The man to the right carried a length of chain used to secure cargo while the one on Kroke’s left seemed content to trust his fists. The sailor in the center, the largest of the three, held a knife nearly twenty inches long with a pearl white handle.
Of all the times for this.
Kroke dropped the bag from his shoulder and it hit the dock with a thud that silenced the activity around them. The three sailors flinched at the noise, stopping a few feet from him. He felt dozens of curious eyes find them.
“You think you’re something don’t you?” said the center man. Green as seawater, Kroke saw the doubt hidden behind the man’s eyes. The sailor’s forehead gleamed with sweat that ran down into his ratty beard. The man spat when he spoke, the spray catching Kroke in the face. “I asked you a question.”
A hundred responses ran through Kroke’s mind, none was how to nonviolently answer the sailor. Most of his thoughts lingered on what knife to use.
“Kroke, wait!” Drake shouted out.
Kroke never looked away, but the green-eyed sailor did. “Shut your mouth, kid,” said the sailor. “I’ve heard all these crazy stories about the Hell Patrol since I was a boy and then all these new ones floating around since you came to Cadonia, crazier than even the ones my pa told me. Then when I finally see you up close, I see a smooth chested boy, an old man, and this piece of trash,” he said, turning back to Kroke. He leaned in. “I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of killer.” He laughed. “Them little knives you keep playing with don’t scare me none.” He lifted the one in his hand. “This here is a man’s weapon. You’re probably too little to even use one of these, huh?”
A small burst of laughter came from those watching.
The man continued. “You know, I’ve wanted to test you for awhile, but we were at sea and captain’s rules are never to kill a passenger at sea. Bad luck and all.” He stomped his foot on the dock. “Well, we ain’t at sea no more, are we?” He gestured with his head to Kroke’s bag. “And you’re no longer a passenger.”
Drake called out once again. “Don’t do it, Kroke. They’re who we’re supposed to be fighting with, not against.”
“That ain’t true,” said the sailor. “I was born and raised in Tomalt’s territory. I just sail with whoever pays best. I could give a lick who wins this war.” He stared at Kroke. “So what do you say, little man? Are you gonna prove to me all those fairy tales about your outfit are true? Or are you going to let that little kid up there talk you out of it. Maybe I should’ve picked a fight with him. He seems to be the one with fire in his belly.”
Kroke clenched his jaw. I promised Krytien I wouldn’t do anything. So naturally, they test me.
He longed for the touch of steel in his hands, but he wasn’t one to break a promise. The rest of the dockworkers started to egg Kroke on and as they did, the three sailors grew brasher.
“Kroke!” called out a different voice. Kroke finally turned. Krytien leaned over the railing next to Drake.
“I kept my word,” said Kroke. “I ain’t killed anyone.”
The mage smiled. “I know. But I never said you had to take this garbage.” He paused. “Just make sure nothing’s permanent. I don’t want the captain to be shorthanded. It isn’t his fault his men don’t have any brains,” said Krytien.
“I can do that,” Kroke smiled.
Krytien looked to the three sailors. “You might want to ready yourselves.” He called over to two others nearby who had come up and joined in the heckling. “And you two may want to give them a hand.”
The laughing started up again until Krytien pulled out an apple from his sleeve and nonchalantly took a bite. The mood turned grim and Kroke looked back to the five men before him. The sailor who started it all met Kroke’s eyes. The remains of his smile faded as the blades dropped into Kroke’s hands.
* * *
Despite being part of the Hell Patrol for well over a year, Drake hadn’t spent much time with Kroke. Their areas of expertise lay in two very different areas. During the campaign season, Drake spent his time designing, building, or manning various forms of machinery.
On the other hand, Kroke had been busy doing whatever it was Kroke did. Drake hadn’t ever been sure what that all entailed, though he heard plenty of stories. After witnessing Kroke’s dismantling of the sailors, Drake finally understood.
