City of Rogues (Book I of the Kobalos trilogy)

by Ty Johnston

  “There’s your answer,” Fortisquo said, motioning to Belgad. “Now, we just need to find an excuse for the party. You can’t have a celebration without something to celebrate.”

  As the four exited the verandah, Adara’s mind turned to Kron Darkbow once more. Was the man really as good as she had heard? Or was it trickery and luck that had made him so dangerous to Belgad’s men? She wanted the truth, and the only way to do so was to follow through with Fortisquo’s plan. She had been lucky Belgad had not balked at her presence, but the northerner appeared to have enough confidence in Fortisquo to know the sword master would not include someone who was untrustworthy. Adara wondered if she deserved Fortisquo’s trust. Her interests in him had nothing to do with loyalty and everything to do with handling a sword.

  ***

  Randall could feel his life force flowing through his fingers into the wizard Trelvigor. It was a tiring, time-consuming process, but one necessary for magical healing to take full effect. Potions, salves and bandages could only do so much, as could more complicated measures such as surgery.

  “Enough for now.” Randall blinked his eyes open and leaned back on the stool next to Trelvigor’s bed.

  “You should not do so much on your own.” The young voice came from behind.

  Randall twisted his head to look up at the orderly standing over him, and gave a weak smile. “We give the most we can,” he said, waving a hand at Trelvigor, “and this one needs much.”

  The orderly returned Randall’s smile, patted the healer on the shoulder and went back to work collecting medical instruments from throughout the room.

  Randall returned his gaze to the still unconscious wizard. The first few days had been shaky with the mage, but he apparently had a strong will to live and that helped Randall. The healing arts did little for those who did not want to live. Trelvigor, though, had the will and Randall could tell the man’s soul and body were fighting back from the brink of death.

  Randall reached out a gentle hand and unwound a cloth bandage from the back of Trelvigor’s right hand. The flesh was no longer black but a bright red that told Randall the muscle had been healed though the layers of skin had yet to grow back.

  The healer’s vision blurred and his head swam, causing him to droop in his seat. The fatigue was catching up to him.

  The orderly was suddenly at his side. “You should rest. Go back to your office and lie on your couch.”

  Randall knew he looked haggard, his eyes drooping and his skin gray. He had spent all his inner strength on healing Trelvigor of late, and perhaps it was time to take a day or two off and allow one of the other healers in the tower to take over temporarily.

  Randall shook his head again. He couldn’t allow someone else to work on Trelvigor. The wizard was Randall’s charge and, besides, he thought it best none of the other healers became involved with Belgad. The big Dartague did not seem a threat to Randall, but the healer took Markwood’s warnings to heart.

  “I’ll rest for a few hours.” Randall gave a weak smile to the orderly as he pulled himself from his chair.

  The healer exited Trelvigor’s recovery room and turned left down a narrow curving hall, passing several other healers and a few local citizens who lent a hand at the tower. Trelvigor had been moved from the operational room connected to Randall’s office to allow the wizard solitude while healing.

  Randall found the door to his office and opened it without hesitation. The idea of sleep sounded warming.

  He halted before he could close the door.

  Stilp was sitting on the couch, his legs spread out before him.

  Belgad’s client was all smiles. “Hello there, healer.”

  “Good day to you.” Randall shut the door behind him and plopped into the chair behind his desk. At least sitting allowed him some rest. “What can I do for you?”

  Stilp pointed at the wrapping around his leg. “It’s been a couple of days, so I thought maybe you could take these bandages off.”

  “Too soon. You should give it a good week to let the herbs do their work. If infection sets in, you could lose the leg.”

  “What do you mean, ‘lose’ it?”

  Despite his tiredness, Randall’s gaze was intense. “I mean I would have to amputate it or the infection would spread to the rest of your body, eventually your heart, killing you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh.’ Now sir Stilp, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I need to rest. I’ve been working on your lord’s other client.”

