by Ty Johnston
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve spoken with him. Verkain is to execute him in some ceremony just before the rising of the sun.”
Kron stared at the lines of soldiers on either end of the street.
“We don’t have much time,” Markwood said.
Kron faced the wizard again. “What do you want of me?”
Markwood glanced out across the road and over rooftops, his eyes lifting to focus on the upper levels of Verkain’s castle. “Do you see those windows?”
Kron followed the wizard’s gaze to three tall, narrow windows set high in the castle’s structure. He nodded.
“I believe they look down upon Verkain’s main hall,” Markwood said. “How long will it take you to get to those windows?”
Kron counted the roads, roofs and alleys between him and the castle, then he accounted for the climb. “Ten minutes,” he said, which would have sounded as a boast or joke from any other man.
“Get there, then,” Markwood said. “My cone of silence should help you escape. Try to remain unseen, and wait for my entrance. When the time is right, come to my aid.”
“How are you going to get inside the hall?”
“I’m going to walk in the front door as an invited guest,” the wizard said.
***
As ordered, the Kobalan archers ceased their attack.
Lendo lay on his side in the dark hallway, taking time to catch his breath. Once his lungs were full again, he broke off the shaft hanging from his shoulder and climbed to his feet. No lone archer was going to stick him and not pay for it.
He quickly discovered wooden stairs that took him up a level, but on the second floor he found only a shaky ladder that appeared to lead to a vent in the roof.
Lendo stared at the opening, moonlight through the hole offering the only illumination. The captain was waiting for his opponent to make an appearance, but the man did not show, nor could Lendo hear anyone walking on the roof.
After long seconds the captain sheathed his sword and yanked out a dagger, placing the blade between clenched teeth. He would have a hard enough time climbing the ladder with a crippled left arm, but he would not do so unarmed.
He gripped the ladder’s side with his good hand and planted a boot on the bottom rung while keeping his eyes on the opening above. Now, while he was on the ladder, would be an opportune time for his enemy to take the advantage.
Still, there was no attack.
Lendo bit down harder on his knife and pulled himself up a peg. Nothing happened still, so the captain went on with his slow climb, moving up a rung, checking for an enemy, then proceeding.
Finally he reached the top of the ladder, but held his head low so as not to provide a target for the archer above, if the man still lived.
Lendo strained his ears, trying to listen for any sound.
Again, nothing.
The captain, frustrated, decided action was necessary. He thrust up, his legs kicking off the top of the ladder, and launched himself onto the roof. He rolled away from the open trap door and came up on both feet, his knife now in his right hand.
In front of him stood an old man, tall with worn gray robes and a lengthy beard hanging from his chin.
“You are going to help me,” the old man said.
Captain Lendo didn’t lower his knife. He saw no archer in black, but was familiar enough with magic to know in this situation he should not trust his own eyes. “Who are you?”
“Who I am is of little importance to you,” Maslin Markwood said. “What is of import is who you are, captain.”
Lendo’s face went tight. This old man knew who he was? No, he must have seen the markings of an officer on Lendo’s shoulders.
“There is to be an important ceremony in less than an hour,” Markwood said. “You are going to ensure I am invited.”
Lendo clenched the dagger. “What madness is this?”
“It is not madness,” Markwood said, waving a hand in front of the captain, “but you will do as I ask. You have no choice in the matter.”
Lendo frowned, then blinked and smiled. The world suddenly seemed so much clearer to him. Of course he would take the old man to the ceremony. His new friend would be the perfect guest.
“Drop the dagger,” Markwood said. “You won’t need it.”
Lendo tossed the weapon.
The wizard motioned across the rooftop to the dark castle in the center of the city. “Now, take me to Verkain’s hall.”
Chapter Thirteen
Belgad sighed as he drew a black silk robe around his shoulders. Not that the large man was interested in fashion, but he had been in Mogus Potere only a matter of days and was already tired of black on everyone. At least the last few days had kept his mind occupied with putting together a team of Verkain’s assassins to track down Darkbow and Markwood. The Dartague believed it would only be a matter of time before those two made an appearance.
The door to his bedroom slammed open. Fortisquo stood there looking flustered, he too wearing a black robe over his ruffly shirt, short breeches and tall boots.
“What do you want?” Belgad asked. “We’re not to go down to the ceremony for another half hour.”
“You haven’t heard?” the sword master asked.
Belgad’s eyebrows raised above a glare.
“There’s been fighting near the south gate,” Fortisquo said. “Nearly a dozen men killed. They tracked the culprit to a building in their slave quarters.”
“Darkbow?”
“The killer is supposed to be dressed all in black.”
Belgad grinned. “Sounds like our man.” He grabbed his long, two-handed sword from where he had left it on his bed.
“Wait.” Fortisquo held up a hand. “Apparently he escaped.”
Belgad’s grin turned into a frown. “It definitely sounds like our man.”
“There’s more,” Fortisquo said. “Markwood was caught. Turned himself in, from what I’ve heard. Lendo is taking him to the main hall as we speak.”
