The Company of Seven

By Ty Johnston

An undead mage thousands of years old slinks through the city of Bond.

Rising up from beneath the soil, he soon finds himself allied with escaped fugitives from the Prisonlands, a former knight, a pair of assassins and the chief of thieves.

Each has their own wants, their own goals, but the wizard's are the most deadly to the citizens of Bond, and he refuses to be denied his destiny.

Spotting healer and wizard Randall Tendbones as a threat, a plan is soon hatched to remove him permenantly, but swordsman Kron Darkbow might have something to say about that.

But Tendbones is only the beginning, for the murder of thousands is in the works, and unless Kron can put a stop to the terrors stalking Bond, the devastation will reach across all levels of the city and beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Johnston
• Release date: Apr 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310125942

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

Chapter 1

The ground cracked. It should not have cracked. Several months of a harsh, dry winter had left the earth packed, seemingly solid, and it should have remained so until the temperature had risen. The temperature had not risen.

The ground cracked from beneath. One moment the surface of the light brown soil was flat and smooth. The next moment a slight bulge rose from below. Then followed the cracking, initially a single, straight line that slowly ripped through the soil, growing in length but not yet width. Nearly two feet long, the black line splintered, a dozen smaller lines branching away from it, each crooked and narrow.

The bulge grew. The original line grew. The lesser cracks, each of them grew.

Then a minor eruption.

Crumbles of dirt shuddered and rolled away from the center of the implosion. The central crack itself grew further in length, then it widened. The lesser lines sprouted tendrils, spreading out along the surface of the ground.

The earth shuddered, then the bulge in the soil tumbled in upon itself, forming a ragged, shallow pit.

Pressing up through the dirt in the center of the pit appeared a singular stony, vaguely cylindrical object. It was crooked and cracked in multiple places. Its color was indistinct beneath the moonlight, but appeared to be of a pale shade, a dirty white or gray.

This entity crooked around like a snake’s head searching for a meal. Then more dirt erupted around the thing and it was joined by another, similar object. For a moment there were the two, then the pit widened yet again and a third crooked, cracked cylindrical object pressed up from beneath nature’s floor. A second later a fourth pressed up from the earth, shorter than the others but of a similar kind. Finally a fifth pale object pushed its way from beneath the soil to join the rest.

Five. Five fingers. Skeletal. Lacking flesh. Waving around, seeking. Each so dried and decimated it barely seemed able to remain as a whole. It was as if some unearthly paste held each together.

Up thrust the full hand, bony and wan as it sent another spray of dirt flying from the crust of earth. The hand itself was little better than the fingers, though some few strips of hardened sinew and crumpled cloth showed themselves. The hand spun around, reaching and clawing at its surroundings.

Another push and an arm up to the elbow appeared. The limb gave evidence of more stringy flesh, but none of it living, only hardened like that belonging to a corpse dried in the sun for a lengthy period. Dirt continued to roll away, and what had been a line in the earth grew more broad and stretched forth.

The hand twisted around and pressed itself upon the ground, pushing down as if trying to lift itself from below.

An explosion of hardened soil rained into the air and a dark figure blossomed within the night’s light, propping itself up with the sides of the small ditch it had created. There were now two claw-like, skeletal hands, and they flattened against the sides of the hole, pressing down.

The earth rumbled gently as the figure pulled itself further from its grave. The thing rolled to one side and fell on what remained of its stomach, little more than pale ribs, its fingers scrambling at the ground, finding purchase a couple of feet away in cold, dry grass. Those fingers pressed through the weeds and impaled themselves into the dirt, pulling its own weight, drawing itself from the pit.

Soon the skeletal monstrosity was crawling forth, now free of its subterranean confines. For a moment it perched upon its knees and elbows like a prey animal ready to spring, then it rolled over onto its side, then onto its back. It lay there, empty sockets for eyes staring up at the moon far above. It was like a man out of breath, pausing to catch its air.

After several minutes it sat up on its rear, the remains of a faded and torn robe slumping down from its shoulders. The thing found itself sitting next to its hole in a small grassy field surrounded by a high wall. Straight ahead was a structure of some kind. A building? The edifice appeared large enough for a small temple, or perhaps some king’s summer home, but the dark windows and the moon’s glow revealed nothing other than general size and shape.