He thought about the encounter again and realized that fighting did not accurately describe what Kroke had done. Fighting insinuated that some sort of struggle occurred between the combatants. But there wasn’t any real struggle because the assassin had been in control the entire time. What Kroke had done, despite all the spurts of blood flying through the scream-filled air, seemed more like art.
A pretty twisted form of art, but art nonetheless.
Five people had come at the mercenary, brandishing weapons of all shapes and sizes, stabbing and swinging. None of those blows found their mark. Drake could barely follow Kroke’s movements, slicing at hands and legs to disarm each person.
And in every instance, the cocky sucker left a paper thin line across each person’s throat. Just enough to let them know he could’ve killed them.
Drake had stood there in awe, as did everyone else who had watched the scene unfold.
All except Krytien. The mage had been busy chomping on the apple in his hand like it was the last one in the world. Drake realized that Krytien had sent his own message to the others watching.
Seem indifferent and let them guess what he’s capable of.
Drake had to smile. In those moments, he most enjoyed being a member of the Hell Patrol.
Even still, each step away from the docks eased his worries. Kroke and Krytien may have felt confident in what they could do, but he couldn’t say the same. Kaz had taught Drake a lot over the past year, but he still felt far more comfortable behind a catapult than a sword.
They procured mounts from workers near the harbor, which they planned to use to reach the citadel that loomed in the distance atop a small rise in the land. Despite the queen’s written orders, none seemed to care who they were.
“This ain’t starting out well,” said Kroke.
“When does it ever,” Krytien said. He struggled into the saddle and clicked the reins. “C’mon we need to get there before dark.”
Drake looked to the sky and then the citadel. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Don’t let the landscape nor the size of the place fool you,” said Krytien. “In order to make it there by sunset we may have to push the horses.”
Drake eyed the sway-backed mount the mage sat upon and the old gray-chinned mare Kroke rode.
I hope we don’t kill them doing it.
* * *
The descending sun dipped below thick clouds and bathed the landscape in purple.
Krytien was right.
The blank canvas of rolling hills and open land, specked with patches of tall trees did play tricks on the eyes. After a full day of riding, they finally came upon the school.
Drake thought about how little it resembled what he had always envisioned a school to look like. It had no defensive walls, not even a fence, which struck Drake as peculiar until he thought about the sea surrounding them and realized it didn’t need a wall.
The portentous look of the structures made them appear like the giant cathedrals that populated Cadonia. The smoke colored walls of the buildings looked at least six stories high, not counting the towers that crowned the roof every hundred feet. The towers sloped upward and thin metal spires sat on their peaks, each flapping a different flag in the breeze. The highest peak flew the queen’s colors. Drake realized the other flags must represent the dukes and lords of Cadonia.
Just like the dining hall in Lyrosene.
Unfortunately, the darkening sky hid many of the school’s other details.
Kroke hadn’t even raised his head from the saddle, too busy examining the dozens of knives he kept, polishing or sharpening where only he saw the need.
Especially that new one he took from the sailor.
Krytien seemed in his own world. Earlier, Drake had asked the mage questions about the school, assuming that if anyone had the answers, Krytien would. However, the mage seemed distracted, muttering to himself. Drake meant to ask if Krytien was alright, but a shake of the head from Kroke made him think better of it.
Once again no one fills me in on what’s going on.
They came to a halt.
As if on cue, a boy appeared seemingly out of nowhere, sporting bone-white robes. “You can follow me. We’ve been expecting you,” he said, and began walking without waiting for a response. Bathed in starlight, his form took on that of an apparition and if it wasn’t for the high-pitched squeak to his voice, Drake would have thought the boy had lived and died on the island ages ago.
“How many colors do you sorcerers have for yourselves?” asked Kroke. “Do the women wear pink?”
“The boy’s not a mage,” said Krytien. “White means that he‘s still working to master the most basic of concepts. He hasn’t even performed his first real spell yet.”
