Dark King Of The North (Book 3)

by Ty Johnston

  Kron glanced down at his black attire. “I do strike a Kobalan flare, don’t I?”

  “But can you pass as Kobalan?” Randall asked. “Do you know the language?”

  “I learned several languages in the Prisonlands,” Kron said with a fluent Kobalan brogue.

  An unseen crackle in the air, like invisible lightning, sounded in front of them and caused Randall’s horse to stall. Kron looked up and pulled his steed to a stop in time to keep from running over an old man in long robes and a course traveling cloak, the hood pulled up to cover most of his lengthy, gray hair.

  “Maslin Markwood.” Randall smiled as he dismounted and approached the old friend.

  “Well met, my boy,” the mage said, taking Randall’s hand, shaking it firmly, then grasping the boy at the shoulders for a stout hug.

  Kron dropped from his horse and approached, holding the reins of his own steed and taking those of Randall’s.

  Markwood turned toward the man in black, hesitated a moment, then put out a hand.

  Kron too paused, then shook the hand, with a slight smile.

  Markwood returned the grin. “My apologies about that business in the Prisonlands,” he said. “ I don’t know everything that happened there, but I see the young lady is no longer with you.”

  Kron and Randall exchanged uneasy glances.

  “I saw her last riding with the border patrol in the Lands,” Markwood said.

  “You’re aware of what’s going on there?” Randall asked.

  “It’s brought me much concern, and has drawn the attention of more than a few of my associates,” the mage said.

  Kron raised an eyebrow. “Other wizards?”

  “Governments, too,” Markwood said. “The exiles receiving weapons is a serious matter, one that could have worldly consequences.”

  “Do you know where the weapons came from?” Kron asked.

  “I have suspicions,” Markwood said.

  “Who?” Kron asked.

  “I believe it is Lord Verkain,” Markwood said.

  Randall appeared stunned at the mention of his father.

  “He could be using the Prisonlands as a diversion,” Markwood said, “and more than a few of the exiles have been brought into his fold.”

  “But why?” Randall asked.

  “The prophecy,” Markwood said. “You’re drawing near to him, which is why his war demons have not pestered you in some time. He sees no reason to waste resources when you are coming of your own accord.”

  “He’s keeping the wardens and other nations focused on the Prisonlands while he draws together his army,” Kron conjectured.

  “Exactly right,” the wizard said. “He already has armies stationed near his capital.”

  Randall shook his head. “This can’t be. Not this soon. Kobalos isn’t that big of a country. Even with the East and West preoccupied, he couldn’t raise an army large enough to defeat either of them, let alone both.”

  “You yourself have said the man is insane,” Kron said. “He believes in this prophecy of the end of days, and how he’s the Dark King of the North.”

  “And the next step for him is to slay you.” Markwood glared at Randall.

  “We’re walking into the dragon’s mouth,” Randall said with a blank look.

  “Yes, you most certainly are.” Markwood grinned as he gripped the youth by a shoulder. “But that’s why I am here. To stay this time.”

  “It’s about time.” Kron smirked. “We could use a solid mage.”

  Markwood chuckled. “I’m little more than an old codger.”

  “What of other mages watching?” Randall asked. “Will they be of help?

  “There are few wizards in Bond with any real combat experience,” Markwood said, “and the political situation is delicate. No, they will only watch, unless the situation turns grim and the Chief Councilor orders them to intervene. I’m afraid I’m the best you’ve got.”

  “You will be more than enough,” Kron said.

  “I am relatively light and could ride with Randall if he has no qualms about it,” Markwood said, “but I could use a rest after transferring myself here from Bond. Or is it too early to break for food?”

  “Quite,” Kron said. “We’ve plenty of daylight left.”

  “I don’t think it would hurt to slow down for a while, would it?” Randall asked.

  Kron’s look said he disagreed, but he realized the issue was not worth arguing about. He shrugged.

  “It’s settled then.” Markwood removed a leather bag with a strap from inside his robes and opened the top flap to reveal a sizable cooked bird wrapped in long, green leaves and numerous bread rolls, steam still rising from them. “From Ezra’s shop in the bazaar,” the old wizard explained with a smile.

  “Thank Ashal for decent food,” Randall said, his mouth watering.

  Chapter Two

  That evening the three shared the best meal Randall and Kron had eaten in more than a month. During the night each man took a shift as watchman for their camp. It had been many years since the old wizard had traveled in secret with danger surrounding him, but he took to it like a tried-and-true adventurer. In the morning Markwood even had a breakfast of fried eggs awaiting his companions. From where the wizard had pulled the eggs and an iron skillet was a mystery, but Kron and Randall were not about to balk at such a meal. Markwood also offered to place protective wards over them, saving Randall from expending his own energy for such a spell.

  By the time the sun was above the tops of the treeline and the mountains far to the east, they were already on their way north through the gray, desolate land with Markwood and Randall sharing a steed, the old wizard riding behind the younger.

  The conversation of the morning quickly turned to their options.

  “We could try stealthing our way into Mogus Potere,” Kron suggested. “Surely you know of secret pathways and such, Randall.”

