by Ty Johnston
“Go!” Markwood yelled.
The door shook again.
The man in black slipped his sword into its sheath on his back and broke across the room.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Kron said as he pulled on the first of the window’s planks.
***
Sergeant Fanto slammed the ax forward again, chopping into wood with a mighty blow that nearly cracked the door in half. A seam wide enough to put a hand through was left as he withdrew the heavy weapon.
Fanto leaned forward to stare into the darkening room.
An old man in a gray, rumpled cloak stood in the center of the chamber next to a chair. He swayed on his feet as if weak.
“I order you to open immediately!” Fanto yelled.
The old man turned a heavy stare upon the Kobalan. “That would seem to be an impossibility as you’ve already ruined the door. It would be much easier for you to push your way through.”
Fanto moved back from the splintered portal and handed the ax to one of the dozen armored figures surrounding the front of the old residence.
“Who is in there?” Lerebus asked, stepping out of the crowd of soldiers.
“An old man.” Fanto drew his sword. “I’m about to teach him a lesson in manners.”
“That old man is probably the wizard who escaped Lord Verkain’s dungeon,” Lerebus pointed out. “Be wary.”
Sergeant Fanto gave the broken door a harsh glance, then rushed into it, crashing against the wood with a plated shoulder. The lumber gave way, spilling the warrior onto the floor inside.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the old man said as Fanto looked up at him. “I am Maslin Markwood, and you are about to learn why I was one of The Twelve.”
Chapter Twenty
As the shade of the northern sky turned from indigo to ebony, black wings unfurled above the heights of Mogus Potere.
Verkain watched atop the battlements of the foremost tower, hardy winds whisking his long gray hair around his face below the gigantic black figure flapping leathery wings above.
“The wizard has been found out,” the king said.
A guttural voice came from deep within the war demon’s throat. “I will crunch his bones between my teeth.”
“No. I will deal with Markwood,” Verkain said. “He is the greater threat. Darkbow remains elusive. I can’t suffer him to run loose any longer.”
The demon chuckled, jarring the black plates covering its body.
“Be after him,” Verkain ordered. “Bring me Darkbow’s corpse ... or whatever remains.”
The demon wasted no time spinning away from the tower then dropping low. Its dark form mingled with the drab colors of the city buildings below and the black of night.
Verkain stood for a moment watching nothing, then spun and rounded his way down the stairs of his tallest tower.
***
Fanto flew out the open door like a human arrow, shooting across the roadway to smash into a brick wall. Lerebus and the soldiers stood in motionless surprise as they watched the sergeant’s broken body slide down the side of the building into a crumpled mess on the street.
“I will give you one chance to flee,” a voice said.
The Kobalans and the Jorsican sergeant turned to see an old man standing in the smashed doorway.
“Go now,” Markwood said, “for I have had my fill of Verkain and his minions.”
Lerebus was the only smart one. He backed to one side, toward an alley.
The rest of the soldiers drew swords.
“Unfortunate.” Markwood raised his arms.
The broken door and its frame exploded, showering splinters of wood from around the wizard. The miniature darts sliced the air, the missiles launching themselves at the Kobalans. Some men died instantly as tiny javelins of pine slammed through eye sockets and skulls to lodge in brains. Others were not so fortunate, wooden daggers stabbing their throats, leaving them to die slowly while gagging on their own blood.
Lerebus was unharmed with wide eyes.
The wizard’s gaze turned to the last man standing.
Lerebus ran.
***
Kron ran. He knew what the thudding din of the explosion behind him meant. Markwood was letting loose with all his might. If not for their dire straits, Kron would have grinned knowing the mage was finally fighting back against their common foe. There had been too much hiding and sneaking. It was time for action.
Kron hurried down an alley, then across an open brick road and into another alley. He kept his legs pumping as he charged through the night, allowing his natural sense of direction to carry him east.
Eventually he ran out of alleys, coming to a large brick structure that appeared to be some sort of warehouse with its narrow, high windows and a single wide door. The building didn’t stop him. Within seconds his grappling hook attached to a silk cord was slung to the roof.
After climbing four stories, he paused only to draw in the hook and rope while staring out toward eastern Mogus Potere. The city was huge, wider than Bond from west to east, but more narrow north to south. It would be a lengthy trip to the East Gate.
Kron got to moving again. He came to the end of the warehouse and beyond was roof after roof, some large and some small, some wide and some narrow.
He flung the grapnel and cord again and went traveling through the night, the breeze blowing his cloak behind him in the dark and bringing the scents of the city to his nostrils. Smoke. Food. Sweat. Blood. Urine.
He swung from one rooftop to another, finally landing in a kneel while flipping the hook and rope back to him again.
Crouched on the edge of this last roof, before him was a wide park of greenery. In the center of that grass stood a monstrous building of spires, twice as long as it was wide with tall, narrow windows of colorful, stained glass. The architecture told its story, as did the dark vines growing along the structure. This had once been a church of god-fearing people. Now it was a temple to desolation.