Krytien didn’t elaborate and ignored the joke about the pink. The mage kicked his horse forward in pursuit of the ghost-like figure while muttering a string of hushed profanity. Drake couldn’t make it all out, but what little he heard would have made Raker proud.
Something about arrogant little upstarts?
Rounding the front of the massive building, more of the compound became visible. Complex structures connected buildings through stone pathways on the ground and covered catwalks several stories above.
The boy showed them where to set their horses up in the stable. He let out a huff, apparently dissatisfied by their speed. “You need to hurry. The High Mages do not like to be kept waiting.” He started toward a set of double doors across an open courtyard, opposite the stables.
“I think somebody forgot to teach him the basic concept of courtesy,” said Drake.
The comment earned him a rare grunt from Kroke, but Krytien stared off at the boy through narrowed eyes, breathing through his nose in a heavy rhythm.
So much for trying to lighten the mood.
As he thought over what the boy said, something struck him as odd. “Krytien, what did he mean by High Mages? I thought there weren’t any left.”
“There aren’t.” Krytien stalked after the boy, shoulders bunched.
Kroke looked at Drake with a cocked head. “Well, now you did it.”
“Did what?”
“You just made a bad situation a whole lot worse, like rubbing salt into a wound.”
“But I just repeated what the boy said.”
Kroke didn’t say more, following after Krytien. Drake set off after them, fuming. “I hate the way they do this,” he muttered. “All the old hands. They all assume that you know what they’re talking about.”
* * *
The cocky boy swung the great double doors inward. Krytien stepped into a room with high ceilings flanked by twin staircases that greeted the mage like open arms. A bronze statue stood on the floor in the center of the two staircases. The figure held an open book in one hand while his other extended outward as if lecturing a silent audience. Though Krytien had never met the man, he had heard enough about his physical description to recognize the likeness of High Mage Amcaro.
And I guess this is the closest I’ll ever come to fulfilling my dreams of meeting the man.
Paintings of mages dressed in dark red robes adorned the walls of the room.
All the High Mages of Cadonia since its beginning.
A throat cleared and Krytien saw the boy standing near another cracked doorway, gesturing for him to follow. “Somebody ought to put that boy over their knee,” he grumbled.
With Drake and Kroke at his heels, Krytien walked into a smaller room. A large oaken table dominated the space surrounded by plush chairs of purple cloth and gold trim. Near the back wall a gaggle of mages congregated, wearing various colors of robes, denoting their skill in sorcery.
Sure enough, four had adorned themselves in the dark red of a High Mage. Krytien felt his blood boil.
The young boy cleared his throat again. The mages turned with an air of contempt. One chanced a smirk as he made his way toward Krytien. The others fell in behind.
The assumed leader held his head high, accentuating an already prominent nose that stood out on his smooth, young face. He tossed his head back, flinging his long hair behind him lazily as he extended a hand in greeting.
“I’m High Mage Lufflin and this is High Mage Nora, High Mage Janik, and High Mage Yorn,” said Lufflin as he turned to either side. He started on introductions of the others when Krytien cut him off.
“I was under the impression there were no longer any High Mages in Cadonia.”
“Well, you’re obviously mistaken,” said Lufflin, chuckling.
The rest of the group laughed as well. Almost all. Krytien noticed a mage in green robes off in a corner with his arms folded. He scowled at the others.
“I don’t believe I am,” said Krytien.
The young man’s smile faded and his voice took on an edge. “Then it appears that your eyesight has faded over the years because what you see before you are dark red robes and nearly a dozen black.”
Why do they always act like the robes are what makes the mage?
“Any seamstress can sew a robe.”
“And apparently so can an old man like you. Though I think you should have had someone else pick the color, gray means nothing in sorcery except that you’re too old to even be worth our trouble.”