Glancing around, the skull noted a faint, dancing light here and there atop the wall. The glow of flame, torches or perhaps lamps. There were no lights upon the wall itself, so the sources of luminescence were beyond, on the outside.

Every so often sounds would reach the inside of those walls. Distant voices carried, though no particular words could be discerned. The clatter of wooden wheels upon stones, the occasional punch of boots and shoes rapping upon a cobbled street, the moans of animals, the crackling of small fires, all these and more lingered upon the air and visited the skull that had no ears yet could hear.

A city. This was a city.

It was sure of that.

No, not it. He. He was sure of that. He was a male, after all, wasn’t he?

His memories remained vague, recalled as if seeing through a cheese cloth. This city, was it the New Salvino he had known hundreds of years earlier. No, not New Salvino. The city had a new name. What was it? In more recent times there had been soldiers, men and women in uniform, and they had told him the name of the city. When had that been? How many years? Centuries? Decades?

He could not remember. He had slept so much and so long, there was no way of knowing how much time had passed. But time had indeed passed. There was no wall on these grounds, not in his memories, but the presence of a large house, that felt familiar.

Bond.

His head jerked to one side at the memory. Bond. That had been the name of the city, the name provided to him by the soldiers. Those damned soldiers. Kicking at him, punching at him, using his own magic against him. They had beaten him down until he had been practically nothing but dust. Only the strength of his magic had brought him back together, made him whole again. That and the protective wards of the temple far below the surface, the temple that had stood above the ground thousands of years in the past and was now little more than a ruin, a few tunnels connecting with this city’s sewer system.

So long ago.

Or was it?

Not that it mattered. Time was of little concern for him. His goals were ever the same. What difference the name of a city? Centuries careened by, empires rose and fell, whole peoples flourished then withered into nothingness. One city? It was less than important.

But what of his own name? He had had a name once, hadn’t he?

The skeleton stood, its robe snaking down its spare frame to rustle against the ground. The skull twisted around, those empty eyes taking in the wall and building and the yard yet again.

His name? Yes, he had had a name. His parents had called him Sadhe Teth, and that name had risen to power and had sought more power, unimagined power, the power of the gods. Power over the gods.

He was Sadhe Teth, and his ambition had yet to be fulfilled. He still had need of ... of what?

Teth swung around, his sightless eyes searching the horizon along the top of the wall. He drew open the old pull of magic from deep within himself, from the well of power he had stored at the cost of thousands of lives. For a moment he noticed nothing, then his attention was brought to the east.

The building stood there. The house? He could smell the rot of violence upon the place. A small group of people had died there most atrociously, and fairly recently. What he sought, it had been there for a short period. Those people had died in part because of it. That much he could sense.

But his immediate goal, his want, it could no longer be found within that place. It had moved on.

His sockets returned to the top of the wall, searching, seeking. His mind reached out like a thousand fingers in all directions. He had to find ... something.

There. That was the new resting place. The ... what were they? Sticks? Spears? No. They were bones. Yes. Bones. The bones had been taken from the temple beneath his feet and transferred to a location somewhere else within this new city. He could sense the bones, their magic no longer shielded by the protections of the temple, their presence noticeable by any with the skill and the will to look for them.

He had to have those bones. It was a new age, a time to live again. A time to kill again. This time it would be different. This time he would take what he wanted. No one, not even gods, would stand in his way.

He strode toward the nearest gate in the wall.

***

A sigh pressed its way between Malin the Quill’s lips as he stood, pushing the stool back from his work table and lifting his arms to stretch. A yawn followed as the distant tolling of a church bell reminded him it was well past midnight. He should have been in bed hours earlier, but such was the life of a student assistant to a professor of the University of Ursia’s College of Magic. Malin only wished he spent less time doing menial work, such as grading the latest batch of exam papers piled on the table in front of him, and more time delving into the more mysterious aspects of magical research.

He sat again, lifting a cooling cup of tea to his mouth for a sip. His other hand reached over to a glowing crystal ensconced atop a brass candlestick. He gave the crystal a gentle tap, then returned the cup to its place to one side while the magical glow grew brighter, providing his weary eyes with much-needed light for continuing his night’s mission.

Halfway through grading the exams, he still had another hundred or so to go, all by morning before he was due to attend his first class of the day.

