Demon Chains (Book II of The Horrors of Bond Trilogy)

By Ty Johnston

A murderer stalks the streets of the city of Bond. The killer leaves behind tortured and twisted bodies that have been sliced and ripped apart, often after the most horrible of violations. No one is immune to this stalker's depredations, including children. Especially children.

Kron Darkbow is a man not unfamiliar with violence and darkness. He operates in shadows and lives in a haunted asylum. Despite his past, he is also a man who seeks justice for those deserving and to protect those not able to shield themselves.

It falls upon Kron to hunt down this killer stalking the streets, but he soon realizes there is more than one culprit involved in these horrible crimes. A dark mage and his demon partner are at fault, and with each death they grow more and more powerful. Kron only hopes he can put a stop to their acts before more innocents suffer an awful fate. But first Kron has to discover why the mage and his demon have brought their evil to the city.

Demon Chains continues the epic fantasy adventures of Kron Darkbow, first introduced in City of Rogues: Book I of the Kobalos Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Johnston
• Release date: Jul 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476281261

Ty Johnston

Originally from Kentucky, Ty Johnston is a former newspaper journalist. He lives in North Carolina with loving memories of his late wife.Blog: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

Book preview

Part 1: Bond

1,995 years After Ashal (A.A.)

Chapter 1

A thick fog drifted across the boardwalk, working with the dark of night to ensure little could be examined beyond an arm’s reach. The moon could not be seen, nor the stars. The only light was a vague glow low among the clouds north of the river, revealing the presence of The Swamps, the innermost recesses of the city of Bond.

Flint struck against steel and sparks shot forth, soon followed by dancing flames at one end of an oiled torch.

You sure that’s a good idea? Bentus asked, shivering as he hunkered down behind a row of stacked barrels.

Kneeling, Chess looked over at his partner, a big man like himself, but they did come smarter. I told you, there aren’t any wharf guards here. This quay is old and wobbly. Nobody hardly uses it anymore, and that Khadiran cog has spooked the dock master’s staff. We’ve got it all to ourselves.

Bentus looked from side to side, nervous as if expecting someone to jump out of the fog. Maybe, but no captain leaves his ship unwatched.

A frown crossed Chess’s lips as he shook his head. Look, I’ve been watching this ship ever since it came in two days ago. The only people that got off was some fancy foreigner, this weird kid he had with him, and a small crew, no more than a dozen. Nobody else was here. Nobody. There aren’t any guards. I looked over everything earlier today. We’re safe.

Then what happened to the crew? And this foreigner?

Chess sighed. Bentus always had been a worrier, even when they had been working as bully boys for Kerjim, back before the guild master lost his mind and had to be locked away in a healing tower. One might think such a big fellow as Bentus, who not only had size but some training and experience with the sword, would have a sturdier gut than what he usually showed. But no. Chess had to get stuck with a street thug with butterflies in his stomach and rocks in his head. Still, they didn’t come much more loyal, and it was true they needed work. Emptying the Khadiran craft of whatever they could haul away counted as work.

The crew disbanded, hired only temporary, I guess, Chess said to answer his partner, and the foreign guy got some rooms somewhere. I’m telling you, we’re not facing any trouble here.

Bentus still didn’t appear convinced. Didn’t they unload anything from the ship? Doesn’t make sense for a cog like that to come all the way from Khadir with only two passengers getting off.

Chess growled in the back of his throat, growing tired of his companion’s weakness. Maybe the foreigner is rich. Maybe he could afford the passage, or maybe it’s his damn boat. I don’t know. He used the torch to point further down the boardwalk. But I do know there’s a ship sitting out there with nobody watching over it. Even if it’s not stuffed to the gills with merchandise, they’ll be sailing gear and stuff we can swipe.

The other fellow frowned.

Chess slapped him on an arm. What are you afraid of? This’ll be an easy job. We can sell whatever we get, then be on down the road. This Khadiran isn’t going to come looking for us. Hell, he’s rich, he probably won’t even notice a missing quadrant or telescope, or whatever we find.

Bentus held to a silent, stubborn firmness for a moment, staring back at his partner, but then he let out a breath of misty air, wrapped his cloak tighter around his shivering arms and stood. All right. Let’s do it and get it over with. The sooner we get back to The Stone Pony for some warm soup, the happier I’ll be.

Chess grimaced and stood next to his accomplice. You sure? You don’t want me to hire a couple of bodyguards to make sure you don’t get hurt or something?

A large knife sliding forth from the folds of his belt, the other man straightened and sneered while nodding further down the boardwalk. Let’s just get this done with.

Chess nodded in return, then pulled out his own blade, shaking it out to one side. All right.

