Gris turned to face the street. There were still some gawkers, most fresh awake though a few looked haggard enough to have been there all night.
Surveying the surroundings, the sergeant was grateful the fire had been on Mages Way. The street’s width would make it easier for a crew to move in with cranes to dismantle the leftovers and clear away the rubble. Trelvigor wasn’t able to talk, but Gris couldn’t imagine the mage would argue about tearing down the building. There was nothing to save.
Movement in the back of the crowd caused the sergeant to shift his gaze, and he spotted a man making his way toward him through the pedestrians. He recognized the tall, sturdy fellow dressed in tanned deer skins and leathers.
The sergeant’s lips formed into a grin. “By Ashal, Lucius Tallerus.” He marched forward with a hand outstretched.
Lucius returned the sergeant’s firm grip with a smile of his own.
“You’re a long way from the Prisonlands,” Gris said as their hands parted. “What brought you here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Busy this morning.” Gris nodded toward the shell of a building. “But nothing I can’t break away from for a few minutes. How’d you find me?”
“A clerk at the central barracks told me where you were stationed.” Lucius pointed at the remains of Trelvigor’s mansion. “What happened here?”
Gris glanced at the rising smoke. “Wizard’s house caught fire last night. We don’t know what caused it yet, and the wizard’s in no shape to answer questions.”
“I guess there’s not much a dead man can tell you.”
“He’s not dead.”
Lucius pointed at the house again. “He lived through that?”
“Managed to make his way to the front door.” Gris shrugged as if almost disbelieving. “When he was pulled out, he wasn’t much more than a husk. One of the local healers thinks he can have him back on his feet in a few weeks.”
“Is that why the city guard are involved?”
“Usually we’re not in on this sort of thing,” Gris said, nodding as they walked away from the crowd into the center of Mages Way, “but it was a wizard, and a body was found in the rubble of the house’s tower.”
“Servant?”
Gris shrugged again. “To everyone’s knowledge, the wizard lived alone, and this wizard didn’t have too many friends. We’ll look into it best we can, but I’ll have to wait until the wizard’s in better shape before I can find out what happened.
“Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“I’m seeking work.”
“What about the wardens?”
“I resigned.” Lucius's words drew a look of surprise. “My uncle passed away about six months ago.”
“Sorry to hear about Kuthius. He was a damn fine warden. What happened to him?”
“Hard living and old age.”
Gris chuckled, thinking about the tough old man who had been Lucius Tallerus’s uncle. Kuthius Tallerus had lived hard. He had been a border warden for the Prisonlands nearly all his life, and that job meant hard living in the woods while catching some of the toughest and deadliest of men. Most wardens were young, in their twenties, and few lived long enough or kept the job long enough to make it into their thirties. Gris guessed Kuthius must have been in his mid-fifties and had probably been a border warden for close to forty years. Gris himself had retired when he had turned thirty only four years earlier, and he had no qualms about giving up the life.
“He should have retired long ago.” The words came almost as if Lucius could read the sergeant's thoughts. “After he was gone, I figured it was time to move on.”
Gris slapped his friend on the back. “If there was ever a fellow meant to be a border warden, it was you, Lucius. You were one of the best. I’m surprised the captains didn’t try to keep you by making you a better offer.”
“Who says they didn’t?”
The two laughed together.
“It’s good to see you again, but tell me what kind of work you’re looking for.” The sergeant gripped the handle of the sword at his waist and shifted it to a more comfortable position. “I’m guessing a soldier or guard’s position. Or how about hunting? You’re the best tracker I’ve ever seen.”
“I’d prefer something in town.”
“Guard work it is, then.” Gris paused and stared out over the heads of the crowd still watching the work crew. “We don’t have anything open with the city right now, but that can change any time. However, the Western church is always looking for guards.”
“I’d prefer to work for more than food and a cot.”
“I understand,” Gris said, still watching the crowd. “The Western church just doesn’t have the coffers of the Eastern.”
Lucius nodded as they continued with their walk..
“There’s a bodyguard’s guild, but I don’t think you’d work for them.” The sergeant continued on, leading his friend through a group of pedestrians that gave way before his orange tunic. “If they find a fellow working in town without being a member, they take it out on him pretty hard.”
“What else is there?”
“There’s the Asylum.”
“An asylum? I don’t remember it.”
“One of the wealthier healers had it built a dozen years ago.” Gris brought them to a halt once more. “They use it for mad folk and a few others who are too sick to take care of themselves.”
“A hospital?”
“Of sorts,” Gris said as the two turned around to face across the street and back towards the remains of the wizard's mansion, “but it’s more like a prison. It’s a dangerous place, but I guess it’s no worse than the Prisonlands. If you like, I can call on the chief guard there, or I can ask around to see if there’s anything else available. Sometimes a local tavern wants to hire on some arm.”
“The Asylum will do,” Lucius said as they moved back toward the work crew and the other city guards.. “I just need something to tide me over. I don’t have any long range plans, but it’s good to be home.”
