by Ty Johnston
Kron placed a foot on the boy’s chest and pushed slightly, but only to hold the boy still. Then he peered at their surroundings and tried to listen for anything that sounded out of place. When he was satisfied they were alone, he asked, “Who are you and your brother and friend?”
“They’re militia,” Tamber said. “I was just tagging along for the day.”
“In hopes of gaining some gold,” Kron said.
The boy said nothing, his bottom lip quivering. Kron reckoned Tamber was sixteen, possibly seventeen, and had little future if he continued in the steps of his late brother.
Kron removed his boot from the boy’s chest and stepped away. “Is the Dartague still in the village?” he asked.
Tamber did not move for a moment, then realized he might live past the day if he continued to cooperate. He slowly sat up, keeping his hands flat on the ground at his sides where Kron could see he meant to harm. “He was there when we left this morning,” he said.
“How were you able to find us?” Kron asked.
“Luck,” the boy said. “We heard your horses and Isul set us up for an ambush.”
“Your luck didn’t last,” Kron said.
Tamber made no reply.
Kron leaned back and stared off at the tips of the mountains he could spot between the swaying green limbs of numerous trees. He placed a hand on a dagger at his belt and heard the boy gasp.
“I’m going to let you live, Tamber,” Kron said without looking at him, “but for only one reason.”
The boy waited with a sweating brow.
“I want you to let your friends know, and all your brother’s friends, that Kron Darkbow was here, Kron Darkbow did this,” the man in black said. “If they want revenge, tell them I am traveling to Kobalos and will welcome any challenges. Tell them that after Kobalos, I will likely be returning to Bond, where they can find me if they want.”
Kron’s eyes locked on the boy. “Tell them I had better never hear of any more ambushes, or of banditry, in this region, or I will return with vengeance of mine.”
Tamber blinked, sweat dripping down his face and wetting his dry lips.
“Now leave.” Kron nodded off to one side.
Tamber hesitated, then pushed himself to his feet and jogged away, looking back only once to see the man in black still watching him.
***
“I wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you again,” Randall said kneeling over Adara as Kron appeared from between a grouping of small trees.
“I’m not easily killed,” Kron said returning his bow to its place on his back. He stared down at the unmoving woman and saw the arrow had been removed from her shoulder. “How is she?”
Randall returned his attention to the injured woman, having pulled back her shirt to reveal a swelling, blood-filled gash in the shoulder. “She will be fine,” he said, “but she needs rest for a few hours.” He looked again at Darkbow. “We can’t move her until then.”
“You’re positive she is not seriously injured?” Kron questioned.
“Her wound is not serious, though normally it would put a person in bed for a week or two,” Randall said as he swabbed the woman’s shoulder with a rag, “but my healing magics have speeded up the process. She will be her old self by night, though she will have a scar for some time.”
“Good,” Kron said turning to his horse and opening his saddle bags.
“What happened in the woods?” Randall asked while continuing to work at Adara’s recovery.
“I caught the last of the rats,” Kron said.
Randall frowned. He did not like to think of what had happened to the man Kron had caught.
Darkbow noticed the look as he retrieved a small leather bag from his horse and tied it to his belt. “Do not fret, healer,” he said. “I allowed the man to leave with his life.”
Randall looked up, almost unbelieving.
“He will think twice before attempting another bushwhacking,” Kron said, then provided, “and he offered me much information.”
“What did he say?” Randall asked.
“Belgad and the wizard woman are near, in a village called Birch Tree Station,” Kron said. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard of it. It’s a small place only a few miles west of here. I should not be gone long.”
Randall’s eyes popped up to glare at Kron. “You can’t be serious?” he said. “Belgad will tear you apart.”
Kron turned as if leaving. “You will be safe here for the time it takes to heal Adara,” he said, “but if I have not returned by then, you should not linger.”
Randall stood and gripped the other man by the arm. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “We need you. I can’t make it to Kobalos without you, and Adara would have no reason to stay and help me with you gone.”
“I promise to return,” Kron said staring firmly into the healer’s eyes.
“What good can come of this?” Randall asked not letting go of Kron’s arm.
“I might get lucky and finish our business with Belgad,” Kron answered. “He has dogged us far enough, and I wish to be done with him. Even if I only get one or two of his men, it will better our odds.”
“Not if you’re dead,” Randall said.
“That is not a possibility,” Kron said, shaking off Randall’s hand and marching into the forest.
Randall could only stare at the black cloak that floated away through the trees. It dawned on him that Kron truly believed he could not fail. Perhaps that was why the man had stayed alive so long.
Chapter Seven
Since leaving Bond, Belgad had expected an ambush from Kron Darkbow. He knew his reputation alone would be enough to halt the healer, and possibly Adara Corvus, from considering such action, but Darkbow had a personal score to settle and did not strike Belgad as sane. He had warned Fortisquo and the others to keep a sharp look out. Belgad felt in his bones that Darkbow would eventually appear, alone or with his companions.