Lamps hanging above the main entrance on the western end facing Kron revealed a half dozen Kobalan soldiers.
Kron glanced about, taking in his surroundings and trying to figure how to get to the old church without being seen. It was night but there was a moon and little cover between his roof and the church.
***
Markwood waited patiently on the stoop of the house he and Kron had claimed as shelter for a day. Within minutes, he was not disappointed.
Kobalan soldiers, at least two dozen of them in a square formation, marched in from the west. Each man was decked out in the black partial plate of their army, black shields trimmed in white on their left arms and barbed javelins in their fists. One man, obviously an officer of high rank with white plumage thrusting up from the back of his helmet, marched at the front of the others.
Further back, behind the soldiers, other Kobalans were gathering. Some also were soldiers, but a number wore dark robes over tunics. Verkain was sending out his wizards.
Markwood walked to the center of the road to face the advancing troops.
The marching men came to a halt with a final stamp of their boots.
The officer came forward. “In the name of Lord Verkain, his majesty of the land, you are ordered to surrender!”
Markwood glared back at the man. “I do not recognize that name as having authority over me.”
The officer lifted his javelin as if to throw. “If you do not surrender, we have orders to deal with you harshly.”
“Do as you must.”
With a final hard stare at the wizard, the officer raised his shield arm.
The rest of the soldiers lifted javelins.
“I suggest you not do this,” Markwood said.
The officer’s arm sliced down.
Markwood spoke a single, ancient word.
The javelins slammed into an unseen wall in front of the mage then rebounded back at the throwers. Men died screaming, impaled upon their own weapons. Iron-headed spears protruded from chests
and necks. The soldiers were downed within seconds.
Markwood gave the bodies a sorrowful, forlorn look of regret. Then he passed through them, walking over the blood-splattered stones of the road.
The next line was made up of the men in robes.
Globes of blue lightning and gold fire shot forth from the row of wizards, each magical lance targeted upon the lone figure strolling forward.
Markwood waved a hand and the bolts of power and flame twisted in mid air to sail back toward the spellcasters.
The explosion rocked the ground, nearly knocking Markwood to his knees. Buildings shook and the Kobalan soldiers in the back of the line were forced to drop.
Then smoke filled the street. Silence ruled beneath it.
It was long minutes before the haze cleared enough for Markwood to see what damage he had wrought.
The enemy spellcasters were no more. There were not even heaped bodies, just piles of black ash beginning to drift away on the night wind. Behind the destruction, the soldiers were gone, apparently run away.
Markwood shook his head. He did not enjoy killing, but Verkain was bringing war and these men had belonged to the Kobalan lord. The dead had been awarded that which was part of their duty.
***
Belgad gazed to the east from atop the battlements near the South Gate. Fortisquo was next to the big man, the sword master also staring.
“Do you see anything?” Sergeant Lerebus yelled from below at the foot of the ladder leading up to the two men. Running past the sergeant were Kobalan soldiers, a hundred of the men in black armor jogging from the city of tents toward a road leading east within Mogus Potere.
“There were flashes of light,” Belgad said, “then nothing.”
Fortisquo pointed. “There’s smoke.”
Belgad’s eyes followed his companion’s finger. “You said it was Markwood?” he asked the sergeant below.
“It could have been no other,” Lerebus said. “He killed a dozen men with a lift of his arms.”
“And you ran away?” Fortisquo asked.
“I fear no mortal man,” Lerebus said with gritted teeth, “but it is a fool to stand alone against magic of such power.”
“Sensible,” Belgad said. “Markwood would have torn you apart.”
Fortisquo nudged his muscular companion.
Belgad turned to the man.
“Why isn’t Verkain doing something about this?” Fortisquo asked, low enough so others could not hear.
“What makes you believe he isn’t?” Belgad said. “I’m sure the great lord is biding his time for reasons of his own.”
***
A shadow obstructed the moon’s gleam.
With rushing winds springing up around him, twirling his cloak and nearly knocking him off his feet, Kron dared a look up.
Claws sheathed in iron dove for him, behind them a war demon, a monster as wide as it was tall and covered in black plates. Steam drifted from its open-faced helmet where eyes glowed scarlet.
Kron had no time to plan. He sprang over the edge of the roof.
By the width of a knife, the demon’s talons missed the man in black.
Kron fell the length of two men’s height and landed in a roll that brought him swiftly to his feet. Without a glance back, he took off at a run for the cathedral. He could not fight the demon and hope to win. His only chance was to get to Randall, to hope his dream had not been a lie and the healer lived and would be of help.
The demon screeched, its wings spread wide and flapping as it roared its rage to the night and the darting man below. It should have had the man, and its jaws clamped together as if it could taste the marrow of the mortal’s bones.
Kron kept at a charge, running right for the front gate where armed men had now come to attention and were focusing on him.
The demon swooped in again, its claws outstretched.