Another sigh escaped him as he picked up a quill from a bottle of red ink. Staring at the quill for a moment, he gave the simple tool a simple smile. He had been named for the item because from a young age he had shown a strength in reading and writing, unlike the other children of the village where he had grown up in northern West Ursia near the border with Caballerus. Nearly twenty years of age now, he had moved beyond his simple beginnings. Recalling the traveling hedge wizard who had first discovered Malin’s talents, the youth supposed he had the man to thank for keeping him from a life of toiling away in fields and barns.

Yet Malin wasn’t feeling very thankful tonight.

He returned the quill to its bottle and half turned on his stool. He stared down the length of the narrow room, work benches and tables lining both walls to create a narrow walkway that ended in a tall window looking out upon the night. His back now to the chamber’s only door, his eyes shifted as if in search for a particular item.

He looked for some minutes, then his gaze stopped upon a leather sack folded in on itself on top of the bench to the right of the window. What was within that sack represented the very mysterious nature of magic that Malin wanted to explore.

Standing, he crossed the room with delicate steps, as if someone in the hall outside the room might be listening. Only when he was standing over the folded leather did he stop, his hands lingering in the air over the bundle.

A grin formed on his lips. Yes, this was what continued to draw him to magical studies, despite the long, boring nights and the tedious classes taught by old men with old ideas.

His fingers brushed back a section of the sacking to reveal a pair of bones. The bones appeared human, somewhat long though cracked and jagged at their ends. Malin was no expert, but he guessed the bones were femurs, though maybe the shorter of the two was a humerus.

He blinked and stretched out with his thoughts. Even though only a student he still had enough training to detect the faint glow of magic coming from the bones.

His fingers neared the package, but he did not dare to touch. It was a mystery he yearned to uncover, but a mistake might find him kicked out of the university. He could not allow that to happen, not while he was still in training to be a wizard. Malin had grown too appreciative of life in the big city of Bond to want to return to the village of his parents, and he would do whatever it took to keep that from happening.

Even if he had to keep this particular mystery at a distance.

He flipped the sacking over the bones once more and returned to his seat. As a hand rested on the quill in the bottle, his mind scrambled, thinking back upon the bones within the leather confines.

The package had come to the college through a meandering route. Rumors had been rampant the year past about a mad wizard and his pet demon causing all kind of atrocities throughout the city. Malin had been too busy to follow the news, but he had heard word of torture and rape. Apparently the madness had even stretched outside of Bond into one of the outlaying villages. A contingent of the city guard had been sent forth and had apparently dealt with the situation, the bag of bones being one of the few items left from the now-dead mad wizard. Another rumor was that the wizard had dug up the bones from someplace within the city, perhaps from an ancient temple hidden beneath the ground. Somehow or other a local healer, a minor mage who was not even a graduate of the university, had been handed the package of bones, and after some study had handed them over to the college for examination.

Malin the Quill had no idea if any of this was true. His professors supposedly knew the truth, or some version of it, but had not deigned to pass that information along to a lowly student.

He glanced down the length of the room once more to the leather sack, wishing he could crack this secret. To whom did the bones belong? They appeared human and were obviously ancient, nearly stone in their hardness. If they had been buried in some underground temple, a temple to whom? Some ancient god? An early temple to Ashal?

Many questions. Too many. And Malin would never be allowed to answer them because he was only a student.

Maybe one more look wouldn’t hurt. Who knew, perhaps he could stumble upon a secret or two? Perhaps he might notice something about the bones that no one else had? If that were to happen, he would be the hero of the college, and then maybe he could spend his time with things more interesting than doing professors’ work for them.

He set down his quill and stood, facing the back of the room.

Skritch.

Malin stopped. What had been that sound? It had been slight, barely audible.

He looked up and down the length of the room. Nothing untoward presented itself.

Shrugging, the young mage took a step toward the leather package.

Skritch. Skritch.

He stopped again, and turned around. The noise had come from the front of the room, somewhere near the door. It had sounded like something scratching, like maybe a cat or mouse at a window. Or at the door.

Is someone there? he asked.

He didn’t expect an answer. At this hour there were rarely any students or professors moving about the college’s main building. Every once in a while a steward or custodian might be about, possibly even another assistant, but that was rare enough. But the scratching noises he had heard hadn’t sounded like a person trying to knock at a door. The thought of a cat returned to him, and he wondered if some mage’s familiar was running loose, or perhaps if there were rats within the building.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Skritch.

