“Well, since Belgad was mentioned,” Wyck gave Lucius an irritated look, “I heard some news this morning outside the healing tower in the Swamps.”
“Go on,” Lucius said as they left the bridge behind and followed a curve between rows of brick buildings that led to Beggars Row.
“There’s going to be a street war.”
“Who would be brave enough to take on Belgad?”
“Don’t know,” Wyck said, struggling to keep up with his fast-walking companion, “but it sounds nasty. One of Belgad’s informers was roughed up and a few of his soldiers killed. They say there’s sure to be blood in the streets, but I don’t know. There hasn’t been a street war since I was little.”
“Is it a guild taking on Belgad?”
“I said I don’t know.” Wyck shrugged. “I’m not even sure Belgad knows. But it’s got to be somebody powerful if they think they can bring Belgad down. Even the city guard won’t touch him.”
“That’s only because of his considerable political might.”
“Yeah, why doesn’t Belgad just run for Chief Councilor or something? I bet he’d win.”
“He can’t. He’s nobility technically, even if it is only a knighthood.”
“That's how he got out of the Prisonlands!”
“Yes.” Lucius nodded agreement. Under terms of the peace treaty signed between East and West Ursia after the war, it was unlawful to exile a noble to the Prisonlands, which was how Belgad had escaped his exile. The Western Church, the only power in Western Ursia with the ability to knight a commoner, had been in dire need of funds. Belgad had provided those funds, and he had been given a knighthood and property within West Ursia. He was the only man to have left the Prisonlands still alive. Belgad’s story had riled the border wardens of the time, Lucius had been told by his late uncle, but rules were rules, and there was little the wardens could do.
“Can’t be a guild that’s trying to take over the streets,” Wyck went on as they continued to walk. “Belgad already controls all of them.”
“What about an assassin’s guild, or thieves’ guild?” Lucius asked. He was curious on this point. Bond was one of the largest cities in the known world, and one of the most free. Thieves’ guilds were known to operate publicly in some towns, as occasionally were gatherings of assassins, but Lucius had not seen signs of such since he had returned to his home city.
“Belgad wiped them out years ago. I think he just wanted to control everything himself.”
“Any other news?”
“There was a fire the other night.” Once more the youth was forced to jog to stay apace of his friend. “A wizard’s house burnt down up on Mages Way. And this wizard worked for Belgad, too. That’s why word on the street is there might be another street war. Something’s going on.”
“It sounds so.” Lucius halted.
Wyck quit his march and looked ahead to the tall, dark walls that were the Asylum. The place, gloomy and covered in dull vines, seemed to suck any cheer from the boy’s bones.
“We’re here.” Lucius drew forth another three coins.
The boy’s hand was already outstretched.
“You’ve done well.” Lucius dropped the coins into the lad's hand. “Keep your ears open and there’ll be more silver for you.”
Wyck’s fingers closed over the coins.
“Where can I find you?” Lucius straightened the floppy hat atop his head. “Not that I don’t trust you, but there may be a time when I’ll need your services before you’ll need my coins.”
Wyck's look was sheepish. “The Frog’s Bottom.”
Lucius blanched. The place was a den of prostitution in the west end of the Swamps.
“The madam lets me sleep in the basement in the winter,” Wyck said with a nervous grin, “but I rent one of the servants’ rooms when I’ve got the coin.”
***
Lucius’ interview for a guard’s position had been brief, a perfunctory questioning about his experience and background. He had been hired on the spot. Apparently the Asylum had a difficult time keeping help. Chief Guard Shaltros had told Lucius the mad stares of the inmates often wore at a man to the point he could no longer perform his duties without breaking into tears or pounding one of the inmates in the face with a club.
At the Asylum during the interview, Lucius had seen very little of the place. It set on ten acres, most of which was taken up by the building proper, a black fortress three stories tall with a tower in its southwest corner. The few windows were on the ground level and shuttered and barred. Adding to the brooding surroundings was a high wall around the grounds.
Lucius knocked at the front of the Asylum and watched as a wooden slat in the door slid aside to reveal a peephole.
“State your business.” It was a gruff voice from beyond the portal.
“Guard Lucius Tallerus reporting for duty.”
The slat banged closed and Lucius could hear the clankings of inner bolts being turned.
The door opened to reveal an old, stooped man dressed in the dark colors of an Asylum guard. “You’re supposed to come around back when you report for duty.”
Lucius stood there nonplussed. “My apologies. The chief guard did not inform me.”
The old man motioned for Lucius to move forward. “Don’t fret it this time. Besides, you’ll have to have a tour of the place before taking over for me at lunch.”
Lucius entered the Asylum for the second time and found himself in the small entrance apartment that was a ten-foot square cage of iron bands. He stared through the bars at the giant vault of the front room of the Asylum. The wall across from the cage rose to the ceiling and housed three levels of walkways with handrails. Behind the walkways were barred rooms by the dozens. To the new guard’s ear, each of those cells seemed filled with hatred, anger and insanity. The screams and hollers explained why few guards remained long in this place. It reminded Lucius of the Prisonlands. It reminded him of home.