  Stilp’s eyes popped open wider as he suddenly seemed to remember something. “That’s what I was supposed to ask you about. The Finder told me to check on Trelvigor.”

  Randall sighed, mostly from weariness, but also from annoyance. It seemed he would never get any sleep. “Tell Lalo that Trelvigor is coming along as expected.”

  “Can he talk yet?”

  “No. It will probably be a couple of weeks before he can utter speech.”

  “Has he come around?”

  “No, he has not. I promise the very moment Trelvigor finds consciousness, I will send a message informing Lord Belgad.”

  Stilp leaned forward, as if ready to leave, then hesitated. “One last thing, healer, I promise.”

  Randall sighed again. “What is it?”

  “Lord Belgad wanted me to tell you there’s going to be a party a week from today, and that you’re invited. You can bring as many guests as you like.”

  Randall thought his tired ears must be deceiving him. “What is there to celebrate at this time?”

  “Master Belgad is planning to make some big announcement, something about building new ships at the Docks.”

  Randall sat nonplussed. What did Belgad’s economic plans matter to him? “You have delivered your message. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Stilp hopped up on his better leg. “Not unless you want to throw on some of your magical whatsis to make this leg stop hurting.”

  Randall shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m all out of magical whatsis today. You can ask one of the other healers.”

  Stilp gave the young man a quick salute and hobbled toward the exit. “Never mind, I can get by limping a bit longer. Maybe I should stick to the bed for another day or two.”

  “That would be wise,” Randall said, watching the man’s back as he exited.

  As soon as Stilp was gone, Randall pulled himself from behind his desk and collapsed onto his cushioned couch. His final thoughts before falling asleep were about Belgad’s party. Should he go? It might do him some good to get out of the tower for some fun.

  ***

  Maslin Markwood had not reached nearly eighty years of age by being a fool. He was well aware divinations could draw unwanted attention from others. Wizards, witches and devils of all kinds were drawn to magic, especially when intentionally looking for it. To ensure safety, after breakfast Markwood borrowed a donkey and a two-wheeled cart from one of the university’s groundskeepers and rode north out of town along the bricked Old Road.

  Markwood wished he could put more distance between himself and Randall while divining for information about Darkbow and Kobalos, but speed was of the essence and he could not spare the energy to travel by magic. After several hours of travel north of Bond, he stopped the cart and donkey near a cluster of trees set off from the road. He did not want to be disturbed, but he also did not want to be too far off the main path in case it was necessary to flee or call for help. Divining spells were fairly simple, using one’s mind to probe for information about a particular person or place, but the spells could draw the attention of the one being watched.

  Markwood paused long enough to have a lunch of dried beef and pears, sharing a slice of fruit with the donkey before getting down to serious work. He knelt in a patch of grass several yards from the cart and recited protective incantations he hoped would shield him from being discovered. It was not impossible Darkbow was a mage, and Markwood did not want to take any chances. Also, the wizard
planned to look in on the land of Kobalos, far to the north and ruled by a tyrant who was known for his powerful magics. If Markwood drew the attention of Lord Verkain, he hoped for Randall’s safety that Verkain would not be able to tell from where Markwood was divining.

  The wizard closed his mind and softly chanted words taught to him a lifetime ago. Markwood knew the words themselves held no power, but the repetition of the chanting kept him focused and allowed his mind to roam free.

  He focused outward into the darkness beyond his closed lids.

  A tugging feeling came over the wizard as his mental form twisted, making him feel tempered as if he were pulled and flexed by a giant hand grasping at his soul. His mind turned in the direction of Bond, not so very far away. He floated along above the very road he had traveled with donkey and cart. His inner eye blinked and he was before the northern walls of Bond, quickly over and floating above Uptown near the university and Mages Row.

  Markwood was stumped, not knowing where to go. He knew little of Kron Darkbow other than a general sense Randall had provided. He was seeking a focus, something to anchor to in hopes of finding the man fond of black.