Belgad’s grin returned. “Then Darkbow won’t be far behind.”
***
Kron had been wrong in his assessment to Markwood. It only took him eight minutes to reach the ledge outside the windows set high in Verkain’s keep.
Running and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, he had covered the distance to the castle’s outer walls in little time. From there it had been one last jump to the top of a building on the other side of the wall, a sling of his grappling hook and a lengthy climb to the windows.
Now he looked through yellow glass upon Lord Verkain’s great hall far below. A dark purple carpet ran down the center of the long room, from open doorway to the throne, and hundreds of soldiers were lined up on either side. Sitting on the throne was a tall, muscular man in dark robes, his long, graying hair tied in a tail hanging down his back. Kron was seeing Lord Verkain for the first time, and he had to admit the king’s stare was imposing even from a distance.
Military music bounded through the air, drums driving a stirring beat, but Kron could not make out any musicians from his vantage point.
His eyes shifted around the room, looking for any sign of Markwood. Instead of the aging mage, he found himself staring at another older man seated in a chair to the right of Verkain. This fellow wore long, dark robes as well, but the tall, cylindrical hat on his head was a mark of Eastern clergy, especially of the higher ranks.
This was a surprise.
The carriage at the front entrance of the city suddenly returned in Kron’s memory. What could a member of the Eastern church hierarchy be doing with Verkain?
***
“You’re doing fine,” Markwood whispered, his left hand gripping Lendo’s elbow as the two strolled through the open doorway into the main hall of the castle. “Just take me to Verkain.”
“I will do my best,” the captain said as they walked along the purple rug down the center of the room, lines of soldiers on either side watching their movement.
Seeing t
he two approaching, Lord Verkain raised a hand.
The distant drums died.
“I see you’ve finally shown yourself, Maslin,” the king said.
The wizard gripped the captain’s elbow tighter. “Keep walking.”
“By all means, come closer,” Verkain said.
The two continued their march, only halting at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Kobalan throne.
Captain Lendo blinked, as if waking from a dream, and stared about.
Markwood could feel the eyes of the hundreds of warriors and officers upon him, but the one person who drew his interest was an elderly fellow in dark robes next to the lord of the land. Upon the man’s head sat a tall, round hat.
“A representative of the Eastern church?” Markwood asked.
Verkain chuckled. “Are you surprised at Bishop Althgar’s presence?” He waved a hand at the man seated next to him.
“I did not believe the church would stoop to dealing with you,” Markwood said.
Bishop Althgar scowled. “Who is this man, Verkain?”
“You should know him, your holiness,” Verkain said. “An old enemy of the church is Maslin Markwood.”
The bishop’s eyes burned into Markwood’s skull. “That was the name of one of The Twelve. I’m surprised he’s still alive.”
“Alive and well,” Markwood said, “but no longer a rebel. Those days are long past.”
“Not as far past as you think,” Verkain said with a grin.
“The East and West went their separate ways long ago,” Markwood said. “I am here only for Randall. Where is he?”
“My son should be along soon,” Verkain said.
At that, a pair of doors to the left of Verkain’s throne swung open with a groan, as of heavy stone scraping steel. The doors had been nearly invisible, built in such a manner as to appear part of the wall; a tapestry pulled to one side appeared as if it would hide the opening at other times.
Through the opening came two burly soldiers carrying a limp Randall between them.
Markwood nearly rushed forward as he took in the torn, dirty rags covering the young man’s bruised and scarred form. “What have you done to him?”
“He is my son,” Verkain said. “I do with him what I please.”
Markwood raised a fist as the two soldiers carried Randall toward his father. Another pair of soldiers appeared from one side of the room, these two carrying a sturdy and long oak table.
“Raise your fist all you want, wizard,” Verkain said to Markwood. “Go ahead and curse me, if you dare. It will do you no good. Your spells are useless here.”
The guards carrying the table placed their heavy burden in front of their king. Randall’s unmoving figure was then drug forward and slung upon the hard, flat top.
“You’re going to go through with this,” Markwood said as he slowly approached Verkain’s throne. “Why? Why would you kill your own son?”
“To end the suffering of the world.” Verkain unsheathed a gilded dagger from his belt.
***
Kron watched all from high above. He could not hear the words spoken, but could guess some of what was said.
At the sight of Verkain drawing the dagger, Kron’s right hand reached up to his shoulder to draw his sword while his left hand unwound his rope and grappling hook.
Sensing the time for action was approaching, the man in black looked over the row of three tall windows before him. There were no latches on the outside and none of the panes were open. He would have to break his way through when Markwood needed him. That suited him fine. There was nothing as thrilling as making an explosive appearance.
***
Verkain slid out of his chair and approached his unconscious son.
“Do not do this,” Markwood said.
“Or what?” Verkain’s eyes flashed on the wizard. “Your magic means nothing here.”
Markwood raised a finger and pointed at Verkain. Words older than time itself sprang from the the old man’s lips, words spoken boldly for all to hear.
