by Ty Johnston
A falling brick knocked Randall aside. He landed on his hands and slid on the floor covered by several inches of water. He turned over and looked about the room at the destruction being wrought.
Death was everywhere. Screaming men continued to fight near the front door in desperate attempts at escape. The gigantic geyser continued to shoot forth from the basement, spraying the interior of the Asylum. Many of those still in the building lost their footing and fell into the growing waters to drown or to tumble into the pit created by the eruption. Debris from the ceiling continued to rain down, killing some and injuring others so they were unable to save themselves.
Vitman lay motionless near the open gate of the cage. His gray hair flowed around his face, blood from a gash to his forehead spilling out to join the waters. Randall hadn’t seen the man die. The healer wondered if anyone would care about the old man’s death, if the guard had had any family or friends. Who was there to tell?
Trelvigor too appeared dead. The wizard lay where the guards had spilled him onto the floor, his gray patient’s robe billowing in the waters. A board of lumber nearly as long as the wizard was tall protruded from his chest. Randall pondered Trelvigor’s death. Would the wizard die without anyone caring?
Horror covered the healer’s face. However much damage the flooding waters would have caused, it should not have been this bad. The power of the ring had done this, calling upon the spiritual power of those around the Asylum to wreak its havoc. Tears sprang to Randall’s eyes. He should have known better than to use the ring. It had only brought about more death.
The healer raised a hand and stared at the large gold band that rested on one of his fingers. Everything from Kobalos caused chaos. He promised himself he would never use it again.
Then something hit Randall from above and he was knocked into the rising water.
Chapter Twenty Two
“By Ashal.”
They were the only words Sergeant Gris could use to describe the scene before him. He could only imagine his god having the power to cause the destruction that lay before him at the Asylum. It was beyond his experience, beyond anything he could conceive. He lived in a world of magic and in a nation where magic was legal and sometimes on display, but nothing this extravagant had been known in the city of Bond in a generation, since the war with the East.
From inside the grounds’ walls, the sergeant’s eyes followed the huge stream of muddy water that blasted from the roof of the Asylum’s main structure.
Chunks of the roof shot forth and rained down upon the growing number of gawkers on the street in front of the Asylum’s front gate. Rain also continued to fall, making the ground more of a mess, but it did not deter the crowds. More and more citizens of the Swamps slunk out of their houses to see what was happening at the strange building. Those who had survived the flooding of the Asylum ran their mouths, spreading stories as soon as they were safe among others again.
Outside the wall enclosing the grounds, a line of survivors had been laid out in the mud. A few had been injured from falling debris or the powerful waters, but a large number had succumbed to fatigue, many having a difficult time breathing.
Surveying the damage, Gris did not know what to believe. He had been behind a desk when the first calls of alarm had come to the Swamps barracks. The sergeant had wasted no time rounding up a group of men, climbing aboard his horse and galloping to the Asylum. What he saw caused him stunned disbelief as he stared at the building from horseback.
“Where is he?” The concerned voice came from behind the sergeant.
Gris recognized the speaker. It was Stilp, one of Belgad’s lieutenants. The sergeant of the guard turned in his saddle to stare at the gate of the Asylum’s wall where Stilp stood with Spider, their clothes and hair drenched. A handful of city guards Gris had stationed at the gate kept out the curious lined up several yards back from the wall, stretching their necks to peer through the gate.
Gris pointed at Belgad’s men and yelled to his men, “Let them through!”
A guard nodded, then waved for Stilp and Spider to enter the Asylum’s grounds.
Belgad’s two employees scurried and slid across the muddy ground to the sergeant.
Stilp’s gaze remained stuck upon the mass of water shooting from atop the building. “What in hell happened?”
Gris spun around his horse to face the scene again. “I don’t know. I just arrived myself.”
Spider, his face filled with awe and shock, moved to one side of the sergeant’s horse. “Is anyone alive?”
Gris nodded outside the walls to the survivors on the ground. “There were some guards and a handful of inmates who escaped.”
“Is Belgad alive?” Stilp’s voice held genuine concern.
“Was he here?” Gris pointed at the Asylum.
Stilp glanced up at the sergeant, his eyes wet, though it was impossible to tell if tears were flowing or if the waters were caused by the drizzling rain. “They brought Trelvigor.”
Gris stood in his stirrups, as if it would allow him a better site of the Asylum’s main building. “My apologies, but I have seen no sign of your master.”
“Damn it,” Stilp said, kicking at the ground and spraying mud. “Lalo should be here. He’d know what to do.”
The sergeant sat once more and looked down from his saddle. “Where is he?”
Spider slid around in the mud to stand next to Stilp again. “He sent us, saying Belgad would want him to remain at the mansion.”
Gris nodded and stared back at the Asylum. “The Finder’s probably right.”
Stilp looked up to the sergeant. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“I’ve sent message to the College of Magic, but my men aren’t going in there. At least not until this ... water tower ... is done away with. It’s too dangerous.”
Stilp grabbed the reins of Gris’s horse. “You’ve got to do something. You’re a sergeant of the city guard. You have to make sure Belgad is alright.”