And promptly closed it.

Thoughts of the horrendous events surrounding the bones intruded upon his mind once more and froze him in place, but then he gave a soft laugh. He was being silly. The university was a safe place. Nothing bad ever happened on the grounds, other than maybe the occasional drunken prank.

Was that it? A prank? Some under grads trying to frighten the late-working assistant?

Well, he could play at that game himself. He might be a student, but he had some skills and training. Magic was his tool, after all, and if anyone was hiding on the other side of the door he would be able to find out without opening the door itself.

He muttered a few ancient words, words which would allow him to ascertain if anyone living was on the other side of the closed portal.

When nothing appeared to his magicked senses, his head jerked back in surprise.

Skritch.

There it was again.

Malin pondered the situation. Okay, no one was out there, of that he could be sure. But something was making that noise. Had someone hung an item on the other side of the door, something that could make sound? Or had one of the mechanician students put together a little toy that made that scratching on the door?

Fear was being replaced with anger. Someone was trying to make a fool of Malin the Quill, that much he was sure. He would show them. Whatever he found outside that door, he would blast it into a million pieces. The thought made him grin again, thinking about the sight of some apprentice tinkerer’s downturned face over his or her eradicated knickknack.

Malin tromped across the room, ready to cast a spell at whatever lay beyond the door.

His left hand grasped the door knob, twisted and pulled.

A wall of blackness greeted him.

He took a step back. The outer hall was always dark at night, but this was beyond mere darkness. It was as if a wall of ink confronted him.

After a moment, the surprise melted away. Obviously the wall of black was magic, a relatively simple spell Malin could perform himself, or he could do away with it.

He opened his mouth to do just that.

A skeletal arm shot forth from the darkness, grasping the student by the throat. The Quill fought back, slapping against the pale, cracked limb, but all he managed to do was knock away bits of dirt layered upon the bones.

Malin found himself struggling to breathe, his throat tight, his vision going blurry. He tried to kick away from the door with his feet, but that hand at his neck held firm as if made of stone.

A visage loomed from the darkness, a face without flesh. Black orbs for eyes stared out of a skull into the student’s face.

"The bones are here, yes?" hissed a crackling voice.

Malin could not answer. He tried to flail again, but his arms were weak, his legs tired. His fear had given away to a drowsiness, which if he had been in his right mind he would have recognized as magical in nature. His eyes fluttered, yet he fought back, remaining conscious just barely.

The skeletal figure pushed its way into the room, holding the student up by the neck. The door closed of its own accord as the tall form robed in rags glanced about the chamber. Its sockets came to rest on the bag of bones.

It was impossible to tell, but Malin thought he saw a grin form among the thin layers of remaining skin stretched across the skull’s lips.

"Yes, you have the bones, the unearthly thing said, answering its own question. Then its empty eyes turned upon the hanging youth. And you have something else almost as important to me. You have your body."

A skeletal hand rose toward Malin’s face.

Chapter 2

Not the most religious of individuals, Frex Nodana still found herself praying at least once nearly every day, usually early in the morning. It was silly really, a notion that had stuck with her since childhood. She did not ask Ashal for anything. She merely offered her thanks. Thanks for warm toes. When she thought about it, she would giggle, remembering how she had prayed for warm toes when she was a little girl. She had called them toasty toes. Now older, near thirty and much more affluent, she still prayed in thanks for warm toes. Being a child of the lowliest section of Bond, the region called the Swamps for its likelihood in flooding during the rainy season, she had grown up often without warmth. For some reason her tiny little toes had always represented that warmth or the lack of. She chilled first in that portion of her body, there at the ends of her feet. Waking with warm toes wrapped in a blanket, that was a luxury she had rarely known during her youngest days, but now it was a common occurrence every morning.

Below closed lids, she allowed a smile to form on her lips.

Thoughts of warm toes reminded her of the warm spot in the bed next to her. One of her hands snaked over, but she felt nothing. The place was still warm and held Kron’s shape, but he was not laying there where he had been the night before.

Her eyes creaked open. She stared at his back revealed by the morning sun shifting through the windows of her apartment.

He sat on the edge of the bed to the left of her warm toes, his pale, muscled back presenting itself, his dark head dipped as if staring at something in his lap. Nodana’s eyes followed the lines of his muscles, surprised yet again that a man of such misadventures did not find himself layered in scars. She supposed it paid to be friends with one of the most powerful healers in the city.