  Markwood went over what little he knew of Kron Darkbow. Randall had said the man dressed all in black and was bent on revenge against Belgad for an unknown crime. Blackness, Markwood thought, blackness of the clothes suggested blackness of the soul. Perhaps it would be enough.

  The wizard closed his mind’s eye and thought of a complete, still darkness. He felt his form swirl from one direction to another, seeking out his subject.

  A moment later his inner mind opened. He faced a pair of eyes, red at the rims and full of hate and insanity, a blurred darkness around the edges blocking out everything else.

  Markwood retreated within himself. His eyes opened and he came to sitting on the grass. The eyes he had seen sickened Markwood, making his stomach sour.

  Had that image of madness had anything to do with Kron Darkbow? The mage hoped not. If so, there was true evil, twisted evil, loose in the city of Bond.

  Yet there was no strong evidence Markwood’s vision had been about Darkbow. He had randomly sought out an image, and what he had found had surprised him. That did not mean he was any closer to discovering anything of this Darkbow person.

  The old wizard shook himself free of the vision. The most dangerous part of his casting had yet to come. He turned his focus to Kobalos.

  After a few minutes of chanting, Markwood’s mind stretched again, reaching far to the north. His mind’s eye looked down upon green fields with horses grazing. That would be Caballerus, Markwood told himself before reining in his senses and moving on. When next his mind opened, he was staring down at rocky crags with white tips. He recognized the mountains and a narrow pass that wound its way through them. He had traveled through this place when he was younger. It was the Needles, the mountain range separating West from East Ursia and other lands.

  Markwood closed his inner eye again and moved on. He was getting closer to Kobalos. When next he dared a glance, he saw a land of darkness. The sun shown above, but the lands below were covered in shade. Dreary grasslands stretched to the north to a gray shore hammered by uninviting waves. The wizard had never been to this land, but he recognized it all the same. Such a sad place could only be Kobalos.

  Markwood’s soul shivered.

  He glanced around, seeking a landmark, and spotted a black outline miles away near the shoreline. Markwood moved toward the spot, his mental form lifting as a bird on the wind. He pulled back when he saw a castle of dark stones surrounded by a high wall of black that reached higher than a tall man would stand.

  Markwood surveyed the castle and noted guards in ebon plates roaming its battlements. His mind turned to the wall and found pikes embedded into the dull sand beneath; atop each pike was a skull, some still with flesh clinging or dead eyes gazing from a socket.

  A voice boomed. “Who would dare?”

  The mage retreated, floating above the pale grass surrounding the fortification. He glanced side to side, but saw no source for the voice.

  “You shall pay for your snooping nature!” The voice was like thunder.

  A high wind sprang around Markwood, knocking his ethereal form into a spin and flinging him back.

  The voice crashed into being once more, questioning. “Who has commissioned you to watch my lands?”

  Even in his flustered state, Markwood knew better than to answer. Speaking to the voice would only empower it.

  The spinning became worse, hurtling the wizard through the air until he could not focus on his surroundings or his spellcraft.

  Then all came to a stop, and darkness deeper than the night sky flooded Markwood’s vision. The old wizard felt himself held still, unable to move even to withdraw into his physical form.

  “Tell me your purpose and your title or you shall suffer the entitlements of the damned.”

  Markwood realized he should have known better to look in upon Kobalos. He had no knowledge of the limits of Verkain’s power. Verkain had enormous magical strength and was rumored to be more than two hundred years old.

  A sharp pain, like a knife of ice, jabbed Markwood in the chest.

  “Tell me!” It seemed impossible, but the voice was louder than before, tearing at the soul.

  Markwood summoned the remaining mental strength he had. From the level of power he was sensing, he knew he would not likely be able to break free of the voice’s spell. The only option available to him was to try to startle the voice in hopes surprise would allow him escape.

  Markwood plunged forward into the darkness.

  There was an audible gasp within the wizard’s head.

  Markwood had his chance, and in his mind he yanked back on his mental form, snapping it back to his body.