Gris did not like Stilp, and might have slapped the man at another time, but the little man’s face told where his concerns lay. Stilp was worried about his master. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to wait for a mage.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m here.” It was another familiar voice.
Gris turned in his saddle again, this time to see the wizard Markwood marching toward him.
The sergeant’s shoulders visibly sagged from relief. “Thank Ashal you’ve arrived.”
Wading through the mud with the bottom of his robes drenched and soiled, the old mage passed the three men and continued on his way up the hill. “Sergeant, I suggest you pull back to the gate.”
Gris took the wizard’s words seriously and turned his horse around. Belgad’s two men did not move.
Stilp motioned toward the wizard. “What are you going to do?”
“What do you think?” Markwood did not look back, but kept on marching. “I’m going to clean up this mess.”
***
The heavy front door of the Asylum swung on its hinges to greet Markwood as he approached. The old wizard nearly gagged from the sight of bodies strewn in the entrance, piled upon one another as men had made their final desperate bids for freedom. It had been years since Markwood had witnessed such death, since the great war between the East and West, but it never ceased to shake him mentally.
The wizard paused in front of the doorway next to a dead man wearing the clothes of an Asylum guard. The body was face down in the mud.
Markwood peered through the open door. The interior was dark since the torches had been drenched by the column of water shooting up from the floor. The immense tear in the ceiling provided some light, but the spraying water blocked out most of the gray sky.
The wizard took a step forward, into the giant entrance cage. He sensed no movement nor other signs of life. Even the prisoners on the upper levels, safe from the flooding, were unmoving in their cells. The only sound was the gush of the water tower.
The old mage advanced through the cage’s open gate and found himself walking in several inches of water. He ignored the mild discomfort as his eyes moved from body to body. There were dead everywhere, some alone and some in piles. Many had been trampled in a rush to escape while some appeared to have been struck down by debris from the roof. Others did not appear wounded at all, but had fallen apparently uninjured. Markwood surmised the unwounded had been slain by the powerful magics he had sensed from the university; the emanation had been so strong he wouldn’t be surprised if other mages would soon appear. Magic of the most powerful sorts had a tendency to draw attention.
“Maslin.” It was a weak voice.
The old wizard scanned the bodies floating around him in the shallow water.
“Over here,” the voice said.
Markwood turned in the direction of the words and spotted Randall on his back in the water. Across the healer and holding him to the ground was a long slab of lumber from the ceiling.
“How badly are you hurt?” The old wizard moved closer looked over his friend. Randall appeared weak and was only able to hold his head a few inches above the water, but otherwise seemed unharmed. The piece of wood held him, but did not look to have caused any major damage.
“Not seriously.” Randall gave a thin smile. “This board landed on top of me, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“Help me lift if you can.” Markwood leaned over the young man and tried to pull on the board.
At first the beam would not budge, but after a few seconds of heaving the two mages managed to roll the lumber off Randall.
Markwood gripped the healer by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet.
“I feared I would find you here,” Markwood said as steadied the healer. “What was worse, I feared I would find you dead.”
Randall no longer grinned. Markwood watched the young man stare at the bodies drifting throughout the waters filling the Asylum floor. The wizard could feel the lad’s shame, his inadequacy and smallness.
With eyes glazed, Randall stared at the water swirling around his feet. “The ring killed as many as the flood. It was the only thing I could think to do. One of the guards apparently opened a door in the basement and flooded the building. I was trying to save lives. I should have known better.”
The wizard’s brows knitted together. “The ring can’t be trusted, and now Verkain knows your whereabouts. He could be here any moment.”
Randall remained silent as Markwood watched the unbelief on the boy’s face. The amount of death dealt out by the ring was staggering. The wizard figured there had to be at least a hundred killed.
Tears formed at the corners of Randall’s eyes.
Markwood glanced around the large room, his eyes finally coming to rest on the huge water column continuing to shoot for the sky.
Randall followed the wizard’s gaze. “Can you end this?”
Markwood waved a finger at the rising waters and muttered ancient words.
The tower of wet crashed like a waterfall, causing a huge splash that sprayed throughout the chamber. The muddy fluid continued to roil in the large hole in the floor, but after a few moments all was quiet in the Asylum.
Randall fought back more tears with a sniffle. “I wish I could take it back.”
“There’s many a thing I wish I could undo,” Markwood said, wrapping a comforting arm around the younger man’s shoulders, “but dealing with life is a sign of maturity. You are not a boy any longer and you live in a dangerous world. It is time you started thinking about your options, about your future. We can’t have events like this in Bond, but I would worry too much if you should leave.”
“Verkain.” Randall spoke the word in a whisper.
“Yes, Verkain, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s likely got a wizard or two on their way here, if he’s not coming himself. At the least, he’ll be watching the city now.”
Randall looked into his friend’s face. “I’ll go into hiding.”
“And what if Verkain tears the city apart looking for you?” Markwood gently steered the young man toward the exit. He wanted to get Randall somewhere safe, and to make sure the healer was not at the Asylum if Verkain or one of his agents should make an appearance.
