City of Rogues (Book I of the Kobalos trilogy)

by Ty Johnston

  Kron paid little mind to the suggestion. “How long will it take for your magics to work?”

  “I can offer some treatment now, but I’ll have to return to the tower for potables and herbs. I did not know the full extent of your wounds, so I did not know what to bring.”

  The answer did not satisfy the man in black. “You did not answer my question.”

  “Considering the walk back to the tower, time to gather the needed items, the walk here and time to administer the proper care, I would assume it will take about three hours to have you on the road to recovery, but eventually, preferably before the sun falls again, we need to have you in a bed.”

  “I’ll find some place,” Gris chimed in. “I’m not sure where yet, but I’ll find a place for you to rest.”

  “It looks to me you’ve found the perfect place to rest.” The sturdy voice came from the entrance.

  ***

  Gris, Randall and Wyck turned to see who had spoken.

  It was Belgad. He stood in the entrance, behind him Spider and Stilp and several armed guards.

  Kron used the side of a stone coffin to pull himself to standing. “I wondered when you would make an appearance.”

  Belgad took a step into the large mausoleum. On his back hung a huge sword nearly as long as he was tall. “All the rats in one hole.” The large man pointed at Gris. “Your friends should learn to watch their trail. It could get you killed some day.”

  Kron spat blood into a corner. “No day like the present.”

  Randall moved between Kron and Belgad. “This man is in my care. I will not allow you to shed his blood.”

  Belgad laughed. It was a good, long, hardy laugh. When he finished his eyes continued to smile. His lips did not. “How are you going to stop me?”

  “Randall and Kron do not stand alone.” Gris drew his sword.

  “Yeah,” Wyck said, pulling a small knife from inside his dirty shirt.

  Belgad stepped to the side of the entrance, giving his men room to enter, and stared at his opponents with pity. “Give me Darkbow without a fuss and the rest of you will live.”

  There was no chance to answer. Kron dove forward with a scream of rage, his fists swinging for the Dartague. Randall reached out to stop the larger man, but Kron bowled him aside with little trouble, sending the healer reeling across the room to slam against a wall and to fall into unconsciousness.

  A grin slid across Belgad’s face as Kron crashed into the bulky northerner. Belgad took the brunt of the blow with only a step back, then stood his ground and wrapped a large hand around his attacker’s throat while the weakened Kron continued to swing and kick with little effect.

  Gris blocked Belgad’s men from entering the crypt, planting himself in the doorway and knocking aside their swords.

  Wyck jumped forward to save Kron, his rusty knife raised over his head before he brought it down with all the might he could muster in his thin arms.

  The boy’s blade sank deep into the muscle of Belgad’s thigh and the Dartague screamed, dropping his opponent. Kron collapsed, choking at the big man’s feet.

  “You will pay for that, little runt.” Belgad swung an open hand, catching the boy in the face and sending him flying across the room to crash into the wall next to Randall.

  “Enough of this.” Belgad thrust a hand up and over his right shoulder, unslinging his monstrous sword.

  Out of the corner of his eye Gris could see the hulking Dartague bringing around his weapon. The sergeant blocked another blow from one of the men in front of him then sprang backward. He was trapped in a hole with few options, but he knew he couldn’t take on the two soldiers at his front with Belgad at his side. Unfortunately he had also given the two soldiers room to move inside the crypt, their companions close behind.

  Wyck’s knife protruding from his leg, Belgad the Liar turned to face the sergeant. “You were a good man, Gris. You could have been of use. I’m sorry to have to do this.”

  Belgad raised his sword over his head in both hands, then suddenly screamed. His weapon dropped from his hands with a loud clanging as he glared down to see Kron reaching up from the ground and twisting Wyck’s knife.

  The Dartague swung a fist. Darkbow tried to block with an arm, but he was too weak. The fist sent him rolling toward Randall and Wyck. Kron was still conscious after Belgad’s blow, but just barely. His eyes fluttered, scarcely able to remain open.

  Gris stood his ground, sword in front as a warning to any who would come closer.