  “I do,” the healer said, “but we don’t know for sure if my father will be in the city.”

  “I could likely find Verkain and get us to him, but what then?” Markwood said. “He might attack immediately, calling down all his powers and whatever military forces he has available, and that would be the end of that. Either we would enter combat, and likely die, or we would have to flee. Either way, nothing would be accomplished.”

  “I could just go to him,” Randall said.

  Markwood and Kron glared at the young man.

  “It might sound insane,” Randall said, “but he’s not going to have me killed the second I’m found. He’ll want to do it himself.”

  “That’s out of the question,” Markwood said. “It would mean your death sentence, and Verkain is powerful enough to keep me at bay, at least for a while. Kron and I would not be able to protect you.”

  Randall glanced over his shoulder at the wizard. “If we go skulking around the countryside, sooner or later we’re going to be found any way.”

  “That’s true,” Markwood said, “but before we are in front of Verkain, we should have some sort of plan. Randall, we need to know your full intentions.”

  “I don’t know.” The healer appeared dejected. “I just want to end all this madness. I’m tired of my life being in jeopardy all the time, and I’m tired of fearing for those around me.”

  “Talking to your father will likely not bring about the results you seek,” Markwood said.

  “Are we suggesting some sort of parley with Verkain?” Kron looked as if he did not believe what he was hearing.

  “Not exactly,” Markwood answered, “or, at least, not unless we can do so from a position of strength.”

  “How could we do that?” Randall asked as they continued to ride along. “The rebellion was quashed three years ago.”

  “We could try finding any surviving rebels,” Markwood suggested. “They might be able to help us. At the least it could give us a foothold in Kobalos.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for them,” Randall said.

>   “Did your brother have a base, a headquarters of sorts, during the revolt?” Kron asked the healer.

  “There was an old keep in the Grave Lands,” Randall said. “That’s where we were stationed when my father attacked and killed Corvin.”

  “It might be worth a look.” Markwood’s face appeared hopeful.

  “How far are we from these Grave Lands?” Kron asked.

  “It’s about a day to the northwest,” Randall said.

  Kron steered his riding animal to the left. “Then that is where we shall begin.”

  ***

  Adara knelt, staring at the ground, one hand gripping her steed’s reins while the other hand rubbed across a hump of raised mud.

  “Frog!” the woman yelled over her shoulder.

  The bald border warden with the shaggy beard came running, halting behind her to stare over her shoulder. “What’ve you found, lass?”

  “Someone’s been through here,” she said, “and it’s not been one of us. Looks like soldiers with hobnailed boots and shod horses.”

  “How many?”

  “Six. Maybe seven.”

  “How long ago?”

  Adara stuck a finger into a hoof print. “Last hour or two.”

  Frog turned and waved the other wardens forward. The ten men in leathers, seeing they were beckoned, rode their horses out of the brush.

  “Could the pope’s troops already be here?” Adara asked.

  “Not this far in,” Frog said as one of the other men handed him the reins to his horse. “Even if we hadn’t run into them, the Captain would have warned us with the blowing of horns.”

  Adara stood, her eyes shifting to watch their surroundings.

  Frog climbed aboard his steed. “Most likely some exiles have gotten themselves some boots. We should get back to Captain Weaver. He’ll want to know about this.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t allow that,” a voice said.

  All heads turned to their left and spotted a tall, lanky fellow stepping out from behind a thick pine. A thin sword rested in his right hand, the blade aimed at Adara.

  “Fortisquo!” the woman shouted.

  “And friends,” another voice spoke.

  The wardens and Adara looked to their right. A gigantic man with a bald head moved from dark shade into the open, four burly men with swords behind him.

  “Formation!” Frog yelled.

  The wardens began to move their horses, but they suddenly halted, staring at white flecks trickling down from the sky.

  “I’ve brought along an old friend of yours, Adara,” Belgad the Liar said as Karitha slipped from a shadow and into view.

  “Magic!” Adara yelled to warn her companions.

  It was too late. The wardens were unmoving, a slender layer of ice having already formed over them. Frog sat fixed in his saddle, his sword held high but still.

  “You bastards!” Adara dropped her horse’s reins and jumped away from the animal, drawing her sword and dagger.

  “Fighting will only make this more sporting,” Fortisquo said as he moved toward the woman, his rapier still pointed at her.

  “No.” Belgad moved forward, nearly between the two rapirists. “She is not to be killed.”

  “She murdered my brother!” Karitha yelled.

  “Your brother killed himself!” Adara shot back.

  “Because you left him!” from Karitha.

  Adara paused, taking breaths slowly. “And whom do you think I left Jarnac for?”

  Karitha stared at the woman in silence.

  Adara’s sword twisted in her hand to be leveled on Fortisquo.

  The wizard turned her rage on the swordsman. “The man was a friend of yours!”

  “How was I to know?” Fortisquo said. “Your brother traded women like he was a slave master.”

  “But he was in love with her!” Karitha pointed at Adara.

  Belgad stepped into the middle of the argument. “This can be settled at a future time. We are here for Adara.”

  “She’s to blame for my brother’s death,” Karitha said, then pointed at Fortisquo, “as is he!”