Chapter Four
It was apparent by Stilp’s awkward walk he was not familiar with wearing a sword. At each step his left hand would slap the pommel on his hip. But he did not expect to use the weapon. Three of Belgad’s chain-clad goons followed as he marched along a dark alley. Stilp wore the sword to make a statement, to show he was important. The three bodyguards were the real threat to anyone foolish enough to accost the group.
Stilp halted at the end of the alley, the trio behind following suit. The little man glanced out into the path crossing before them. The alley intersected Dock Street, which ran along the northern shore of the Swamps. The street was lit well, lamps having been hung on the sides of buildings facing the North River. Warehouses of various sizes ran along the wooden quay that made up the shore of the river on the other side of the street. Empty ships rested quietly before they would be loaded again in the morning and headed to points elsewhere along the three rivers that converged in Bond.
Stilp was mostly interested in a smaller warehouse directly across from the alley where he skulked. Light flared around the edges of shuttered windows, throwing shadows across the dock.
Stilp glanced from side to side, seeing the street was clear.
“It’s time.” He said stepped out of the alley.
The three armored figures followed. Each wore a sword on his hip and stout cudgels were gripped in their hands.
Crossing Dock Street, out of the corner of his eye Stilp spied a shadow flitting atop a warehouse to his left. He paused, the guards stopping too, and stared at the building’s roof.
“Something amiss?” one of the three asked as he and his companions glanced in the same direction their boss was staring.
Stilp stared a moment longer, then shrugged and continued forward. “Nothing.” The sun had gone down, and the early darkness had been known to play tricks on one’s eyes.
He marched up to the entrance on the side of the small warehouse, stepped to
one side and pointed at the door.
The largest of the three rammed a shoulder into the wood, cracking the door and slamming it open.
Revealed were a dozen men sitting around a long table. At the opening stood a young man with scrolls of paper in one hand.
Stilp grinned. “Rush him.”
The three guards were through the door. The first shoved the young man back, causing him to fall into a stack of crates while spilling his scrolls. The other two ruffians charged in with clubs swinging. Several of the guild leaders jumped up while others fell back or hid beneath the table.
The three armored men worked well together, showing their experience, and quickly hammered down their few opponents. When finished, four guildsmen lay with bleeding head wounds. The rest of the guild members had lined up on the far wall as far from the ruckus as possible.
The young guildsman on the floor grabbed at his loose scrolls. “This is barbaric.”
One of Belgad’s men kicked out, knocking the young scribe onto his back.
“This is business.” Stilp stepped between his associates to face those of the guild still conscious.
None of the guildsmen said a word. The three guards stood looking ferocious, one with blood dripping from the end of his cudgel.
“Lord Belgad says you don’t profit unless he does.” Stilp gave as hard a stare as he could to those still standing. “And since the East pope is lowering tariffs, that means you boys have more to share.”
No one said a word.
“Do you understand?” Stilp waved a hand towards the guildsmen. “Or are we going to have to do this again? Maybe at your homes?”
The guild leaders gave one another nervous glances. After a few seconds, one was brave enough to come forward. “We understand,” he said, his voice shaking, “and please, apologize to Master Belgad for us. We did not mean any disrespect.”
Stilp turned to the door and smacked one of his guards on his armored chest. “We’re done here.”
Stilp exited first, the three bullies following with caution, watching to make sure there would be no attempts at retribution.
Stilp sighed with relief as soon as he and his companions were on Dock Street again. “That went well enough.”
The first arrow hit him in the left thigh.
Stilp screamed, dropping as the pain roared up his leg. His three guards stood over him, too surprised to take action.
The second arrow took one of the others in the chest, dragging him to the ground.
“Archer!” another guard yelled. An arrow crunched into his throat.
The last guard standing dropped his club and rushed for the safety of the guildsmen’s meeting. A slammed door greeted him.
The man hammered on the door. “Let me in in the name of Belgad!”
“That name will not serve you here.” The cold voice came from behind.
The guard spun. A dozen paces away stood a figure covered head to toe in a black cloak, a large sword tied on its back. Stilp rolled around in pain at the figure’s feet.
“You’ll pay for mocking the name of Belgad.” The lone guard whipped out his sword, slicing at air.
“I don’t think you are the one to collect”
The guard roared and charged, sword swinging above his head.
Instead of retreating, the black form stepped into the charging man’s path. The guard swung for the cloaked head, but the figure grabbed his sword wrist with one hand and his arm with the other and twisted, throwing the guard to the ground.
The dark figure stepped back, giving the warrior room to stand and face him again.
Through a haze of pain, Stilp watched his last protector rub at his sword arm. The guard had not been injured badly, but the breath had been knocked from his lungs, and the man in black knew how to fight, even without drawing a weapon. Stilp hoped his last guard would be more careful the next time.
The next time was sudden. The armored man charged again, his sword in both hands and aimed at his opponent’s stomach.
The shadowy figure waited until the last second, when the guard was within reach, then slid to the side and slammed a fist into the back of the man’s neck.
The guard rolled past and crumpled to the ground.
The black form kicked away his downed foe’s sword and watched to make sure the man would not be recovering soon.
A whimper from Stilp brought the cloaked figure around to face the little man.