Yet the lack of physical scars did not mean there were no emotional ones. Kron Darkbow was a good man, Nodana told herself, and he was a good lover. A delicious lover. Still, though he gave all of his body into their lovemaking, there was a part of him never present, always ... elsewhere. She had tried to reach through to him, but there was a wall around the man’s core. He rarely spoke of his past, though she knew some of it from mutual acquaintances and the little things he had let slip here and there. His parents murdered before him when he was a boy, he grew up among the border towns of the Prisonlands, raised by an uncle who had been a warden. After his uncle’s passing, Kron had given up being a border warden himself and had returned to the city of his birth to find vengeance for his slain kin. The details were lost upon Nodana, but apparently had involved Kron fleeing far to the north to the land of Kobalos, along with his healer companion Randall Tendbones, both running from the notorious Belgad the Liar. Whatever had transpired there, no one was telling, though Kron and Randall had returned to Bond while Belgad had remained, somehow crowned king of Kobalos.

Little of it made sense. It was like something from one of the great, old sagas.

Of more recent events in Kron’s life, Nodana was well aware. She had been a part of them. There had been the riots of the year before, when Kron had become an officer with the city guard, followed by a struggle among the city’s various guilds for new leadership. During that time Frex had managed to rise to chief of the new mages guild. Following those events, there had been the rampage of a mad wizard and his pet demon. Kron had hunted down the deadly pair, and upon returning to Bond had fallen into a relationship with Nodana.

It was as if he had something to burn away, as if he needed some kind of release. In this case a sexual release, one which Frex most appreciated. Perhaps his past or his soul troubled him. Never a shaken man, a broken man, there were still at times a lifelessness behind those eyes, as if he was not always there.

She felt that deadness inside herself while watching the gentle rise and fall of his back, the breaths escaping and flowing into his lungs. She sometimes tried to pry from him his thoughts, his emotions. He would freely answer her questions, but rarely did he go into any depth.

A gentle scraping sound came to her ears from him. What was he doing?

I know you’re awake, he said, standing to reveal a sheet wrapped around his hips.

He took several steps forward and turned, sitting in a cushioned chair in a corner. In his hands was a sizable book, old and bound in tattered leather. Not once did he look up, his eyes remaining locked on the pages before him. He did not even spare a glance to his sword, the lengthy scabbarded weapon leaning against the back of the chair

You’ve been reading a lot lately, she said.

He gestured toward the wall behind him where shelves housed row upon row of books she had collected over the years. My formal education is lacking. It is time I amend that.

We’ve never talked much about your education, she said.

Kron placed a finger on a page, then looked up. Little proper schooling. My youngest days were spent on the roads with my parents, both of them traveling merchants. We ventured to a lot of different lands, and I picked up quite a bit, but most of my basic schooling came from marms in the Prisonlands.

Yet I know you to speak and read several languages quite well, she said, and you seem well acquainted with alchemy, philosophy, even magic, which is odd for a non-practitioner.

He gave a grin, but it was not filled with warmth. One learns much growing up around the Lands. Every year there are more men from far lands arriving to work as wardens. It is part of the original treaty. With them they bring much knowledge, practical knowledge. Unfortunately, more than a little of what I learned is not found on the written page. For instance, my understandings of ancient history and military tactics are quite amiss.

She raised a thin arm and pointed at him. What are you reading now?

He hefted the heavy tome with one hand as if to show it to her. A history of the Brimming Horde. Written nearly seven hundred years ago.

How is it?

The writer lacks grace.

Nodana grinned, thinking of Kron as a critic.

He snapped the book closed and held it up. But I think it time I put aside my reading material for now. We need to be going.

She grinned and sat up in bed, pulling a quilt around her. Is there any hurry?

It is only a formality, but I want it finished. He stood and placed the book on a shelf. Turning away from her toward the exit, he paused as the cover encircling his waist slipped and dropped to the floor. He bent and reached for the sheet, then stood once more, wrapping the cover around him. Get ready. I’ll find us some breakfast and hail a cabriolet.

She couldn’t help but stare at his solid frame hinted at by the folds of his covering. "Are you sure we couldn’t spare a few more minutes?"