Kron dropped flat to the grass just as the monster swooped over. A second later, the beast overflown its prey, Kron launched to his feet again and took off.
The six Kobalan soldiers drew swords and moved out from the church for the cloaked figure approaching them.
Kron looked back to see the demon sweeping in for him again.
The monster howled in delight as it dropped from the sky.
Kron’s boots sank deep into the verdancy as he planted himself and came to a halt.
He turned, facing his hunter.
The demon sprang back in surprise, not used to its prey confronting it so daringly.
Kron slung out a hand, flinging his grapnel and its attached cord.
Soldiers yelled and charged.
The grappling hook tinked against the demon’s neck, a tug from Kron latching the device into the monster’s armor. The other end of the trailing cord remained wrapped around Kron’s wrist.
The startled monster roared again and took higher into the sky.
Kron held on for his life as the monster lifted, carrying him above the heads of the soldiers. The man in black grinned and gave the Kobalans a wave as the demon hissed and flapped toward the cathedral.
***
Markwood stood his ground in the center of the street among blood-drenched armored bodies and smoldering piles of gray dust. The brick of the road was cold to the wizard’s feet even through his thin shoes as the sulfuric stench of the ashes stung his nose.
He stared about at the buildings and houses that lined the street, amazed there were no eyes peeking from behind windows nor doors creaking open. Flickering lights behind curtains and shutters told the wizard there were occupants in some of the buildings. He reminded himself he was in Kobalos. The populace stayed behind closed doors at night, and none ventured forth even for curiosity’s sake.
The wizard grimaced. This was no way for people to live, afraid to glance out a window. He suddenly felt less anguish for the lives he had taken, the lives of men who had helped to enforce Verkain’s will.
The air exploded.
The wizard rocked back on his feet as the unseen tumult hammered at him and wrapped around him before being whisked away on the breeze.
Markwood still stood.
He glanced in the direction of the invisible disturbance before him.
Standing there, a head taller than an average man, was a figure in heavy plate armor, a long flanged mace of solid iron hanging from one hand.
“Another of Verkain’s vassals?” the wizard asked, noting the massive helm shielding the steel-plated face.
“Verkain himself,” the brazen voice of the Kobalan lord replied.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You’ve been waiting for your death, old man.”
“You’ve grown taller,” Markwood said.
“You’ve grown older.”
“I still have plenty of vigor to deal with the likes of you.”
“Your magic is nothing to me.” Verkain raised the mace, aiming its head at the wizard.
***
The demon surprised Kron by not flying away in an attempt to escape the grapnel hooked onto it and the attached rope from which hung Kron himself. Instead, the beast carried its flailing burden toward the largest of the church spires, possibly in hopes of smashing the human against the cathedral’s tallest mast.
A surge of orange blazed to the west.
***
The pillar of fire roared up from between low buildings and into the sky, its flames spreading forth like waves crashing onto a rocky shore. The zenith could be seen miles away and was impossible to miss by anyone outdoors within Mogus Potere. An ocherous glow spread out from the fire tower’s center, flowing out to the walls of the city and beyond.
From atop the battlements, Belgad’s eyes grew wide at the sight.
“Holy Ashal,” Fortisquo whispered next to the Dartague.
“What is it?” Lerebus asked from the ground, buildings shielding his view of the flames.
Belgad grabbed Fortisquo by the shoulder of his shirt. “It is time we were going.”
<
br /> ***
The brightness drew Kron’s attention from the demon above. As he hung in the air, he twisted on his taught cord to see what was causing the growing light.
The giant pillar of fire nearly blinded him. Then it was gone, shrinking back to the ground faster than Kron’s eyes could follow. For seconds all that remained in his vision were blinking spots of white.
When his sight cleared, the man in black realized the flames had come from where he had left Markwood.
Then he was falling.
***
Markwood found himself on his back staring up through drifting black smoke that concealed where he knew the stars to be. A chill stung his flesh and he realized he was without clothing again, Verkain’s flames having burnt away his meager garments. He was thankful for the cold air wrapping his body and the burning stench drifting to his nostrils. Those sensations told him he was alive.
The wizard pushed up on his elbows. A hundred yards in all directions lay a swath of black destruction. He was at the center of a crater as deep as a man was tall. The remains of the road were no more than tumbled bricks mingled with gritty dirt. Houses were piles of burning lumber and stones heated to an orange glow. Markwood scanned the edges of the destruction and found it to be a perfect circle, in some places cutting buildings through to reveal furniture, crates and people, some dead and some crying or trying to hide behind simple furnishings.
Verkain was not to be found.
His joints creaking and his breathing rough, Markwood pushed himself off the dirt. He stood there with smoke flapping through his long, gray hair and he was still cold despite the lingering fires. The bandages Kron had used to wrap his chest wounds had been burnt away, leaving behind nearly raw flesh.
The wizard hung his head. He was an old man naked in a cold wind with no protection other than his own will. He had known all along it would come to this, facing Verkain.