The stranger moved across the short space to Stilp, the swaying cloak making the figure appear to glide across the stony street.
Stilp had been in too much pain to notice much of what had happened, but the dark figure leaning over him drew his attention. He grabbed at the short sword in his belt.
A blackened boot stamped on Stilp’s hand, breaking fingers.
The brigand screamed.
“Yell as you like.” The dark figure towered over the downed employees of Belgad. “There are no city guards within three blocks. By the time they arrive, I will be finished.”
The cold words made Stilp clamp his mouth shut. He tried to see a face beneath the black hood, but all he could make out was a pale chin that jutted from beneath shadow. His eyes shifted to take in the fate of his companions as tears streaked down his face beneath wide eyes. “You ... you killed those men.”
“Not all of them. Besides, they are Belgad’s men.”
“It’s murder.”
“Quiet yourself and pay attention.”
Stilp didn’t know how his attention could be any more focused.
“First, the guild had nothing to do with this.” The dark figure knelt next to the brigand, the black hole where the face should have been mere inches from Stilp's face. “This was my doing. There will be no retaliation against them or, by Ashal, I’ll make you wish I’d killed you this night. Do you understand?”
Shock had begun to set in for Stilp. He could do little more than give a brief nod.
“I am glad we understand one another.” The stranger stood. “Tell your master, Belgad the Liar, that Kron Darkbow is coming for him.”
Stilp’s head was shaking, as much from disbelief as from shock. He couldn’t imagine any man brave or stupid enough to want these words passed on to Lord Belgad, Knight of the Western Church.
“I will be watching.” Then the shadowy Kron Darkbow was gone, the swish of a black cloak the only sign of his passing into the night.
Stilp slumped onto the cobblestone street as the door to the guild leaders’ warehouse creaked open and heads peered outside.
Chapter Five
The strains from mending Trelvigor would not allow Randall Tendbones to expend his magics upon Stilp, who lay across the healer’s desk, though a brew of fermented honey and cowslip flowers had been enough to knock the wounded man unconscious. Randall then used a small-bladed knife and two saw-edged spoons welded at the handles to remove the arrowhead from Stilp’s leg.
He held the black arrow up to the lamp light to see it better. “Handmade.” He used a cloth to blot blood trickling from Stilp’s leg wound. “Someone knew what they were doing when they made this arrow. I wouldn’t swear it’s Kobalan, though it does have black fletchings and a broad head.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” The voice came from behind the healer.
Randall turned to watch Lalo the Finder reclining in a cushioned chair. “Whoever he is knows what he is doing with a bow.”
“Of that we are aware,” Belgad’s servant said with a huff, “but it is of utmost importance we discover who did this.”
Randall turned back to his patient and placed the arrow on the edge of his desk. He lifted a small pestle and mortar from a nearby table and began crushing leaves into a dust.
“Trelvigor’s a few nights ago, and now poor Stilp.” He poured water to mix with the leaves. “Of late I seem to be doing an abnormal amount of business for Lord Belgad’s associates.”
Lalo grimaced. “That is Lord Belgad’s concern.”
 
; Randall poured the mixture of leaves over several cloth bandages and began to wrap Stilp’s wound, hoping the chervil leaves would do their job in keeping down infection. “My only concern is for my patients, good Finder,” Randall said while wrapping, “because my healing powers are little use to anyone else while I am exerting myself on Trelvigor.” With this Randall nodded to the door to his chamber, to the room where Trelvigor still lay unconscious and blackened.
“You are not the only healer available.”
Randall knew the Finder was right. There were at least a half dozen other magical healers within the tower compound itself, and there were likely a dozen others who had enough training in alchemy or basic medicine to perform simple healing tasks. The city of Bond probably had fifty or so who at least dabbled in healing magics, while the other healing tower in the city, the one in Southtown, had at least as many decent healers as the tower where Randall plied his trade. Still, Randall’s skills were natural to him, not like other wizards who learned their abilities from ancient scrolls or musty tomes.
“You won’t find a better healer in the city.” Randall was without conceit as he finished with the bandage.
“You’re young, and you expect Lord Belgad and myself to believe you are the most powerful healer in the city? Quite unbelievable.”
Randall wasn’t sure how to answer. He did not like being asked about his past, the part of his life before coming to Bond.
“I do my best.” He sat in the chair behind his desk and opened a drawer.
The outer door to the room slammed open and Belgad, dressed in leathers and a lion-skin robe, marched into the room, pausing to stare at Stilp sprawled across the healer’s desk.
Lalo stood and bowed his head. “My lord master.”
“Has he spoken?” Belgad pointed to Stilp.
Randall motioned toward the man on his desk. “I have had him unconscious while removing the arrow.”
“What of the others?”
Randall sighed. “Two are dead and the other in a coma.”
Belgad nodded to his sleeping vassal. “How long until he is awake?”
“About three hours. He needs time to rest and heal.”
“Wake him now,” Belgad ordered.
“As you wish.” Randall leaned over Stilp and placed a finger on either side of the man's forehead.
Lalo moved toward his employer. “Is something amiss?”