***

To the casual eye, not much looked different about the place. Kilchus could admit this, though he did not have the casual eye, and until five years earlier had been quite familiar with the mansion or fortress, call it what one would. Standing at the corner across the street, he took in the high stone wall which surrounded the grounds, the closed double gate of black iron, the path of crushed rocks which rose gradually up a hill to a circular drive in front of the main building, the mansion proper.

All of this was familiar, though perhaps a little age showed here and there.

Stomping his feet and pulling closer his wool cloak, the swordsman breathed out warm air that formed into mist in the early morning cold. There were few people out yet on the streets of the Swamps, which was fine with him. He had no wish to draw undue attention, and standing in a casual manner on a street corner was not likely to draw much attention, even when across the road from the estate that had once belonged to the famed underworld figure of Belgad the Liar.

Kilchus blinked. Upon second thought, yes, much had changed. There were no longer guards stationed at the gate. For that matter, there were no guards strolling the grounds nor camped out near the mansion’s main entrance. Belgad would never have allowed such laxity in security. Kilchus knew. He had once been chief of the big man’s security forces.

At least the grounds had been kept well. What patches of grass could be seen through pockmarks in the snow showed signs of having been cut before cold weather had arrived. The few shrubs near the front of the building appeared in a condition pleasing to the eye.

Someone was in charge. It just wasn’t Belgad.

So, it seemed the rumors were true, or at least some of them.

The only way to find out would be to knock.

He stamped his feet again, looked both ways across the road for any oncoming horses or carriages as well as to make sure no one was paying too close attention to him, then trotted across to the black gates.

He pushed.

Not even locked.

Which caused him to shake his head in disbelief.

Once through, he closed the entrance behind him and made his way up the gravel path someone had been so kind to shovel either the night before or earlier that morning.

As Kilchus tromped his way up the hill, he glanced around, expecting at any moment a hidden guard to spring out of the bushes or to appear at the house entrance. Yet nothing happened. He could but shake his head again.

At the top of the hill he paused in the circular driveway, giving anyone inside plenty of time to see him. He didn’t want to surprise any sentries napping on the other side of a window. Not a curtain moved. No alarm went up. No one presented themselves. If not for the landscaping, the fresh curtains, and the shoveling job, Kilchus might have believed the place was empty, maybe even abandoned.

But that didn’t appear to be the case, at least according to the evidence presented to his eyes. That and the fact the few people he had seen on the streets had steered clear of the place. Someone was here. But who?

He sighed out another warm breath and allowed his cloak to fall open as he stepped up to the front door. The sword and dagger on his belt would be revealed to anyone answering, but hopefully no one would be too excited upon seeing him. It wasn’t as if he was brandishing the weapons, after all. Besides, he needed answers, and as far as he knew there was no reason for him not to reveal his presence within the city. At least for now.

He lifted a gloved fist and gave three hard knocks on the door.

Lowering his hand, he waited.

For the longest time there was nothing. Then he thought he heard steps approaching from somewhere deeper within the house.

Kilchus kept waiting.

The sound of heavy bolts being drawn came to his ears, then the thick wooden door creaked open. Beyond was a young man in light leathers, a belt around his hips sporting two short swords.

The sight of the weapons brought a grin to Kilchus’s face. Two swords? Only a fool would dare carry two swords. The youth probably thought it made him look dangerous.

But he had to admit, the heavy gaze on the lad’s features at least gave the appearance of someone experienced with the blades. That could be but gruff performance, however.

What do you want? the young man asked.

Tch. How confrontational. Kilchus grinned, showing teeth. He meant it to look disturbing, dangerous. Do you treat all guests this way?

Only strangers wearing weapons, the youth said, placing a hand on the pommel of one of his weapons.

Kilchus’s grin grew wider. Then he blinked upon a sense of vague recollection. Don’t I know you?

The young man’s eyes narrowed. I don’t think so. We’ve never ... wait. Yeah. I remember you. You used to be called the Sword.

Kilchus couldn’t help but chuckle. I’d almost forgotten. That’s a name I’ve not heard in some while.

Yeah, the youth went on. You were Belgad’s body guard or something back in the day.

The laughter and the smile vanished. I was a hell of a lot more than a body guard, Kilchus said.

The youth shrugged. That was then, this is now. If you came here looking for your old job, you’re out of luck. Belgad’s no longer here, and I’m head of security now.

