by Ty Johnston
“It was only a few minutes.” The boy said, eyed the fellow in white robes next to the sergeant. “Who is this, then?”
“Randall Tendbones at your service.” The healer gave a short bow of the head.
The boy’s unhappy eyes returned to the sergeant. “Decided to stick with Belgad’s boy, I see.”
“I am no one’s servant,” Randall corrected. “I practice the healing arts for any in need.”
“And lately that’s been Belgad.” The boy turned away and strolled through the maze of standing stones.
Randall looked to Gris, who shrugged, then both men followed the boy’s winding path through the cemetery.
After several minutes the youth came to a stop in front of a large mausoleum with its iron-gated doors hanging open.
“Through there.” The boy pointed into the crypt.
Gris glanced inside and saw a small fire burning on the floor in the center of the empty chamber. “There’s no one in there.”
“He’s in there.”
The sergeant stood in front of the open mausoleum for several silent seconds while searching the inside of the stone building. The only hiding places he could see were any of a dozen stone sarcophagi. He couldn’t imagine having to hide in one of those, among the musty bones of long-dead strangers.
“Lucius?” Gris asked of the room.
“The name is Kron.” The voice echoed from within the crypt.
Randall squeezed past the sergeant to enter the stone building. “This would appear to be the correct place.”
“Are you the healer?” The voice remained elusive, giving no clues as to Kron’s hiding spot.
With Gris and the boy trailing, Randall stopped near the fire and allowed his eyes to become familiar with the shadows in the corners of the room. He could just make out a cloaked figure huddled on the floor in a corner, a black bundle next to him.
The healer nodded to the figure. “I am Randall Tendbones, and yes, I have come to soothe your wounds.”
Kron’s eyes flashed on Sergeant Gris. “The only healer you could find was one who works for Belgad?”
Randall straightened as if to assure Kron of his dignity. “I promise I will not reveal anything. I have no particular loyalty to Belgad.”
Kron grimaced. “Then why work for such a man?”
“I offer my services to all. Politics, religion, none of that makes a difference to me.”
“I don’t care about the man’s politics or religion,” Kron said, wincing at the pain eating away at his gut. “I only care that he ruins people’s lives.”
“And I would be ruining lives if I refused my healing skills.”
Gris stepped forward so his friend could see him, the sergeant’s face showing no pleasure in the situation. “Lucius, you need help, so take it.”
“The name is Kron,” the man on the floor repeated. “Lucius Tallerus no longer exists.”
“This is crazy.” Gris looked to the healer. “Have you ever heard of an illness that makes a man think he is someone else?”
Randall nodded. “It’s a form of insanity.”
“I am not insane.” Kron shifted on the floor to ease his pain. “I have merely chosen a path in which Lucius Tallerus is no longer of use.”
The sergeant glared at the man in black. “Lucius Tallerus was my friend, and I don’t intend to lose him just because he wants to play at revenge.”
Despite his movement, Kron appeared to have received no relief from his anguish. “This is no game.”
Randall ignored both men and approached the injured man. He cautiously kneeled next to him and stuck a hand out. “Will you allow me to heal you?”
Kron’s stone eyes went from the healer to Gris then back again. “If you try anything, know I will kill you. And if you should reveal anything about me to Belgad the Liar, I will count you among my enemies.”
“I suppose you would kill me then, too,” Randall said, reaching between the folds of Kron’s cloak to place a hand on the man’s chest.
“Yes.” Kron closed his eyes as the magic began to flow throughout his body.
Gris watched as Randall too closed his eyes and leaned into Kron. It seemed to the sergeant the healer’s soul was reaching out to the man who had waged war against one of the most powerful figures in all West Ursia.
Seconds passed and Randall opened his eyes and leaned back as if weary.
Kron’s eyes also opened, staring at the healer.
Randall glanced over the injured’s man’s body. “You’ve cracked several ribs. You’re right leg has a fresh cut down one side and an older wound in the back. There are also numerous cuts and bruises over your flesh.”
Kron allowed a weakened smile. “You bring good tidings.”
Gris and the boy chuckled.
“The same old Lucius,” the sergeant said.
Kron’s eyes hardened again as he glared at Gris.
The sergeant frowned, noting his wording. “My apologies. Kron.”
Randall ignored the brief tension and allowed a narrow grin. “What would have been a bad report?”
Kron looked to the healer. “Internal bleeding, or a major wound. I’ll live to fight again.”
“Yes, you will, but you need at least a week off your feet.”
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 hi
mself 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.