So it was not a complete surprise when Kron came walking into Birch Tree Station, ambling out of the woods and between two wood shanties, his eyes all the while locked with those of the north man.
Belgad sat on a folding stool in the middle of the small town of less than a score log buildings, surrounded by a dozen members of the local militia, two of his own guards and the wizard Karitha. In front of him had been placed several flat sheets of lumber on top of two barrels, an impromptu desk. On the desk were several sheets of parchment, a glass ink well and quill donated by the village’s mayor and a small sack bursting with copper coins.
Belgad was in the middle of paying the captain of the region’s militia to hunt down and kill Kron Darkbow.
And now Kron Darkbow was in front of him.
Kron stopped and stood still a score yards from Belgad and the soldiers. All eyes were upon him.
After a few seconds of unsettling quiet, Belgad recovered from his brief shock and slowly stood, facing his enemy.
Karitha took a step away from the others and Kron’s eyes darted to her while his left hand casually lifted to his weapon belt.
“I was wondering when you would tire of running from me. Why now?” Belgad said.
Kron glanced to the Dartague again. “I am here to serve payment.”
“What type of payment?” Karitha asked with a snarl.
Kron’s eyes stayed on Belgad. “Payment for the death of my parents,” he started, “and payment for the death of a young boy. Also, payment for Adara.”
“What of Adara?” Belgad asked. “We have not seen the woman.”
“She has been wounded,” Kron said. “Men hurt her in hopes of gaining money.”
“Then you need have words with them,” Belgad said. “I have done nothing to this woman, and the only grievance I have with her is that she has been cavorting with you.”
“Those who harmed her will harm no one else,” Kron stated, the crowd in front of him quiet. “And for what you have done, it has been far too much.
“I am here to pay a blo
od debt.”
For a moment, Belgad wished to continue the conversation. Kron Darkbow had brought back to Belgad a lust for life, a purpose. The days of counting coins and making deals in back alleys or bank offices had been replaced with action and adventure once more. Belgad felt thirty years younger, and he was thankful for that, but he was also a pragmatist.
“Kill the man,” he said loudly.
Most of the militia were too surprised by Kron’s bold entrance to move, but four of the men immediately sprang forward while drawing weapons from their belts.
Kron took a step back.
The first man came at a rush while wildly waving a wooden-handled mace above his head. Kron kicked out with a leg, connecting with the man’s chin and sending him sprawling.
The second man came in just as fast, but low, his sword stabbing upward. Kron took another step back and slung out a hand, three tiny black darts slicing through the air to find a home in his attacker’s right knee. The man dropped to the ground screaming.
The last two men slowed after seeing what had been done to their companions, giving Darkbow a moment to step back again, away from the two with which he had already dealt.
By now the rest of the soldiers had gotten over their initial shock and were rushing forward in a semi-circle to surround Kron.
Belgad and Karitha simply stood in the back and watched, keeping Belgad’s two guards with them. Whatever the outcome, it was not often one was entertained watching such a skilled warrior as Kron in action.
Another man rushed forward, the spear in his hands aimed for Kron’s throat. The man in black reached out, grabbing the end of the spear below its sharp head and jerked on the weapon, sending its holder tumbling past him weaponless.
Watching the militia men slow their pace and continue to stretch out around him, Kron twirled the spear in his hand until its head was facing Belgad’s direction.
A second later the spear flew through the air, its aim precise, but it was a long throw. Belgad had plenty of time to step out of the weapon’s path before the spear’s sharp head slammed into the dirt in front of the barbarian.
“Kill him!” one of the militia men yelled and they all charged.
Kron tossed a clay grenado from a bag at his waist and black smoke filled the air around him, blocking any view of him.
After several minutes of the militia stomping around and slashing their weapons, Belgad called them back to him.
Darkbow had escaped again, but he had made some new enemies in the local militia. The sneers on the men’s faces told Belgad he would have little trouble getting them to search for his foe.
As the soldiers removed their wounded, Belgad scanned the woods surrounding Birch Tree Station. Darkbow was out there, probably on his way back to the healer and the sword fighting woman. Belgad would spend the night in the village, making sure to post plenty of guards, but in the morning he would be heading into the woods himself. The hunt continued.
***
“That was a foolish, stupid thing to do,” Randall told Kron after he heard what happened.
They were on foot, pulling their horses with them through the lush growth of the woods. Adara was still unconscious, but tied over the back of her own steed. Kron had not wanted them to remain in one area after his fight at Birch Tree Station.
“If Belgad had wanted to, he could have sent out the whole militia for you,” the healer griped. “Maybe a hundred men could be combing the countryside looking for us right now.”
Kron shook his head as they continued to move, the silhouette of the mountains ever on their right above the tree line. “Most of those men will be too frightened.”
“Numbers builds courage,” Randall reminded.
Kron slowed further to glare at the Kobalan prince. “If we should hear them draw near, I will lead them away,” he said. “I would catch up with you when I could.”
“If you could.”
Kron turned to face forward again. “You’re as bad as Adara.”