A twinkle of the laughter returned to Kilchus’s eyes. You? You’re a boy. What would you know about guard work?

Enough. The other hand came up, both gripping the pommels of the youth’s swords.

The pair of short blades brought back a memory. I remember you now, Kilchus said. You were Kuthius’s kid, right?

"I’m not his kid, the young man said. He was my uncle."

"Was? What happened to him?"

For the first time, the youth lost his look of defiance. He glanced down at the ground, then back up, his lips fumbling for a moment before he spoke again. He’s in one of the healing towers. He had a ... seizure or something.

Or something? None of this made sense to Kilchus, but then he hadn’t come here to catch up on the past. Okay, well, you’re the head of security, so who is master here now? I guess with Belgad gone that puts Lalo the Finder in charge.

The young man nodded.

Kilchus grinned once more. Tell the bastard Kilchus the Sword is here to see him.

Can’t, the young man said. He isn’t home at the moment.

What about ole Stilp? I bet that slinker is still around.

He is with the master.

Where are they?

The youth’s eyes grew to slits again. If Master Lalo wanted everyone to know his constant whereabouts, he would have it posted on the front gate.

Kilchus couldn’t help but laugh. The kid showed backbone. All right. Is there anybody else I could see?

Just me, the youth said. I’m the only one here at the moment.

You mean to tell me the master of the house went out without his chief guard?

"He wasn’t expecting any trouble. You have been away, haven’t you? Things have changed since Belgad left."

A burst of laughter sprang from Kilchus’s lips. Changed? They surely have changed if a rich man can walk the streets of Bond without his guards.

They can and they do. Besides, Master Lalo is chief of the Guild of Guilds. No one would dare touch him.

Guild of Guilds? That was a new one. Five years gone and Kilchus barely recognized the street politics of his own city. What about Spider? Surely he’s still around.

Nope, the youth said. He’s head of the thieves guild.

Thieves guild? There hadn’t been a thieves guild in ages. Belgad never would tolerate such. Always said it was bad for business, stealing from everyday folks. So, there was a thieves guild, but the streets were safer? That hardly made sense.

Tell me this, Kilchus went on, since you’re head of security, what kind of guard jobs are available?

We don’t have any openings.

I don’t mean here. Anywhere in town. Have you heard of anything?

The kid shook his head. No private jobs that I know of, but the city is hiring on, putting together some kind of new squads.

Good to know. I’ll have to look into it.

Talk to Captain Gris if you’re interested.

Gris?

That’s the man. You know him?

He left the border wardens soon after I joined up.

In the Prisonlands?

It was ages ago, Kilchus said. We never worked together, just shared some of the same officers.

Well, check with him. If he knows you, that’ll probably work in your favor.

That’s what you think, came to Kilchus’s mind.

Anything else I can do for you, Master Sword? the young man asked. His voice wasn’t nearly as polite as the actual words.

Kilchus shook his head. I guess not. Tell Lalo that Kilchus came by to see him. He’ll want to catch up, I’m sure.

Where you staying?

Got a room at The Stone Pony.

The youth reached to close the door. I’ll let him know. He’ll send a runner if he wants to see you.

Hold on a second. Kilchus held up a delaying hand.

What is it?

Your name. I can’t remember it.

Now it was the young man who grinned. Eel. Eel Sidewinder.

And the door closed.

Kilchus stood there for a moment with a smirk on his face. Eel Sidewinder. Yeah, he remembered now. Little brat had run around behind his uncle, a thief and a thief in the making. Weird that. Eel’s uncle had been head of the thieves guild years and years ago, but now he was waylaid and Spider was in charge. Spider. The gray-headed fool had never seemed a take-charge kind of guy, though he had had his uses. And the kid? How old was he? Was he even twenty yet?

No sounds from beyond the door, so the kid hadn’t moved on. Thinking it best not to raise any suspicions, Kilchus turned and walked his way back down the pathway between the snow.

Anyway, he had learned what he had wanted, and a few other things as well. Now he just had to report.

Chapter 3

His high dark boots crunching into snow as he stepped down from the carriage, Kron pulled back the edges of his cloak to hold out several coins to the driver. Their transportation paid for, he lifted Nodana from the back of the small black vehicle and placed her on the ground next to him.

