by Ty Johnston
“Has he spoken?” Belgad pointed to Stilp.
Randall motioned toward the man on his desk. “I have had him unconscious while removing the arrow.”
“What of the others?”
Randall sighed. “Two are dead and the other in a coma.”
Belgad nodded to his sleeping vassal. “How long until he is awake?”
“About three hours. He needs time to rest and heal.”
“Wake him now,” Belgad ordered.
“As you wish.” Randall leaned over Stilp and placed a finger on either side of the man's forehead.
Lalo moved toward his employer. “Is something amiss?”
Belgad waved a hand toward Stilp. “The guild chiefs say they had nothing to do with this.”
Lalo blanched. “Do you believe them?”
“There was much fear in their faces for them not to tell the truth,” Belgad said with a shrug, “but otherwise they were useless. They saw nothing and know nothing.”
Randall’s fingers massaged Stilp’s face. “Awake.”
Stilp’s eyes fluttered, closed again, then popped open. “Ashal, I’ve an awful headache!”
“Don’t move or it will grow worse.” The healer leaned away from the patient.
The small man on the desk winced. “My leg! Did you cut it off?”
“It’ll be fine in a week or so.” Randall said, standing and moving to one side.
“Enough.” Belgad towered over the wounded Stilp. “Tell us what happened last night.”
“It was terrible.” Stilp's eyes seemed the size of apples. “He came from nowhere. There were arrows all over the place, and the next thing I knew the guards were down.”
Belgad grimaced. “Did you see the man?”
“Very little,” Stilp said, squinting as if they would bring back his memories all the better. “He was dressed in black. Everything was black. Even the buckles on his belt and boots were black.”
Belgad leaned back, no longer towering over his employee. “It was a man, though?”
“I believe so, sir, but it was hard to tell.” Stilp opened his eyes. “I’ve never seen a man who could appear and disappear into shadows like that.”
Belgad glanced at Randall. “Magic?”
The healer nodded. “Possibly.”
Belgad turned his attention back to his wounded vassal. “Can you describe the man, his weapons?”
“He was big.” Stilp closed his eyes again briefly, then they snapped open. “And he had a big sword hanging on his back. I never saw him draw it. He didn’t need to. He was deadly enough with his hands.”
Belgad grumbled softly, then, “Could there have been more than one?”
“I don’t think so,” Stilp said. “I only saw the one, but I guess someone else could have been the archer.”
“Though possible for a man well trained.” Belgad pointed out.
“His name!” Stilp blurted.
Belgad’s eyes locked on the wounded man.
“He said his name is Kron Darkbow,” Stilp said with a shiver, “and he said he’s out to destroy you, Master Belgad. He wanted me to give you the message that Kron Darkbow would destroy you.”
“Sounds like a fool.” Lalo moved up beside his employer.
“Or a brave man on the brink of insanity.” Belgad moved around the table until he was facing the healer. “I don’t know this Kron Darkbow, but the name sounds northern. Perhaps Dartague or Kobalan.”
Randall nodded agreement. “Darkbow could be a Kobalan name.”
“I know of no man with that name.” Belgad's gaze shifted to the wall, as if he were looking into his own past. “Nor do I know of anyone living who would have a grudge against me, at least no one who would dare confront me.”
“Perhaps this isn’t a personal matter, my lord,” Lalo offered. “Maybe it is someone with a business interest in Bond.”
“I don’t think that likely.” Belgad turned back to the face the others. “This feels like a grudge fight.”
Randall lay a gentle hand on Stilp's wounded leg. “Sir Belgad, if you are finished with my patient, he needs more rest.”
“Very well,” Belgad said, leaning over Stilp once more. “Heal yourself. I will need every ear on the street.”
“Yes, my lord,” Stilp said as Randall’s fingers returned to the sides of his forehead.
“Sleep.” And Stilp closed his eyes.
Belgad turned to the exit. “Come, Lalo. I need time to think.”