“If Verkain shows, I’ll surrender to him.” Randall could no longer fight back the tears. The water in his eyes turned to a stream rolling down his face. “There’s no reason more lives should be lost.”
Markwood hugged the man who was little more than a boy. He could imagine the guilt Randall felt at having killed so many through use of the ring, and he hoped a good crying would relieve some of the pain the healer was feeling. Something as tragic as this could break Randall, Markwood knew, but the young were often resolute at survival.
“What the hell is there to cry about?” It was a rough voice.
Randall and Markwood turned to the speaker.
Belgad the Liar, drenched and wearing more than a few bruises and scrapes, stood in the center of the hallway that led to the stairs and the lower level. Most of Belgad’s clothing had been torn away, leaving him with only tattered rags around his waist. Otherwise, the huge man looked as if he were ready for battle.
Randall stopped crying and his eyes brightened. “You’re alive.”
Belgad threw his head back and laughed to the dark sky seen through the hole in the roof. “Of course I’m alive. It takes more than a little water to bring down Belgad Thunderclan.”
Confusion rolled over Randall’s features. “How?”
“I don’t know.” Belgad shrugged, smiling. “One moment I was chasing Darkbow, and the next the world was turned upside down and I’m swimming in darkness.”
Markwood dropped his arm from the healer’s shoulders and took a step nearer the Dartague. “Kron Darkbow?”
Belgad surveyed the room and spotted his dead mage. “Trelvigor pointed him out. Apparently Darkbow was a guard at the Asylum. A decent hiding place, I suppose, among the other lunatics.”
Randall shivered as he too noticed the blank face of the dead Trelvigor. “One of the guards said something about a door in the basement that led to the river.”
“Darkbow must have opened it thinking he would escape, but I suppose it sealed his fate.”
Markwood gestured to the northerner. “How did you survive?”
Belgad chuckled again. “By pure luck, or the fortunes of Ashal. It was dark, but I remembered the general direction of the stairs. I reached out and got lucky, snagging the corner of a wall. I managed to pull myself up. Then that big geyser erupted and threw me to the top of the steps.”
“It was a spell from Trelvigor that caused all this,” Markwood lied, sparing Randall embarrassment or worse. “Apparently Trelvigor cast the spell after you ran into the basement. He was after Darkbow himself, it seems.”
“Such is his fate,” Belgad said, watching his dead wizard floating in shallow water.
Randall eased around Markwood to face the Liar. “What about Kron Darkbow?”
Belgad shrugged again. “Likely swept into the river. Probably dead, as I’d say are my guards.”
Markwood put an arm around Randall’s shoulders once more and began to move the young man toward the exit again. “There’ll be time to talk more on this later. For now, we had better get the two of you looked over by a healer.”
As they exited the Asylum, Markwood could still see the heartache Randall was suffering. The wizard knew the youth couldn’t fully comprehend that he had killed so many, and all through efforts of trying to do what he thought was right. Markwood feared Randall would not remain in Bond much longer. Lord Verkain would be looking for the young healer, and Verkain would only bring more death to the city. The wizard knew Randall would never allow himself to be a part of that.
Chapter Twenty Three
The man who rose from the murky waters would never again think of himself as Lucius Tallerus. He would be Kron Darkbow forever.
His survival had been as much luck as that of B
elgad the Liar, but Kron also was an excellent swimmer. Having been taught by his late uncle Kuthius in the rivers of the Prisonlands, he had been trained to hold his breath for long periods of time under water. The initial rush of the river into the tunnel had knocked him against a wall, then sent him tumbling into one of Belgad’s guards. Together the two men had been pushed further into the depths of the Asylum’s basement. Death loomed, but a miracle had occurred. Just before Kron would have blacked out, the waters receded, rushing back toward the river and flowing into other parts of the Asylum. Kron did not know what had forced back the flow, but he had been grateful for the return of air to his lungs. He could not see in the dark basement, though he knew he was entangled with the bodies of other men. Kron had thought himself safe for the moment, but that had proved an illusion. The waters soon rushed back in upon him, this time dragging him and the bodies along. Then had followed a cold, swirling darkness that Kron was sure meant his doom. A last gulp of air before being pulled under was all that saved him.
When he saw light again, it was above him through a tawny haze. Still fighting churning water, he pushed for the light as strong as his legs would kick. His rising seemed forever, but eventually he burst through to the surface of the North River. In the distance stood the back of the Asylum’s wall beneath a dark, stormy sky. Above the Asylum a giant fountain of water had sprung forth, spraying the top of the building and the grounds.
From that point it had merely been a choice, to die wet and tired in the river or to push toward shore. He chose the shore. After what felt an eternity of swimming, his legs almost cramping on him several times, he climbed into the cold mud.
Kron collapsed in a soggy brambles, thorns cutting the skin of his hands and arms. He sank to the ground, covering half his face with mud, but it did not matter. What mattered was that he was alive. He was Kron Darkbow and he lived, ready to strike at Belgad again.