“And you are obviously unbalanced,” Randall said. “A stunt like you just performed puts not only your life at stake, but mine and Adara’s too. How would you feel if I ran off to face Belgad on my own?”
“I would never allow you to go,” Kron said, “but you are not me. I am capable of taking care of myself.”
“And I can’t?” Randall said. “I might not be some big sword fighter, but I know my way around a blade, and I’ve some magical skills that would make me more than formidable in a fight.”
“Against an ordinary soldier, maybe, but not up against the likes of Belgad, or Fortisquo, or even me,” Kron said. “I do not say this to be cruel, Randall, but out of concern. If combat ensues, you would be better off extricating yourself from the situation as quickly as possible.”
“Then don’t go looking for combat and I won’t have to worry about it,” Randall said.
They continued chatting as they put distance between themselves and Birch Tree Station. Kron was glad Randall had found his voice again. The healer had been too quiet, but now he had no problem voicing his opinion of Kron’s actions. In truth, Kron knew he went to Birch Tree Station for two reasons: revenge and boredom. Day after day on the road made a man of action weary, and Kron couldn’t take a chance of his combat senses dulling.
Before night fell, Randall made sure to awaken Adara. She was still sore in her shoulder, and a few new bruises had grown on her arms and chest from riding across a saddle, but she appeared able enough to take on more ruffians if need be.
She was not happy to hear of Kron’s handiwork.
“Men!” she shouted and rode on ahead.
That night at camp, the conversation turned to their present route and the need for warmer clothing.
“We’ll head north a few more days, until we get to the next path through the mountains,” Kron explained. “Then we go east.”
“What about coats?” Randall asked while stoking their camp fire.
“There should be a village near the entrance into the mountains,” Kron said. “We can find something there.”
“What if Belgad is there ahead of us?” Adara said.
“We’ll spy the town out first,” Kron said, “but we have to have jackets and more blankets.”
“You sounded as if you know about this road going east,” Adara said.
“It’s not a proper road,” Kron said to wry faces. “It’s more of a cleared path. The mountain folk use it to travel between the East and West. At least it won’t be guarded by soldiers. We’ll have an easier time getting into East Ursia this way.”
“Are the mountain folk friendly?” Randall said.
“As friendly as people who live in caves among the bitter cold can be, I suppose,” Kron said.
Chapter Eight
Three days later, finding coats turned out to be an easy task. A village of a dozen huts rested not too far from a rocky path that appeared to wander into the grayness of the Needles. Randall purchased several coats of fur and three heavy wool blankets from a farmer’s wife before the party turned their direction into the darkening path.
“Watch for the mountain folk,” the farmer’s wife warned. “They are in an ill mood of late.”
Kron, Adara and Randall had taken that news with a grain of salt. Kron had lived much of his life near the Needles and knew the people who called the mountain range home were tough and surly, but not generally cruel or evil.
“If we keep to ourselves, we should be safe,” the man in black said while wrapping a large, bearskin coat around himself.
The way through the mountains was not a straight one, and it rambled up then down and seemed to turn in on itself several times. Fortunately the path was relatively clear with no boulders blocking its path nor any deep ravines or cliffs along its route. The worst part of the trail was the millions of small gravel that ran underfoot and sometimes made the animals lose their footing. Once Kron had to stop Randall’s steed and allow the beast to rest from a rock that had bruised the m
eat of its hoof; the healer was able to take care of the animal, but they decided to make a slower pace the rest of the day. At no time did they see other travelers nor the mountain people of which they had heard. They were alone with themselves, and the drabness of their surroundings did not bring forth joyful moods.
“It’ll take a week to get through the mountains,” Kron explained during their first day on the path, “but we’ll have a respite in a few days at Hammer Home.”
By that point, near night on their first day of travel in the Needles, Adara and Randall were too tired and too chilled to ask about Hammer Home. By morning they forgot to ask, and it was with some surprise two days later that they came upon the marble edifice that appeared to be carved from the side of a mountain.
The building was ancient, of a style not common in a thousand years. The marble columns in front still stood, but were cracked, and the stone steps that ran between them were worn down from weather or years of use or both. Above the columns, almost as if hanging in the air, was a giant carving of an eagle cut into the mountainside, its wings spread wide and the tip of its beak missing, broken and fallen away long ago.
“What is this place?” Adara asked as they approached it on their horses.
“Hammer Home,” Kron explained. “It’s a temple of the old gods.”
Adara spun her head to stare at her teacher. “There are no such places, not any longer,” she said.
“You’re from the East,” Kron said, referring to the fact only one god, Ashal, was worshipped in East Ursia, and in most of the West too. Adara was not familiar with other, ancient religions. “There are still places where Ashal is not the only god.”
“In Kobalos, only worship of my father is allowed,” Randall said. “Having a copy of the Book of Ashal would be a death sentence.”
“Barbaric,” Adara said riding closer to the temple. “It’s pagan.”
“They might say the same about the Eastern Church,” Kron said as he dismounted at the bottom of the temple’s steps.
“What they are you talking about?” Randall asked.