As Randall began to put away his instruments, he was grateful he was not Kron Darkbow. He would not want Belgad the Liar hunting for him.
***
Once Belgad and Lalo had exited the healing tower, Randall called two orderlies to carry the unconscious Stilp into the back chamber where Trelvigor lay beneath sheets dipped in a brew of daffodil leaves which would aid the wizard’s wounds. The orderlies lay their burden on a padded table next to Belgad’s wounded guard who remained in a coma.
Once the orderlies left Randall’s chambers, the healer collapsed into the chair behind his desk. Working his magic on Trelvigor, and the additions of the unconscious guard and Stilp, had weakened Randall’s endurance. If Belgad would need healing services again soon, Randall would suggest another healer. The services of all the healers in the tower, and the similar tower in Southtown, were free of charge. Surely Belgad would not be offended at needing the services of another.
Randall closed his eyes and eased back in his chair. He did not have time to sleep, as Trelvigor would need another dose of healing potion within a half hour, but he could relax for a few minutes and hope to recharge some of his magical energies.
The healer opened his eyes again and glanced at the black arrow resting on his desk. He should have disposed of the thing, or offered it to Belgad, but he had not. In truth, he had wanted to study the missile. Its carved shaft had been painted a dull black, the three feathers on its launching end were from some dark bird. Even the broad, sharp head had been smoked black. At first glance the arrow appeared to belong to the army of Randall’s homeland, Kobalos. The dress of the Kobalan military was black, black and more black. The only items a Kobalan soldier would wear that were not black would be the buckles of his clothes and armor, the blades of his weapons, a white edge painted on the borders of his shield and the blanched fletchings of his arrows.
Randall closed his eyes again and his mind turned to the description Stilp had given of his attacker. Kron Darkbow had been dressed all in black. Stilp had even gone as far to suggest the metals of the man’s garb had been painted black. This sounded Kobalan to Randall. A soldier might not dress in complete ebony, but a Kobalan assassin certainly would. But a Kobalan assassin would not have announced his presence as had Darkbow.
Kron Darkbow. Randall rolled the name around in his mind. It was surely a name from the north. Darkbow would fit in well as a Dartague family name, and even more so as Kobalan.
Was there a Kobalan agent operating in Bond? The thought made Randall shiver. He had hoped he was beyond the reach of his homeland.
Kobalos was more than a thousand miles away, and Randall had traveled long roads to become a healer in Bond. He liked being a healer. It brought him peace knowing he could be of help to others, even Belgad and those who tasked for him. In Kobalos, Randall had not had much opportunity to utilize his special abilities. Magical healing was not a wizardly skill taught in that dark land, but Randall had been born with the power. He was not a true sorcerer, one who spent years reading tomes to learn magical knowledge, but he was the rarest of mages, one who could work magic naturally without artificial aids.
Randall did have training in other forms of magic. He had been forced to learn such skills, like a common wizard, or he would have been put to death. The memories of those training sessions caused him to shudder.
His eyes opened and he stared at the top left drawer of his desk. He needed to know if there was a Kobalan agent within Bond. He couldn’t imagine why such an agent would seek vengeance against Belgad, as th
e Liar had not been a Dartague raider since before Randall was born. Still, it was unlikely a Kobalan assassin would act in such a way without orders from Lord Verkain, the ruler of Kobalos.
Randall shuddered again. It was because of the Kobalan lord Randall had fled his home.
The healer pulled open the top left drawer. He spied what he was seeking inside atop a stack of parchment. The gold ring was huge, too large to sit firmly on one of Randall’s thin fingers; engraved in the flat facing on one side was a black, spiked fist.
There was a simple way to discover if a Kobalan agent operated within the city, Randall told himself. His hand reached for the ring. His fingers grazed its cold surface.
He pulled his hand back. No. He would not use the ring. That would alert others to his presence in Bond, and Randall could not have that. He had run long enough and was settled now; there was no need to take chances.