The king of Kobalos laughed.
Markwood pointed the finger again and muttered the same words.
Nothing.
“You fool,” Verkain said. “I’ve deadened all potential magic within this hall for the night. Without your spells, you’re nothing but an old man, an old man who will soon wish he had stayed in Bond and not interfered in my concerns.”
The Kobalan king made a motion, a slice of one hand. Four of his men drew swords and surrounded the wizard.
Markwood glanced about slowly with his head hanging. Then he lunged, darting between two of his armored guards. He reached out and grabbed Randall by the shoulder.
It was too little too late. The four burly Kobalans fell upon the mage, smashing him down with the pommels of their swords. Within seconds the wizard was little more than a bleeding pile of flesh, his harsh breathing the only sign he remained alive.
“Take him to my personal dungeons,” Verkain said, waving a hand over the unconscious Markwood, “but he is not to be killed. It will delight me to spend hours introducing master Maslin to new levels of pain.”
Bishop Althgar had not moved from his seat during the commotion. Now he responded only with a grimace, as if he did not fully approve of the events unfolding before him.
The four soldiers grabbed Markwood by his limbs and drug him from the room, retreating the way Randall had been brought.
Verkain stood over his son, the dagger in his hand poised over the youth’s chest. He stared down and saw the healer’s eyes flutter.
“How appropriate,” the king said. “My son wakes for his own sacrifice.”
***
Kron tried not to panic. Whatever had happened below, it had obviously not gone the way Markwood had planned. Kron had not known what the mage would attempt, but he knew Markwood had had enough confidence in his own abilities to take on Verkain in a hall full of the king’s soldiers.
Apparently the old wizard had underestimated their enemy.
Knowing not what else to do, Kron went to work. He pulled back his sword and slammed the butt of its hilt against the glass.
The window did not shatter.
It did not even crack.
***
Randall’s eyes opened to stare up at his father, but the young healer was too battered and weak to attempt to protect himself. The grin on Verkain’s face reminded Randall of his father’s war demons, those plate-wearing monstrosities from hell.
Verkain leaned over his son and gently ran a hand through Randall’s brown hair. “I wanted you to know your death will not be in vain,” the king said. “You will be sacrificed to fulfill our destinies once more.”
“Why, father?” Randall managed to croak.
Verkain returned his hand to his side. Then he straightened and faced the hall of warriors and officers and the few members of Kobalan nobility allowed to attend the event. He raised the dagger over Randall’s throat.
The king pointed to Bishop Althgar. “With the official witness of an ambassador of the Holy Ursian Empire, and the death of the last of my offspring, I proclaim myself Dark King of the North!”
The soldiers hailed their king, shouting his name in orderly fashion. “Verkain! Verkain! Verkain!”
“Thus we welcome in the last of days,” Verkain yelled, “and we welcome the return of Ashal!”
Once more the invisible drums boomed, shaking the walls.
The Kobalan lord leaned over his son again. “I apologize for the pain, but if you truly wanted to end this, it lies within your power.”
Randall’s eyes asked what his lips could not mutter. How? How could I end this terror?
Verkain stood straight again, the grin on his face growing wider, his dagger hanging just above Randall’s bared neck.
The soldiers continued to chant their leader’s name, and the drums still blared, the sounds reverberating throughout the hall in a rising crescendo not unlike thunder.
***
&nb
sp; Kron panicked. He hammered his sword into the glass several more times, but there was not even a crack or dent. Sheathing the weapon, he slammed a shoulder into a window. Still, nothing.
Looking behind himself, Kron realized the ledge was not wide enough to get a running start. He eased to one side of the nearest window, then kicked at the glass. The pane held solid, and Kron rebounded, teetering on the brink of falling.
He grabbed an edge of masonry sticking out from the wall. It wasn’t much of a grip, but it was enough to keep him from plummeting to his death.
Worried he already might be too late, Kron dared another glance inside.
***
Verkain held the cold blade against the warm skin of Randall's neck, then the lord of Kobalos shut his eyes. “I call upon my own will to guide my hand,” he said, though the din of the room was too much for anyone to hear his words.
Randall too closed his eyes and began to mumble words beneath his breath.
Verkain’s eyes snapped opened and glared. “No incantation will save you now.”
The king stabbed deep, cutting into the youth’s throat.
***
In a frenzy, Kron hammered with everything he had, his sword, his dagger, his fists, his booted feet. Nothing would crack the yellow, magic glass.
***
The knife tore through the healer’s larynx as Verkain continued to slide the blade from one side of the neck to the other, nearly severing the head from the body.
Randall’s body arched, the young man’s feet and shoulders all that remained touching the table. Then he collapsed with a gasp and a gurgle as blood splashed Verkain’s robes.
The body unmoving, more blood slid forth out of the gaping wound as if syrup, pooling around the neck and head, then creeping its way to the edges of the table to drip off the sides to form another pool below.
“It is done.” Verkain withdrew the dagger and moved away from the body.