  “Finish this!” Belgad bellowed to his men as he yanked the knife from his leg, spraying blood.

  The four guards moved in on Gris as Stilp and Spider entered behind them.

  Spider’s eyes went to Randall and the large ring on his hand. He moved around his compatriots and knelt next to the healer. “This one is mine.”

  “Lucius!” Gris yelled as he backed as far as he could from the advancing guards, his back to the cold, stone wall.

  Spider drew a dagger from his belt.

  Randall’s eyes opened just as the edge of the knife touched his fingers. “No!” The healer yanked back the hand.

  “Yes!” Spider flipped the dagger in his hand so the point aimed at Randall’s heart.

  The healer forced himself back, scraping against the cold wall.“I call upon my ancestors!”

  A golden light sprang forth from the ring, spreading out from Randall like a mist.

  Spider shielded his eyes with an arm. “Magic!”

  Everyone awake in the room came to a halt and all eyes went to the glow emitting from Randall.

  The healer rose to his knees as Spider and Stilp backed away. “I didn’t want to do this,” he said, extending his glowing ring hand toward them, “but you give me no option.”

  Spider and Stilp cringed while Belgad and his four guards stood in awe.

  Gris had a momentary reprieve from death, but he would not charge out the door and leave his companions to their fates. He kept his sword in front of him and pointed it at Belgad.

  A barely-cognizant Kron grabbed Wyck and pulled the unconscious boy to him, wrapping arms around the lad’s head and shielding him from the ring’s light.

  The roof exploded.

  Chunks of masonry flew through the air. A brick struck Gris in the chest and knocked him hard against the back wall of the crypt, the chain shirt beneath his tabard saving his life. The ground shook, rocking Belgad to one knee as he shielded his face with an arm. Stilp and Spider were knocked backward by shooting stones, both tumbling outside into mud. Belgad’s guards did not fare well; two were killed instantly by bricks smashing their faces while the other two were slammed to the ground. Randall, the yellow glow still spewing from his ring finger, was struck by a rain of stones and pebbles that forced him into a ball in which he covered his face with his arms.

  ***

  The next second was forever burnt into Kron Darkbow’s memory. While only a second, it lasted an eternity, a never-ending moment of pain and darkness and death he would play over and over in his mind, always questioning what he could have done differently. Kron’s only thought was of Wyck cradled in his arms.

  A chunk of the roof, as if launched from a crossbow, smashed into the twelve-year-old boy’s forehead, denting his skull and splattering blood.

  Kron sucked in air to scream, to deny the boy’s fate, but he could not make a sound. His voice was lost in the pain telling him he had failed the lad. Kron Darkbow had not protected Wyck, just as he had not protected his own family.

  As the moment passed, the falling pieces of ceiling no longer smashed the floor and walls of the crypt, allowing those still alive to watch gray dust float through the air and begin to settle on all that was not moving. A gigantic hole in the ceiling revealed the gray day and a dim sun.

  Randall took his hands away from his eyes, the glow from his ring still spreading out slowly to encompass Darkbow and Wyck. “Kron?” He reached for the man.

  Kron said nothing, only snuggling Wyck’s body
closer.

  The healer could tell the boy was dead. It wasn’t his experience or his magic abilities that told him the youth no longer breathed. It was the way Kron was holding Wyck, and the long stain of red that covered the ground near the boy’s head.

  A booming voice spoke from above. “Where is the ring bearer?”

  “No.” Randall looked to the hole in the roof. “Not now.”

  The heads of those still living turned upward.

  “By Ashal, what is that?” Gris managed to say as he used the wall to stand.

  “War demons.” A shaking terror rang in Randall’s voice.

  There were three of the creatures. Each appeared like a man wrapped in heavy plate armor, spikes protruding from all joints of their bodies. They were tall, nearly ten feet, and almost as wide. Massive black, bat-like wings unfurled behind their backs, flapping to hold them in place in the air above the open crypt. Their eyes glowed red behind face slits in the helmets they wore, and the nearest demon clutched a monstrous sword in his taloned claws. The other two were floating higher in the air, their swords strapped to their backs.

