead to kings and pontiffs and wars. That I could not tolerate. And despite what many might believe, I am no god. Simply a wizard.”
“A very powerful wizard.”
“Yes.”
“I understand,” Kron said.
“It will be better for me, and the world, if I live a small life,” Randall said. “And I can still do much good.”
Kron patted his friend on the back. “You will.”
The man in black began to walk down the hill to their steeds. Soon he had the animals by their leads. He climbed onto the back of his beast as Randall approached.
“I can likely find room for you at the tower if none of your plans follow through,” Randall offered as they trotted toward open road.
“You never know,” Kron said, glancing back at the weighted bags jingling behind him, “I might purchase some property, find decent employment and settle down.”
Randall chuckled. “I find that hard to imagine.”
***
Sergeant Gris shifted his sword to one side and settled his bulky frame onto a stool while staring across the stained wooden top of the bar. “Ale,” he said to the tavern keeper.
The Rusty Scabbard’s bartender nodded and drifted away to tap a keg for the sergeant of the city watch.
Gris spun slowly on the three-legged chair and surveyed the dining room behind him. He had always liked the Scabbard. The place wasn’t so nice a man off the street couldn’t come in for a drink, but it was no dive. He and his men made sure of that.
He smiled as old memories drifted back. Gris had spent more than one night at the Scabbard after his daily duties had been completed. On a rare occasion he had even been called to the tavern to bust up a fight.
The bartender placed a leather jack on the bar. “Here you go, sir.”
Gris slipped a hand into the satchel tied to his belt and pulled out a copper coin.
“I’ll be paying for that,” a voice said to one side.
Gris twisted on the stool to see the speaker.
“By Ashal, Lucius Tallerus.”
Kron dropped a silver coin on the counter before the bartender. “Bring my friend another, and myself a glass of red wine.”
Gris looked his old friend up and down. Kron looked well, stocky and strong in his ebony garb. A big, black sword and a new bow resided on the man’s back, as it often had in Gris’s experience.
“You look good,” Kron said. “No longer in the guard?”
Gris glanced down at his simple leather armor and the sword on his hip and laughed. “Off duty. I leave the chain and tabard at home when drinking.”
The barkeep placed another mug and a glass of wine before them.
Gris lifted his drink toward his friend. “To seeing you again, Lucius.” He raised the ale to his lips.
“The name is Kron Darkbow,” the man in black reminded, sipping his own drink.
Gris finished off the first mug and grinned. “Still with that, are you?”
“Lucius Tallerus is a man of the past,” Kron said. “He is no longer necessary.”
The sergeant’s smile vanished. “Very well, Kron, tell me why I have the pleasure of your company this night.”
“There is the matter of a possible warrant for my arrest.”
Gris’s smile returned as he reached for the next mug. “Quashed it,” he said. “Was easy, especially after Belgad had hired Percifidus to work me over. Torturing a city official is not a good way to get the law on your side.”
“Then I am a free man?”
“As free as any other in West Ursia.” Gris gulped down some ale.
“Good,” Kron said.
“What are you up to now?” Gris asked. “All I’ve heard is Belgad won’t be returning to town. What did you do? Disable the man?”
“We came to terms,” Kron said. “As for my future, I have had plenty of time to make plans ... but for now I am seeking something to keep me busy for a little while.”
“The last time I heard similar words a street war nearly erupted.”
“Hopefully not this time. I’m planning on purchasing land, settling down.”
“That is hard to believe,” Gris said.
“You are the second person to utter similar words today.”
The sergeant took another swig of ale. “If you’re serious, I know a decent piece of property, and it’s cheap.”
“Where?”
“The Asylum,” Gris answered.
***
Stilp was a simple man, and he liked it that way. He had no dreams of rising above his station, of someday being as rich and powerful as his former employer, Belgad the Liar, nor his current employer, Lalo the Finder. All Stilp wanted out of life was a bit of coin, a few drinks and the occasional touch of a woman. Of course he didn’t mind a bit of adventure to achieve what he wanted. Sometimes he even had to be a bit harsh.
Like tonight.
He swung the club, connecting with the other fellow’s jaw and sending him sprawling into the dusty alleyway behind the Royal Bear tavern.
“That’s for not paying your debts.” The moon above made Stilp’s teeth stand out in the dark alley.
The much smaller man on the ground just lay there, blood spurting from between his lips as his dazed eyes rolled around in his head.
Stilp shifted to stand over the man, his brown cloak twirling around him as he raised the cudgel once more. “This one’s for nicking off with my best girl the other night.”
The club came down.
A gloved hand sprang from the darkness, yanking the oak branch from Stilp’s hands.
“What in hell?” the brigand said as he glanced up.
A familiar set of dark blue eyes gazed back at him, hints of moonlight revealing the edges of a tall, muscular figure cloaked in black.
“You!”
“Yes, me.” Kron lifted the club high, threatening. “And I see you’ve not changed your ways.”
Stilp took a step back and
pointed to the groaning man at his feet. “He’s just had the wind knocked out of him. I’m sure he’ll be up and running by morning.”
“I’m sure he will, once I’ve taken him to a healing tower.” Kron advanced with the club still in his hand.
Stilp backed further. “Look, I don’t work for Belgad no more.”
“I know,” Kron said, “but I’ve heard you work for the Finder.”
Stilp gulped.
“A new master, but the same game,” Kron went on. “You might have to suffer the same consequences as before.”
Stilp dropped to his knees and held his hands up as if in prayer. “Please, please don’t kill me! I’m not even forty yet. I’m too young to die!”
Kron chuckled, a deep laugh that reverberated down the lengths of the alley. “Maybe I should keep you alive. There is something you can do for me. I’ve heard your new master recently acquired a piece of property and he’s looking to sell for a profit.”
Stilp blinked.
“The Asylum,” Kron said. “I want it. Tell Lalo to name his price.”
Stilp blinked again. “That’s all?”
“Not quite.” Kron flung the club as far as his strong arm would allow, the piece of wood disappearing down the alley with a distant crashing noise.
The man in black leaned over the kneeling sniveler. “If you do not change your ways, you will have to deal with me again.” The menace in his voice ran deep.
Stilp cringed.
Kron spun away, pausing to heft Stilp’s victim onto a shoulder.
With the trace amount of courage still possessed by him, Stilp slowly stood. “How do I find you if Lalo wants to sell?”
Kron did not bother to look back. “You don’t find me. I find you. And he will sell.”
Then the man in black and his unconscious package were gone into the shadows.
Stilp sniffled and sat back on his heels. “Damn. Darkbow.”
The Ursian Chronicles
(in order of publication)
City of Rogues: Book I of The Kobalos Trilogy
Road to Wrath: Book II of The Kobalos Trilogy