The two thugs shifted and tromped into the dark mist, their torch leading the way but only revealing the gray boards of the wharf inches at a time. After they had traveled some distance, the sound of water slapping against posts at their sides, a wide plank appeared on their right, beyond it the vague outline of a large vessel gently bobbing up and down in the water.

Here we go. Chess didn’t hesitate, but turned to strut up the slightly inclined piece of lumber, Bentus right behind him.

At the top they came to a rope across their path, but a swish of steel had the cord falling in two pieces. They stepped onto the flat deck of the cog, the large stern-mounted rudder off to their left.

Chess eyed the dark oak wood of the smallish craft, its single mast and lone square sail. Never liked these Khadiran vessels. You’d think after all this time they’d make use of proper ships, like a caravel or something.

Bentus glared at his partner, but kept his voice low. You want to scream out for the city guard to hear us?

A sneer was the only answer. Chess turned away and headed toward a closed door beneath the stern castle, his soft leather boots causing the deck to creak beneath his feet.

As his hand touched the door’s handle, a cold chill ran up his arm. But that wasn’t enough to give Chess pause. It was an abrupt, metallic clinking noise followed by a thud that cause him to straighten as fear ate its way along his limbs.

Bentus? he asked without turning around.

There was no reply.

Slowly, with wide eyes, Chess spun around and stared back the way he had come, his knife and torch leading the way.

Through the mist rolling across the deck he could barely make out the dark lines of the ship’s railing, but it was obvious his partner was no longer with him.

Bentus? Where are you?

Again, no reply.

His knife hand shaking, Chess eased forward into the fog, his feet sliding him haltingly toward the gang plank. After a moment his flame burned away the thickest of the gloom, exposing the opening to the pier where the two pieces of cut rope still hung from the sides of the railing. Of his partner there was no sign.

Bentus?

A snap of metal, then Chess was enveloped, a gigantic weight landing on him and forcing him to the ground. His knife went skidding away. The torch fell to one side but managed to stay ablaze. He tried to roll away from whatever was embracing him, but it was like fighting with a thousand weighted snakes. No matter what move he made, he was wrapped by unseen threads that pulled and forced him down. His own strength was as nothing to this vaporous enemy.

Realizing nothing he was attempting was working, the fight quickly died away from the man, and he was held, pinned facing the deck boards, several splinters thrust into his chin. The fallen torch burned a few feet away, revealing the rough wood of the ship’s deck and nothing more. Chess could not even crane his head around to see what held him.

The stomping sound of boots soon came to his ears, revealing someone heavy taking their time crossing the plank from the pier. Each step was louder than the one before, making Chess suddenly wish he had listened to the guarded words of his partner.

The boot steps came to a stop not far from the thief, but he could make out no shadows or anything else that might be revealing.

I usually prefer boys, a tilted but rough, foreign voice sounded, but one must not refuse a free treat. It was a good thing we remembered to place warding alarms.

There was movement along Chess’s legs. He could not budge an inch, but the cool of the night clambered over his backside and he could tell that whatever had been covering his legs had slid away but still gripped him by his ankles.

The hefty fumblings of a belt being unbuckled came to the downed man’s ears, quickly followed by the brushing noise of trousers dropping about one’s feet. Chess was familiar with the sound. He had heard it a thousand times before, had been the cause of it a thousand times before, in whore houses throughout the city.

There was a grunting, then a shadow was leaning over the thief. A tearing sound followed, and suddenly Chess’s legs were colder than before, the night’s mist chilling his bared flesh.

Please, no, he managed to whisper.

There was a titter of laughter. Oh, he begs. How precious. And our night is only beginning.

Chapter 2

The morning frost crunched beneath the sergeant’s boots as he trudged his way up the slight incline, the orange tabard of the Bond city guard enclosing his shoulders and keeping back the worst of the chill that still lingered with the remaining fog. As he grew closer to the giant shadowy outline of the stone building that was the Asylum, the clanking and grunting sounds of men at work came to his ears.

He paused as a motionless wagon rose out of the mist on his right, several burly fellows there unloading lumber from the back while another man steadied a pair of hitched bulls.

At the sight of the sergeant, one of the workers came forward, a younger man than the others and dressed in better rags, almost as if he were some noble down on his luck. He paused long enough to remove his dark floppy hat and wipe the sweat from his face before speaking. Something I can do for you, officer?

The sergeant came to a halt. Sorry, sir, I’m just a sergeant, not an officer.

The young man grinned at his own mistake. Very well, then, sergeant, anything I can do for you?

I’m seeking Kron Darkbow

The worker gestured further up the hill. Master Darkbow is within the Asylum.

The sergeant glanced in the direction, but then looked back to the young man. May I have your name?

Why, yes, sir. I am Montolio, head architect for the repair of the Asylum. Is something amiss?

How long have you been here this morning?