  The nearest war demon’s wings flapped, spreading a heated breeze across the humans below. “I seek the ring bearer!”

  Belgad pointed to Randall. “There is the mortal you seek, dark one.”

  Randall grasped Kron by his mud-splattered cloak.

  “Turn the ring over to me now!” The lead demon’s voice was like a roaring furnace, its wings beating again at the air and its huge feet covered in metal plates grazing the crumbling edge of the crypt’s roof.

  Kron struggled, trying to fight off the healer’s touch. “What are you doing?”

  “Aid me, masters of Kobalos.” Randall closed his eyes.

  The glow from the healer’s ring erupted, spraying rays of gold throughout the mausoleum and shaking the building again. Belgad and Gris were knocked off their feet and the nearest war demon shielded its red eyes behind a spike-covered arm.

  A moment later, all was still and the yellow glow was no more. Kron and Randall were gone, along with Wyck and Kron’s belongings.

  “The ring bearer must return! All will die otherwise!”

  Belgad rolled to one knee and pointed a finger at Gris. “That one might be able to lead us to them, dark one.”

  With a heavy thud that shook the floor, the first war demon landed in the center of the disrupted crypt. “Is this true?” It’s scarlet eyes roamed from Belgad to the sergeant.

  “I swear on the ancestors of my Dartague fathers.” Belgad bowed his head nearly to his knee. “This man is friend to a companion of the ring bearer. It is possible he knows much.”

  The lead demon strode closer to Gris, each step rocking the ground. The creature halted to tower over the sergeant. “You will tell us all you know, or you will learn true suffering at the hands of the master of Kobalos.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  For what felt the longest time, everything was black for Kron. When he came around, he realized he must have been unconscious because his head felt heavy and his body was numb except for the pain tearing through his ribs and down one leg. He opened his eyes to find the darkness continued. Sensing no one near, he tried to open his mouth to speak, but his stomach reeled as if he were aboard a ship on a heavy sea.

  Then the memory came back to him, the harshest pain of all. For the first of many times, he relived the boy’s death, the stone crashing into Wyck’s head and splattering his life upon the cold floor of the mausoleum. Then the black demons descended. Randall grabbed Kron and Wyck and then ... nothing, the darkness. Here.

  A light sputtered, forming a rectangular glow around what Kron believed to be the outline of a door. A moment later the door swung inward, revealing Randall in his white robes, an oil lamp hanging from one of his hands.

  The healer entered the chamber. “You’re alive.”

  Kron tried to leap up from the floor, but his wounded leg gave out. He dropped back onto a pallet of coarse cloth and gritted through the pain inflaming his leg. For a moment his head swam, leaving him disoriented. They were no longer in the crypt, and Kron could not explain that to himself. He was in a simple, round room with beds against the walls. Beyond the open door was what appeared to be a small office, a desk near one wall and another door beyond.

  Randall held the lamp higher, on his face a vision of inner anguish. “I am sorry I could not bring Sergeant Gris. He was out of my reach.”

  Kron could only speak through gritted teeth. “How did you bring me here?”

  “I used the ring to shift us to the healing tower in Southtown. We should be safe enough here, at least for a few hours. Belgad won’t think to look for us here.”

  “What ring?”

  “It’s a family heirloom.”

  With a wince, Kron sat up on the edge of the pallet. “Where is Wyck?”

  Randall hesitated as if afraid to speak.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m sorry. There is nothing I could do for the boy.”

  Kron grimaced again, but it was from no physical ache. The stab to his heart was the image of Wyck’s unmoving form next to him, the boy’s head caked in blood. “Where is his body?”

  “A few rooms down the hall outside this office. It is the best place for him. The orderlies will see he has the final rites and a proper burial.”

  It was done then. There was nothing Kron could do for the lad. He couldn’t even offer a decent funeral and burial.

  Kron tried to stand again, but once more his body’s pains forced him to remain seated. “I have to get to Gris. I can do nothing for Wyck, but there may still be a chance to save Gris.”