“You’ll get used to it,” the old guard said as he bolted the entrance and removed a skeleton key from a pocket, “or you’ll join them in one of the solitary cells in the basement.” He chuckled while using the key to open the cage’s inner door.
Lucius and the old fellow exited the cage and entered the Asylum proper. Other guards, orderlies and healers in white robes rushed from one barred cell to another in attempts to calm or subdue one inmate or another.
Lucius could only stare at the chaos. “Is it always this bustling?”
“Not always.” The old man grinned, showing several teeth missing. “It’s morning feeding, and the nuts are well rested.”
The aged guard cackled as he motioned for Lucius to follow. “The jailing rooms is here,” he said, pointing at the three stories of cells, “but one of the healers will go over what you’re supposed to do there. Just don’t trust the healers too much.”
“Why is that?” Lucius followed the man down a stone hallway lit by torches.
“They’ll get you killed.” The old man plodded along. “They’re all about saving these nuts. Just let your club do your talking for you.”
The words were harsh, but made a certain sense to Lucius. In the Prisonlands,he had dealt with any number of dangerous men who were not mentally stable, and he had seen more than a few border wardens mutilated or killed because they had tried to deal in a logical fashion with such a prisoner.
“I didn’t get your name,” Lucius said as they turned to the right down another hallway.
“Vitman.” The old man stopped at the end of the hall before a heavy oak door covered in bands of iron. Using his skeleton key, he unlocked the door and grunted as he pushed it forward.
Lucius followed into another dark hallway.
The old man pointed ahead. “At the end of this hall is the back entrance for servants and the like. This is where you would come in every day. It’s locked, but just knock and announce yourself and somebody’ll let you in.”
Vitman led Lucius along another side hall, then
down a lengthy flight of stone steps. “I’ll show you the basement next. The most dangerous nuts are down here locked away in solitary. They’re tied up pretty well, but every once in a while one of them chews his way out of his bonds.”
As they reached the bottom of the steps, Lucius noticed a narrow black hallway to their right, but Vitman took a lit hall to their left.
“What is this place?” Lucius pointed at the dark side passage.
Vitman stopped in his tracks and turned to see what the younger fellow was asking about.
“That goes to the river shore.” Vitman pointed into the blackness. “Don’t worry, though. It’s locked up pretty tight. We use it to dispose of bodies from time to time. Most of these nutters don’t have family that wants anything to do with them, so when they pass on we dump them in the North River.”
Vitman turned away. “All right, this way to the worst of the nutters.”
Lucius walked behind the old man, his thoughts lingering on the tunnel to the river.
Chapter Seven
Randall felt at peace as he crossed the University of West Ursia’s verdant campus. He meandered along the main brick path, between rows of young trees and students bustling between one class to another.
He had spent six of the most fulfilling months of his life on the campus. It had been a time to learn and grow, and not only concerning his education. He had been a stranger to West Ursia when he had arrived and had been fortunate to be singled out by the head of the College of Magic. Maslin Markwood’s discovery of Randall had been no accident, though it had appeared so to the young healer at the time. Markwood had sensed a new magical entity within the city, and upon investigation had discovered Randall sleeping in an alley along Beggars Row. After an examination and interview period, Randall had been offered a student position within the college.
Tendbones smiled as he passed the brown stone building of the College of Military Science and spotted ahead the white columns that bordered the entrance to the College of Magic.
The healer had known his own power when he had first entered his studies, but Markwood had shown him his true potential during those six months. Normally a student would have had to attend the school at least two years before gaining a basic degree in magic, and an additional four years before becoming an adept within one of the multiple majors. For a while Randall had considered earning a degree in ensorclements, but he had known in his heart what he truly wanted. As the healing arts were already natural to him, he had felt his six months of study more than enough to prepare him for the outside world. Unfortunately he had not completed his degree in medicinal magics, but that was because several of the professors felt he had not had enough time to learn his studies proper, and the young healer was anxious to begin using his skills. Markwood had stood by Randall, and had found the young man employment at the healing tower in the Swamps. Since then, the healer had been indebted to the old wizard, and Markwood had proven to be more than a teacher. He had become a trusted friend, the only person who knew why Randall now called Bond home.
The smile on the young man's face did not lessen as he trotted up the marble steps to the college’s entrance. Once inside he twisted to his right in the main hall and proceeded up a staircase to the second floor.
Randall turned right along a narrower hall and proceeded until he came to a wide door on his left with the words “Markwood” engraved in its center. There was no doorknob, but that didn’t stop the healer.
With rolling eyes, Randall spoke the secret words taught to him by his former teacher. “All hail the mighty Markwood.”
The door swung inward on invisible hinges.
“Old man!” Randall called out as he stepped into the outer chamber. Paintings of famous wizards hung everywhere, covering the walls. A desk to the right of the entrance sat empty, as it always did when Randall visited. Markwood didn’t believe in having a secretary, especially when there were so many students willing to do chores for a stipend to help with their tuition.
“In here, Randall.” The voice came from behind the room’s other door. “Come in, as long as you are not carrying an open flame.”