If this Darkbow character had a personal grudge against Belgad the Liar, Randall felt relatively safe. He was not directly in the employ of the Dartague. Randall’s services were open to all who would come to him, even Darkbow. Besides, the healer had enough magical knowledge to protect himself. But if Kron Darkbow was some spy or killer from Kobalos, then that was a more dangerous affair. Even if someone from Kobalos was not aware of Randall's presence, they might take notice if they looked into who was tending Belgad’s men.
How could Randall find out that which he needed to know? Without the ring, there was only one other option. He would turn to the one man who knew his secrets, the one man who had helped him when he first arrived in Bond and who had helped him gain admission to the Swamps healing tower.
Randall pushed away from the chair and began preparations for Trelvigor’s next healing.
***
Despite his success and power, Belgad often found himself missing the simple days of the axe and sword.
To relieve that tension, the Dartague resorted to extremes.
He counted four of them. Then the tall, bald northerner with the thick, white mustache made note of their weapons. Two of the men in leather carried cudgels. One wore studded gauntlets. The last hefted a more dangerous weapon, a spear with a broad point.
Belgad placed his fists on his hips and grunted. “Are these the best Lalo could find?”
The four men kept serious faces as they stepped into the center of the long, tall chamber that was the main hall of Belgad’s fortress. They had been told they would be paid fifty gold apiece, a monstrous sum, if they could bring down Belgad the Liar. There was even incentive in that the Dartague would be alone, unarmed and unarmored.
The smirk on Belgad’s face turned into a full grin as he climbed down from atop the raised wooden platform that held his thronelike chair. These men were half his age, but Belgad could tell by their stances they were little more than thugs pulled from the streets with an offer of quick riches. They posed no real threat, but this was what Belgad had come to to keep his warrior’s skills intact.
The one with the spear lunged.
Belgad spun to one side and slung out a hand to grab the spear just below the blade, his other palm snapping down to crack the weapon’s shaft.
The Dartague found himself holding the head of the weapon and wasted no time turning the blade around and jamming it into the shoulder of the spear's original owner.
The wounded man fell away with a cry.
The next attack was better composed. The two with cudgels came at Belgad’s front while the third arced to the northerner’s flank.
Belgad did the unthinkable. He charged.
The two with cudgels were caught off guard and each took a step back.
Belgad used their hesitation. He crashed a fist into one man’s face, crumpling him to the ground. The other thug had time to raise his club before Belgad planted a bare foot in his chest, sending him tumbling, his club flying from his hand.
The Dartague turned to face the last man standing, the one with fists wrapped in studded leather. The fool swung early, missing Belgad’s chin by inches. The northerner stepped into the man and brought up a large hand that crunched into the turned elbow of his opponent’s swinging arm. The man screamed as his arm snapped and he dropped to his knees as Belgad punched him in the face, knocking him unconscious.
When that man fell, Belgad slowly turned to survey the damage he had done.
The only man still moving was the one who had been kicked, and he was crawling for the exit.
“I should have hit you harder.” Belgad strolled toward the man, grabbed him by his hair and slammed his face into the stone floor.
Blood splattered the Dartague’s toes.
The big man bent over and wiped sweat from his smooth pate as he stared at his last victim. “There was a time when a little workout like this wouldn’t have made me sweat.”
The room was quiet.
The double wooden doors in front of the northerner eased open, pulled from the outside.
Belgad did not look up. “Were these four the best you could pull off the streets?”
“They were trying to stir up another pit fight in Southtown,” Lalo the Finder said with his head slightly bowed. “I assumed, apparently incorrectly, they would know how to handle themselves.”
Beads of sweat still forming on his head, Belgad looked up at his employee.
“Perhaps next time I should hire some foreign gladiators.” Lalo handed his employer a towel. “Maybe the latest champion of the week.”