  Belgad nodded. “And all of that can be dealt with later. We have what we came for.”

  “Who says I’m leaving with you?” Adara took a step back, shifting her weapons to point at the hulking Dartague.

  The big man smirked. “Be sensible.”

  “If you so much as come near me, I’ll run you through,” Adara said.

  Belgad looked to his wizard. “Karitha?”

  “Sleep.”

  Adara’s weapons slipped from her fingers as her eyes suddenly grew heavy. She stood as if in a daze for a moment, her vision glazed, then her eyes shut and she dropped to the ground.

  Belgad stood over the woman. “No harm comes to her,” he ordered. “We turn her over to Verkain. There is potential for profit here.”

  No one said a word.

  “Do I make myself clear?” Belgad eyed Fortisquo and Karitha.

  The swordsman and wizard shot each other dark glances, but they nodded.

  “What of the wardens, my lord?” one of Belgad’s men asked.

  Belgad glanced at the frozen soldiers. “Leave them. They may thaw eventually. Or not.”

  Chapter Three

  The day was long and cheerless with gray clouds blocking much of the sun. Kron kept his eyes sharp for signs of life in the forbidding land, but all he found were the tracks of a fox and an old wagon trail. For the first time in many years, the well-traveled Kron Darkbow was on unfamiliar ground, and it made him all the more edgy because it was Kobalos, a land known for its harshness in all manners.

  “What are the Grave Lands?” the man in black asked as he rode next to his two companions.

  “A battle was fought there long ago,” Randall explained, “and the bodies were left on the field. That’s why it’s called the Grave Lands. After a heavy rain you can still see the bones and armor in the mud.”

  Markwood’s eyes scanned the dismal ground around them. “Seems hardly worth fighting for.”

  “The coastline has some greenery.” Randall glanced about at what little gray grass could be seen. “It’s even pretty in the summer. And the hills north of here are known to be full of diamonds. It’s how my father keeps his economy going.”

  “Allow me a guess,” Kron said, “slave labor.”

  Randall nodded with a sorrowful look.

  They were quiet again as the sun began to go down, and soon they were setting up camp for the night. Two of the three went to sleep without talking further, the gray land surrounding them seeming to draw the life from them, while Kron took first watch.

  In the morning they had a quick breakfast, Markwood providing strips of bacon and hot biscuits with blueberry jam from some hidden source, and they were back on their way.

  Within a few hours they came to a series of squat hills that crossed their view from east to the west.

  “Inside lies the Grave Lands,” Randall spoke, the first words shared between the three since the day before.

  With Kron motioning for them to continue, they rode into the hills following an ancient trail.

  By noon they found themselves staring from on high into a dark valley below, a region even more desolate than that through which they had been riding. A dull mist hung over the vale though there were no obvious signs for a source of the moisture.

  “The Grave Lands,” Randall said, pointing down.

  Soon they were trotting along a dry ravine that ran from the short hills into the dank valley. Their line of sight quickly became limited by the fog, offering only a shallow view around their immediate vicinity.

  Still, they worked through the dead trees and odd, man-sized stones that stuck out of the earth every so often. Kron kept a solid watch on the ground for tracks, and he saw many, but they were old. He also noted a number of broken and cracked bones poking out of the gray soil as well as the occasional rusted plate or blade.

  They had been parading through t
he mist for some time when Maslin tapped Randall on the shoulder. “We are being watched.”

  Kron yanked on his horse’s reins, bringing the animal to a halt while he stood in the stirrups and scanned their limited view.

  Randall also pulled his animal to a stop, then twisted in his saddle to eye the mage behind him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Magic knows magic,” the old wizard replied. “You would have detected it yourself if you had been looking.”

  “Do you know from which direction?” Kron asked.

  Markwood pointed directly ahead.

  “Do you know who or what?” from Kron.

  The wizard shook his head, then pushed himself off the back of Randall’s horse. “I suggest we walk from here, to be ready for battle.”

  Kron traded a glance with Randall, then both men climbed out of their saddles. Kron made sure to hand his bridle strap to the healer, knowing Randall was no natural fighter and safest out of any confrontation. The youth took the reins and tied them to his own animal.

  The dark warrior drew his sword and stared at Markwood as if expecting further direction from the mage.

  “I only know it’s ahead of us,” the wizard said.

  “It’s hard to tell in this haze, but I believe the keep lies that direction.” Randall motioned a hand the way they were heading.

  Within a few minutes the healer was proven correct. The lone remaining tower of the squat stone building loomed over them suddenly out of the fog. There had been another tower once, but it had crumbled with time and its remains sat like a stone dwarf at the base of the structure’s eastern wall. A lowered iron portcullis partially blocked the keep’s main entrance, but much of it was rusted and a portion was bent back as if by a mighty force long ago.

  Kron’s eyes darted around the place. “Could what you sensed be coming from here?” he asked Markwood.

  The wizard nodded. “This is most definitely the place.”

  Kron extended a flat hand toward the other two, a sign to stay where they were, while he cautiously moved ahead with his sword leading the way. Within seconds the man in black disappeared into the fog around a corner of the ancient keep’s dark outer walls.