He towered above her as the pair of horses, driver and cab clunked away in the near-freezing slush of the city streets, but that was to be expected. Kron was a big man, his arms and chest and legs filled with muscle, though he was no oversized brute. And Frex, she was small, at a distance appearing as a child to those who did not know her.

Much about the pair did not match as he lifted his cloak and brought her within its confines for warmth. He wore black from his toes to his neck, even the buckles of his garb were painted dark. Frex Nodana sheathed herself in a gray cloak, but beneath she wore bright padded pantaloons, a tan jacket with slashed sleeves over a white blouse, and soft leather leggings that rose to her knees. From his hip hung a large sword, a matching dagger on the other side of the belt, and those who knew him would not have been surprised to learn there were half a dozen other small weapons and tools hidden away within the confines of his clothing. She, however, showed no outward signs of being armed. His face was flat, nearly impassive if not for a grimness to his eyes and lips. She was all smiles, open to the world.

Where they matched was in the blackness of their hair, his short nearly to the point of a military cut, hers a curt bob with bangs that ended barely over the tops of her ears.

They stood out from one another, but the old saying that opposites attract seemed to hold true for them.

Turning around, they faced a high stone wall that stretched to their left and right and encircled ten acres of land beyond. On the other side of the wall, the snow-draped grounds loped to a slight hill where sat a dark, three-storied structure encompassing a tower in the southwest corner. The Asylum. Once a place of madness and death, now it belonged to Kron Darkbow.

I never understood why you purchased the place, Nodana said over the street traffic behind them, the comings and goings of wagons and carriages and the trampings of the underslugs of society. The Asylum sat in the northwestern corner of the Swamps, the poorest and often most dangerous section of the city, and those rambling the streets were not always to be trusted. Still, most of the common folk seemed to steer clear of the Asylum’s walls.

Kron ignored Nodana’s remark for the moment. He stared from the main building on the Asylum grounds to a pair of much smaller structures on its left, a stable he had had built as well as a tool shed. Looking down and further to his left he saw the open black iron gates that led onto the grounds. Standing at attention on either side were a pair of armored figures, each holding halberds and wearing the bright orange tabards of the city guard, four guards in all.

What is this? Kron asked, nodding to the guards.

Nodana couldn’t help but smile. A little something special.

Squeezing her tighter beneath the folds of his cloak, he looked down into her features. What have you done?

Her grin grew wider. Just you wait and find out. Besides, you still have to answer my question.

You never asked a question.

About the Asylum?

He looked to the four guards once more, each of the men staring straight ahead into the street. Gris trained his people well.

You made a statement, but there was no question.

She sighed. Sometimes Kron could be overly literal. Okay. What about the Asylum? Why did you buy it in the first place?

He wasn’t sure he had a good answer. The place had been a wreck when he had purchased it, the main building badly damaged by flooding and a magic spell gone awry. Many had died there, perhaps hundreds. The final death count had never been confirmed. Kron felt responsible for those deaths. He had been a guard there at the time. He had been the one to open a door in the basement level, a door which unknown to him opened up onto the flooded North River. The waters had poured in, filling the basement. A young wizard had made use of magic in an attempt to thwart the flooding, but the situation had only exploded. Kron had been lucky to survive, one of the few who had.

Why had he bought the Asylum? Why had he spent all his money and the last year having the main building rebuilt?

Originally, it was to be a shrine to the fallen, he said to her as he nodded up at the building. The mad and the deadly alike died there, but so did a lot of good men, men who I worked beside.

Originally?

Yes. Now, I’m not so sure.

But you and Gris ...

Yes, we’ve found a use for it. I just hope the results are worthy.

He turned his chin away from her, looking once more up at the Asylum’s main structure. Not for the first time, he pondered on the similarities between the grounds here and those of his former foe, Belgad the Liar. Belgad’s mansion, now Lalo the Finder’s mansion, was laid out in a similar fashion to the Asylum grounds, towering walls and iron gate included, and the buildings were of similar size and shape. The two were also the only such grounds in all the Swamps, and two of the largest buildings other than the one healing tower and a number of the warehouses along the shores of the rivers.

A clattering of wood on stone and the snorting of a horse caused Kron and Frex to glance around. Approaching was another carriage, this one enclosed and driven by a middle-aged fellow stooped over in the front seat, much of his face hidden by the wool trim of his jacket’s hood pulled around his