  His eyes opened and he dropped on his back into cool grass. His breathing was harsh, but he was glad to be alive as he stared at white clouds sifting through a pale sky.

  After a brief rest, he sat up and ran a hand over his aching chest. Markwood cried out softly at the tenderness he found, but there was no physical wound. His attacker was powerful indeed, but he had not been able to breach the ethereal void.

  The wizard blinked and slowed his breathing as he crossed his legs. He had not been able to tell much from his vision quest to Kobalos, but he had not expected no better. That nation was well protected by the magic of its lord. Even old Maslin, as skilled as he was, knew he would have had a hard time trying to fend off Lord Verkain if he had not been able to backtrack into his own body, and battles on the ghostly planes tended to harm more than just the body.

  The old wizard leaned to one side and vomited into the grass.

  Sometime later Markwood stumbled to his donkey and leaned against the animal for a respite. He regretted not discovering more about Darkbow, but he was in no shape to attempt another divination.

  Markwood opened one eye and stared into the donkey’s gray face. “Be a good ass and get me home.”

  The animal’s answer was a bray as the old man climbed aboard the cart.

  ***

  Lucius ducked the blade just in time to avoid a slit throat. Later he would wonder how the inmate had managed to sneak a knife into his cell, but for now Lucius had to stay alive.

  He rolled away from his attacker, and came up on the balls of his feet facing the crazy man and the blade. With an opponent prepared for him, the mad killer suddenly lost the inclination to attack.

  Lucius glanced down and saw the other guard who had entered the cell to feed the inmate. The man was already dead with a gash to his throat.

  Behind him, from the Asylum’s entrance room, Lucius could hear the jeers of other inmates and booted guards running. The guards would help disable the lunatic with the knife, Lucius knew, then the lunatic would be put in a holding cell in the basement. Eventually the madman would return to his cell here on the second floor where he would receive free meals for the rest of his life. The dead guard at Lucius’s feet woul
d only receive a pine box.

  Brooding red eyes blazed back at Lucius. The knife stained in red hung from one hand, barely held by two fingers.

  Lucius pointed to the dead guard at his feet. “That man had a family.”

  The murderer said nothing. He had had his moment and it was over. He knew what was going to happen, that he would be carted away to a dungeon cell, and there was no reason to fight. He had killed again as the voices in his head had told him to, but now it would be a time for rest. At least until he was told to kill again.

  “No more.” Lucius stepped into the lunatic’s reach.

  The killer’s eyes grew broad. He gripped the knife and slashed, but Lucius sucked in his stomach to avoid the cut.

  The killer screamed and lifted the knife over his head.

  Lucius planted a fist in the man’s face, knocking him back against his bunk where he dropped his weapon.

  Lucius scooped up the blade. He stared into the killer’s eyes and saw no remorse, no feelings at all.

  The knife sank deep into the man’s stomach.

  As the murderer crumbled to his knees and his blood flowed onto the floor, gurgling noises and bubbles of red escaped from between his lips.

  Lucius twisted the knife and jerked it free of the body.

  The killer dropped to the stone, cold floor. His eyes blinked and his fingers twitched, then he died.

  Lucius sat on the edge of the bunk and stared at the dead guard’s face.

  Three other Asylum guards burst into the cell.

  ***

  Lucius sat on a bench in front of an apothecary shop. His hands in his lap squeezed the dark floppy hat he wore for his job at the Asylum.

  Across the street, Lucius could spy the Frog’s Bottom. The wooden structure was a three-story house that had probably belonged to one of the wealthier inhabitants of Bond a hundred or more years earlier before the Swamps had become a refuge for the poor. Occasionally someone, almost always a man, would come or go from the place, marching hurriedly up its front steps or stumbling drunkenly down the same stairs. In the half hour Lucius had sat on the bench, he had counted thirteen men entering and seven men leaving. Twice he had seen some of the women who worked at the Bottom, one looking out a window from the second story and another helping one of her more sloven customers out the front door.