Montolio frowned. All night, sir. You can’t see because of the thickness of the fog, but we have tents on the grounds.

Your workers were with you as well?

Some of them, Montolio answered. Others live close by, and they go home at night. The rest of us bundle up here.

When did you first see Master Darkbow this morning?

The young architect appeared confused. Several hours ago, I suppose, when he exited his own tent. He stays here most nights himself. May I ask what is the problem, sir?

The sergeant ignored the question. So, as far as you know, Darkbow was here all night?

Yes, sir. He entered his tent late last night after meals had been served, and did not leave until early this morning.

The sergeant pointed up the hill. And you say he is now inside?

Yes, sir.

Thank you. You have been most cooperative. The sergeant shifted away from the younger man and trod toward the shadowy building.

A pair of workers, bald, rough men, approached their boss. Something wrong, Montolio? one of them asked.

The architect stared at the back of the retreating soldier. I don’t think so. Either way, it’s not any of our concern. Back to work.

As the grunts of labor returned to his ears, the city guard sergeant approached the front entrance to the Asylum. Now near the building, the dark edifice rose out of the fog like some ancient, long-forgotten castle along the hinterlands. Rumors were the place was haunted. The sergeant could well imagine how such stories had begun, especially considering the property’s current owner.

A shadow loomed from the doorway. Corporal Rogins, forgive me, but I overheard your talk with my men below.

Rogins hesitated, as he always did when facing this one. Kron Darkbow was tall and broad in the shoulders. Everything about him reeked black, including the buckles of his garb and the handle of the large sword he wore over his shoulders. His hair, too, was black, but most disturbing were those dark, impaling eyes in the middle of pale features.

The sergeant shivered, but then got control of himself. Uh, I’m a sergeant now, sir.

Ah, yes, Darkbow said. With Gris’s rise in rank, so goes your own. How is my friend fairing these days?

Um. Rogins did not know quite what to say. He was here on official business, and had little experience in personal pleasantries with this man.

My apologies, the dark-garbed figure said. I should have realized upon hearing you below. You are here in your official capacity as sergeant of the city guard. What may I do for you this day?

Rogins blinked away the fog spreading dew upon his lashes. Captain Gris would like a word with you, sir.

The cloaked head of Kron Darkbow inclined forward. Concerning my whereabouts of last night?

Among other things, sir.

Am I to be placed under arrest?

I have no such orders, sir.

"But you were interested in my location last night, were you not?"

Rogins hesitated. This man was a sly one. What to tell? Sir, my questions were merely procedure. I wanted to ... uh, to make sure of a few things before proceeding.

An eyebrow was raised. Questions concerning what?

There is a situation, sir. Two men are dead.

Darkbow straightened, his sizable figure looming in the mist like some dark giant. He nodded. Very well, sergeant. Lead the way.

Chapter 3

The two bodies were laid out next to one another. That on the left was garbed but soggy, slightly bloated, with blue rings around the eyes. The other was naked from the waist down, dark bruises running up and down the back of the legs, and sporting a callous, red line around the throat; half of the face had been burned away, leaving behind a charred blackness that in no way resembled a human appearance.

Kron stood from kneeling, his eyes roaming over the two corpses resting in the center of the boardwalk. The initial revulsion continued to lurk in the bottom of his stomach, but it was not as if he had not seen dead men before. He had even been known to leave behind a few in his wake on occasion. These two were different, however. No slash of a sword had felled these men. The one appeared drowned, which was a common enough occurrence in a city surrounded by three rivers, but the other had suffered an unusual death. There had been more than simple fire in the torched fellow’s suffering. He had been battered and abused, then something thick and hard had wrapped around his neck. It was obvious from the blood welling beneath the flesh the fire had been applied at the last. The poor man had still been alive, though possibly only barely, with any luck no longer being conscious.

Torture had been involved. What confounded Kron, however, was he could not characterize what had happened to this second victim, what had been the means of torture. The wound around the neck might have been caused by some kind of heavy rope or cloth, but there were no threads left behind as evidence to this. It did not help that the burning had blurred much of the neck marks, the coal that had been flesh reaching down beneath the chin and around the throat. Also odd were the bruises along the back of the dead man’s legs.

Kron leaned down once more and used a gloved hand to gently press aside one of the burned man’s knees. A slick like that of faint oil glistened upon the inside of the thighs.

The man in black stood straight. He was raped. Brutally.

And repeatedly.

Kron turned at the words to glance at the rugged, stern features of Captain Gris, head of Bond’s city guards. Behind the officer stood a half dozen of his orange-clad soldiers, each pale in the face and blocking the pier from any citizens curious enough to want to investigate. There was little need for the sentries, however, as this was a mostly empty part of the city, a wasteland of rotting, forgotten warehouses and piers jutting out into