Krytien’s hand came up and across Lufflin’s face with enough force to send the young man staggering backward. A sharp gasp among the other mages followed, staring wide-eyed in disbelief that someone would strike their leader. Krytien felt a slight change in the air, the hurried beginnings of a spell.
He had already anticipated their reaction. Krytien had prepared more than a half dozen spells before entering the room. So when the woman introduced as Nora raised her hand to lash out, Krytien pinned her arms at her sides, raised her into the air, and flung her across the room against the back wall. Lufflin suffered a similar fate, more out of principal than any real threat.
Krytien hadn’t needed to address the other two leaders, Janik and Yorn. Kroke, as expected, already had the situation under control—daggers pressed firmly into the soft tissue of each mage’s throats. Sweat beaded off their foreheads, eyes flicking about in panic.
Janik called out to the others in black robes. “Don’t just stand there, do something. He’s just some two-bit mercenary with a knife.”
“Wait,” called out the green-robed mage. He pushed himself off the wall and those in black robes seemed relieved someone else had stepped in. “That two-bit mercenary put a knife to your throats before you could think. He’ll kill both of you and likely a few others at the least. And you still have him to worry about too,” he said gesturing with a nod to Krytien.
“What about me?”
Krytien glanced to the side and saw Drake looming over one of the black-robed mages, holding a silver candlestick in his hand like a club.
The green-robed mage grunted. “I’m sure you can take out one or two.”
“Hey, I could take out more than that.”
“Save it for later.” Krytien eyed the green-robed figure. He saw a confident man, but not cocky like the others. Someone with a head on his shoulders. “What’s your name?”
“Tristan.”
“Are you the one really in charge here?”
He shook his head. “I’m not ready for something like that.”
“You’re more ready than these fools,” said Krytien.
Tristan shrugged.
“Maybe you should be the one to tell us what’s been going on and why no one has answered the queen’s messages.”
“Don’t say anything, Tristan,” said Lufflin from across the room.
Krytien slammed his head back agai
nst the wall and then flipped him upside down. “Shut it.” He looked back at Tristan. “Are you going to cooperate?”
The mage smiled. “You keep doing stuff like that and I’ll do whatever you want.”
Chapter 5
Nareash and his party traveled for weeks down the stone road, passing half a dozen cities along the way. Though each lay as abandoned as Poliktas, the ruins grew more lavish. When they passed a city called Molacat, the stone road changed significantly.
“Absolutely breathtaking.” Mizak leaned over the side of his mule, pointing to semi-precious stones scattered over the designs in the black and white marble.
Nareash saw that, among others, topaz, garnet, and amethyst helped create images that told a story.
“Wasteful,” said Guwan. “These stones are worth a fortune, but they used them as building material. What does that say about our ancestors?”
Colan spoke up. “It says that they cared little for what we think of as wealth. They’d rather share the beauty of the stones instead of hoarding it for themselves where it can collect dust.”
“If they were that weak, it is no wonder they lost everything.”
“Weak,” Nareash muttered. “Physical prowess is not the only sign of strength. You would do well to take this chance to expand your mind.”
“Are you trying to say that I’m simple?” asked Guwan.
“Simple? No. A fool? Yes. You have the ability to become something more than what you are, yet you ignore the opportunity, repeating what you’ve always known.” He paused. “Look at your ruler. He became warleader, and rather than just blindly follow his father, Tobin made his own future. If he hadn’t done that, it’s quite possible the conflict against the Yellow Plain Clan would have ended differently.”
Nareash lengthened his stride without waiting for a response and separated himself from the group.
The flapping of robes from behind caught his attention. “Yes, Colan.”
“I think you’ve finally shut him up. Guwan, I mean. He’s wearing quite the expression,” whispered the shaman.
“As he should be.” Nareash lowered his voice. “Here’s the first lesson in your training. Learn people. Listen to every word. Watch every move. Examine every action.”
Steel And Sorrow (Book 2) Page 6