  “If the war demons want to kill him, he’s already dead, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do to stop them. You can’t kill them. You can’t subdue them. You can’t even buy them off. War demons owe allegiance only to Lord Verkain.”

  “Verkain? Those demons were sent from Kobalos?”

  Randall appeared unsettled, nearly unwilling to speak. “They were drawn to my ring’s power.”

  “Why is Verkain looking for this ring?”

  “I ... I am his son.”

  Kron shot off the ground onto his good leg. “I should kill you.” He advanced, hopping with a limp, his anger allowing him to ignore the pain tearing through his body.

  Randall backed out of the room into the office. “I didn’t know Belgad was following. And I didn’t summon the demons!”

  Kron continued to advance, his dragging steps taking him to the doorway where he leaned against the frame to recover his wind and his senses. “Then who is to blame?”

  “I don’t blame anyone but myself,” Randall said, keeping his distance. “And you.”

  “Me? I’m not the one who brought monsters down from the sky!”

  “You were the one who started this war with Belgad!” Randall yelled back. “You were the one hiding in plain sight at the Asylum! If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have happened and we would all still be living our lives. I wouldn’t have to go into hiding again and that boy would still be alive.”

  Kron took a step forward as if he was going to throw a punch, but his injured leg would not allow him to move. He glared at the healer, his eyes doing more damage to Randall’s soul than fists could have done

  Still, the younger man showed no further signs of backing down and held his own ground. “I was hiding from my father because he will kill me if he finds me. But you? I don’t know what Belgad did to you, but it was petty, about revenge.”

  “It was more than revenge!”

  “For what?”

  Kron’s voice lowered to a whisper. “It was about justice. He had Trelvigor slay my family when I was just a boy, Wyck’s age.”

  Randall went quiet for a moment, staring off to one side in thought. “You killed the wizard. That’s why you set his house aflame, to kill him for what he did to your parents. He must have been the one who told you of Belgad’s involvement.”
<
br />   Kron remained silent.

  Randall sneered and his voice was full of scorn. “You are no better than they.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you forgotten all the dead? Belgad’s men, the boy, others. Have you forgotten the Asylum?”

  Now it was Kron who held his ground. “I played my role, true, but magic was involved in those deaths at the Asylum. I’m no mage.”

  Randall stared at the floor, his features suddenly flat.

  Kron leaned forward, nearly bent over, looking up into the younger man’s pale features. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Randall said nothing.

  Kron leaned back once more, nodding. “You were there when the water burst through the floor. Your ring had the power to move us here, and it had the power to cause the destruction at the Asylum.”

  Randall still remained quiet.

  Kron spat. “How dare you accuse me after what you’ve done.”

  Randall’s voice was now weak. “I was trying to save people from the rising waters.”

  “Just like I was trying to save people from Belgad,” Kron said. “The man deserves to die, and not just for what he did to my family. He deserves to die for everything he’s ever stolen and everyone he’s ever killed. The world will be better off once the man is gone. That was my job. That was what I set out to do. So don’t compare me to Belgad. Like you, I tried to save lives.”

  For a long moment the healer was nonplussed. Finally he noticed Kron’s wounded condition again. “You should sit. You need the rest.”

  “I need to get to Gris.”

  “You are in no condition for combat. Once I’m rested I can make sure you are healed.”

  Kron looked skeptical. “Why should I trust you? It’s not as if we are friends, and you’ve admitted to being Kobalan royalty. That’s even more reason not to trust you.”

  Randall gave forth a narrow smile. “For all I know, you could be Kobalan.”

  “Sorry. My father was Lycinian, my mother Ursian and Dartague. I have nothing to do with Kobalos, unlike you.”

  Randall sighed. “Your opinion of me is understandable, but I’m not cut from the same cloth as Verkain.”

  “What makes you different?”

  “My birth name was Kerwin Verkain, but, like you I no longer claim my original name or title. A prince I might be by birth, but it is not something I would have wished upon myself, especially being a prince of Kobalos.”