This door did have a knob, and Randall used it before pushing through to the next room. Revealed was Markwood’s inner office, a small chamber of brick with three windows on the far wall. A large, dark desk was shoved into the back of the room beneath the windows while rows of shelves covered the other walls. Upon the shelves were thousands of books, manuscripts and scrolls stuffed together.
Markwood appeared the typical wizard, his gray hair lengthy and running into the beard flowing from his chin. His light purple robes were gathered around him as he sat with legs crossed in the center of the room. A floppy hat that came to a point rested on the ground next to one of the wizard’s knees.
On the floor in front of him had been inscribed in yellow chalk a circle with a five-pointed star drawn within. From the center of the star floated upward a tawny fog in the shape of a human head.
Markwood looked up at his visitor. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the floor on the other side of the chalk circle.
Randall squatted and stared at the fog. For a moment he thought he could see a pair of dull eyes staring out at him.
Markwood waved a hand at the vapor. “I’ll talk to you another time, father. I’ve company.”
The fog shook, appearing to nod, then sank into the center of the star. After a second it dissipated, breaking apart into mist.
The old wizard looked to his guest. “What can I do for you?”
“It concerns Belgad.”
Markwood’s eyes narrowed beneath bushy brows. “What of the man?”
“One of his people was burnt badly in a fire several nights ago.”
“Trelvigor.” Markwood spoke the name with distaste.
“I’m not sure how much I can help him, but he’ll likely live.”
“I wish no harm on any living man,” Markwood said with bitterness in his voice, “but believe me, that one was deserving. He is the worst breed of mage there is, feeding the fuel of the Eastern church’s hate.”
Randall frowned. “As a healer, I’m bound to help him.”
“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”
“Besides, Trelvigor is in no state to cause me harm The man can barely breathe.” Randall eased back so he was sitting on the floor. “And Belgad does not view me in a negative light. I have done a good bit of doctoring for him of late.”
“As long as that is all the use Belgad has for you, you should be safe.”
“My safety is the reason I am here.” The healer leaned back, his arms at an angle behind him, to rest on his hands. “Last night there was an attack upon Belgad’s men. Two were killed, one crippled and another suffered a wound. The injured one, Stilp, said the man who attacked them was dressed all in black and went by the name Kron Darkbow.”
Randall watched Markwood's eyes widen. “Does the name mean anything to you?”
“Not specifically, but ... you said this Darkbow was in black, and attacked Belgad’s men?”
“And he told Stilp he was declaring war against Belgad. It sounds like a personal vendetta.”
Markwood nodded agreement. “Belgad would have many enemies over the years. I take it it has crossed your mind this Darkbow character could be Kobalan.”
“It has,” Randall said with an anxious sigh, “which is why I am here. I don’t know what Kobalos would have against Belgad, unless it were something he did long ago. But even then, an agent of Verkain would likely choose a more direct approach.”
“You haven’t used the ring?” The wizard's look was one of concern.
“No.”
“Wise decision. Do you have it upon you?”
“Locked within my desk.”
“Good.”
“Do you think you can help?”
Markwood rested his chin in a hand. “I can make inquiries that should not draw too much attention, but this Darkbow is no wizard or magical creature.
If he were, I would have been aware of his presence within the city.”
Randall shrugged. “I can’t imagine why Verkain would send anyone against Belgad. It would make no sense. Belgad is no threat to Kobalos.”
Markwood’s gaze grew stern. “Belgad can be a threat to anyone under the right circumstances. Remember that.”
“I will, professor,” Randall said mockingly.
“I mean it, Randall.” The wizard was in no mood to joke about the Dartague. “If Belgad finds a way to profit from you, he will use you. The man has little regard for others. He might not be an out-and-out murderer, but the mentality is similar. Do not allow yourself to be used by this man.”
Randall did not know what to say. He did not trust Belgad, but had not considered the man an overt threat. He would take the wizard’s advice, however, and be on his guard.
Upon seeing the look of concern on his friend’s face, Markwood softened. “I apologize. I sound like your father.”
Randall chuckled. “Believe me, Maslin, you sound nothing like my father.”
A smile crossed the old wizard’s lips. “I suppose you are right, and let’s thank Ashal for that.”
“Yes, let’s do,” Randall said, using the edge of a heavy shelf to pull himself to standing. It was time to let the mage get to work.
Markwood also rose from the floor. “I will contact you in a day or two with whatever I discover.”
“Thank you again, Maslin.” Randall thrust out a hand.
The wizard pulled the younger man to him and hugged his shoulders. “Don’t get yourself into trouble, you hear me?”
Randall hugged the man in return. “It’s not like I’m rushing off to war, or returning to Kobalos,” he said with a lopsided grin.
“I suppose it isn’t,” Markwood said, easing the younger man back to look at him, “but you’ve been safe here for three years. I would like to see it stay that way.”
“I will be on my guard.” Randall turned to leave.
As the young healer exited, the wizard’s eyes upon him were full of concern.
Chapter Eight
A river at his back, Kron Darkbow knelt on the ledge of a warehouse rooftop as he stared at the city stretching below. For blocks were hundreds of smaller buildings, some with glowing windows and others remaining dark.