“Never again.” Belgad used the towel to wipe away the last of the sweat. “I won’t set foot in the arena again. Even if I wished to, politically it would be a nightmare.”
With the tips of two fingers, Lalo retrieved the towel. “Will there be anything else tonight, my lord?”
“Contact Fortisquo. I believe he still has a room at the Rusty Scabbard.”
“It was my understanding Master Fortisquo has retired.”
“He has. It was me who retired him. I’m sure he can become unretired.”
“As you wish.” Lalo turned to leave.
“One more thing.”
The Finder paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, my lord?”
Belgad waved a hand at the injured men littering the floor. “Have these four taken to a healer. Give them two gold apiece for their troubles.”
“You are most generous, my lord.”
Chapter Six
Lucius Tallerus slipped into the dark gray jacket that marked his station as an Asylum guard and plopped on a black, floppy hat that was also part of the uniform. He did not care for the garb. It seemed silly. A uniform was necessary, of course, but the hat looked like a toadstool and the rough jacket was more restraining than a tabard or cloak.
What bothered Lucius more than the uniform, however, was the lack of weaponry he was allowed within the walls of the Asylum. A simple oak club was the only armament an Asylum guard was given. It felt unnatural to walk the streets of Bond without heavy steel hanging from his hip or on his back.
He reluctantly removed his sword belt and slid it and the sheathed weapon beneath his bed at the Rusty Scabbard. Then he picked up the club and stuffed it into the front of his tied latigo belt.
Ready for his first day of new employment, Lucius made sure to lock the door to his room behind him, then bounded down the stairs that led to the main dining room of the Scabbard. As was his habit, he scanned the room for weapons, but saw few other than a long, slender rapier on the hip of a tall man dressed in foppish silks near the bar in the back of the room and another thin rapier on the hip of the tall man’s companion, a young woman with long, dark hair. His eyes shifted to the usual morning customers, some with rooms on the premises and others who stopped in for breakfast and conversation, then he proceeded to make his way through the labyrinth of tables and chairs to the exit.
He was almost through the door when a youthful voice stopped him.
“Master Tallerus!”
Lucius spied Wyck sitting on a stool next to the counter
where customers signed for rooms. The boy clutched a half-eaten muffin.
Lucius approached the lad. “I wondered when you would make an appearance.”
Wyck stuffed the last of the muffin into his mouth, swallowed it whole and trotted across the room to save the man the walk. “I’ve been waiting for you nearly an hour. I didn’t care much for it. I’m not used to being out of the Swamps.”
“Walk with me,” Lucius said, strolling out the Rusty Scabbard’s swinging front door. “I start a new job this morning and need to be on my way.”
Wyck didn’t hesitate to follow. Soon they were walking side by side down the center of the dusty South Road that would take them to the Swamps and, eventually, the Asylum.
“You told me to find you when I had news.” Wyck trotted to keep up with the man’s longer strides.
“It’s been four days. I didn’t think you’d take my offer.”
“You still have coin?”
The man patted a pocket in the side of his gray britches, a soft jingle coming to their ears.
The boy grinned. “Then I’ve got news.”
“Out with it.”
“Word is the Eastern pontiff is building his forces along the mountain passes for another invasion.”
Lucius came to a halt.
The boy stopped a couple of steps in front and turned to stare at the man. “What?”
“You’ll have to do better than that.” What the boy had told Lucius was almost a joke. There had been peace between West Ursia and East Ursia for nearly three generations, but rumors still flew that Pope Joyous III was gathering troops to invade the West and reclaim it.
“It’s true, I swear it.” Wyck's feet danced a little as if he were suddenly nervous. “I heard it on the Docks from one of the Hiponese sailors.”
“Wyck, I left the Prisonlands only a few months ago,” Lucius pointed out. “I think I would have seen signs of the pope’s army along the borders.”
A new look of respect came into the boy’s eyes. “You came from the Prisonlands?”
Lucius nodded and continued his walk, following the dirt road to Frist Bridge.
