Dark King Of The North (Book 3)

by Ty Johnston

  “He enjoys this, doesn’t he?” Markwood whispered.

  Randall smirked. “Loves it.”

  A few minutes later Kron slunk from around the other side of the building. His sword was now sheathed, but his bow had been drawn and an arrow strung.

  “I heard something,” Darkbow said as he approached the wizard and healer. “A rumbling beneath my feet.”

  “That’s not good,” Markwood said.

  Kron’s head spun toward the old mage. He was about to ask a question when he felt a tugging at his left boot.

  The man in black looked down.

  A skeletal hand reached up from a crack in the hard dirt, clutching at Kron’s leg. The archer jumped away, but the bones continued to flail.

  Then all three men heard a faint groaning beneath the dirt and their legs began to shake along with the ground.

  “On the horses!” Kron slipped away his weapons while hustling toward his steed.

  Randall asked no questions and turned to pull himself into his saddle. The animal whinnied and shied away, nearly dragging the healer along before he let go of the reins. Then Randall spotted what had spooked the beast.

  Through the dull haze that filled the Grave Lands, a line of skeletons in rusted armor and carrying black weapons marched upon them.

  Randall almost screamed. Then he remembered his old friend next to him and turned in Markwood’s direction.

  The ground erupted at the mage’s feet, skeletons clad in dry and decaying flesh tearing up from below to reach for the wizard. Markwood stood with his eyes closed and his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. His lips moved silently, chanting.

  Kron erupted as well, swinging his sword from side to side and chopping into hollow skulls with all his might. A good number of the slow-moving bone figures fell apart or were hacked aside, but more and more continued to pour in from the surrounding fog.

  Claw-like fingers reached for the three as the mass of skeletons closed in on them. Kron continued to swing his sword, taking out one or two of their dead foes at a time, while Randall could do no more than lean back against his horse with an ever-growing look of terror on his face; the healer would have helped, would have come to Kron’s aid, but he believed his little short sword would be of no service and most of his magical abilities could in no way harm the walking dead as far as he knew.

  A bright light sprang forth from the center of the three men, driving back the fog and bringing the dead soldiers to a halt wherever they stood or crawled.

  Kron and Randall turned to see the illumination flowing from one of Markwood’s outstretched hands, a tiny yellow flame in the wizard’s palm sending forth the great luminescence.

  “Get on your horses,” Markwood said barely above a whisper.

  Kron climbed aboard his animal, then saw Randall had not moved.

  “You’re coming with us,” the healer said to his old friend.

  “Get on your horse, lad,” Markwood said. “This light will not last forever.”

  Randall lifted the leather straps of his animal but showed no sign of climbing onto the beast. “We can’t leave you here.”

  “If I move, the flame will go out,” Markwood said. “Ride on and I will deal with these devils.”

  Randall couldn’t do it. He had only recently lost one friend, Adara Corvus, and he had just become reacquainted with Markwood. He wasn’t about to allow another friendship to slip away. Maslin meant too much to him to allow the wizard to go down fighting things that weren’t even alive, that served no purpose other than to kill.

  “Do it!” Markwood yelled.

  Randall let his horse’s reins fall from his hands.

  Kron dropped out of his saddle, and with sword still in hand he took a stand next to the young healer. “We go down fighting.”

  Markwood did not appear happy.

  “Close your eyes,” the wizard ordered as the ranks of the dead swayed on boney legs.

  Kron and Randall did as they were told.

  Markwood jabbed a hand at the gray sky, flinging the tiny flame to soar overhead.

  The spark shot upward, then exploded high over their heads, spreading forth golden arms that slowly began to curve back to the ground.

  The dead things around them continued to stand unmoving with several skulls hissing screeches in the remains of their throats. Seconds later, as the embers from the flame lazily drifted nearer the ground, the foggy mist began to dissipate as if burnt away.

  Still, the skeletons did not move, and Kron and Randall were beginning to believe their situation might be taking a turn for the better.

  Those thoughts vanished as a familiar booming noise filled the air atop the keep’s remaining tower. The monstrous black form of a war demon perched on the tower’s crenellation, a gigantic sword gripped in the creature’s metallic claws.

  The monster tossed back its helmeted head and roared, shaking the ground further.

  Kron slipped his sword into its sheath on his back and again took forth his bow and an arrow.

  Randall whispered several words of magical protection, casting shielding spells over himself and his companions.

  Markwood opened his eyes. He glared at the metal-plated form of the demon and pointed a crooked finger at it. “You should know better than to face me!” the old mage shouted. “I have already dealt with one of your kind!”

  The demon roared again and shook itself, its black armor rattling.

  At that the glow from Markwood’s flame spell started to die and the skeletal warriors began their advance anew.

  Kron launched an arrow into the nearest skeleton’s head, shattering the skull and dropping the dead thing.

  Randall lashed out with his sword and managed to slice away an arm of dried flesh, but his foe did not feel pain and its remaining arm raised a long, rusting ax over its head. The healer took the blow on a shoulder, but his protection spell held true and the ax glanced away without bringing harm.

  “Old man, we could use your aid!” Kron launched another arrow into a skull, busting it apart and sending down another skeleton before he let his bow fall to withdraw his heavy sword once more.

  The mage paid no attention to the straits of his companions, but continued to aim a finger at the dark form of the monster above.

  The war demon launched itself from the keep, its great black wings spreading out and catching the wind to allow the monster to drift nearer the ground.

  “Now I have you.” Markwood changed his pointing hand into a tight fist.

  A look of surprise dawned on the demon’s face as its wings buckled and retracted. The monster was no longer gliding but plummeting. It crashed to the ground with another roar and a disruption of dirt, spraying nearby skeletons with soil.

  Kron and Randall were busy waving their swords frantically from side to side. Fortunately for them their opponents were slow on the attack and made for easy targets. But the skeletons’ strength was in their numbers, and more and more continued to pull themselves from the ground, clawing or limping their way toward the three men.

  “Maslin!” Randall yelled as he was grabbed by cold fingers from two sides, a duo of the walking dead grasping him and wrapping their arms around him. The undead teeth chattered, snapping for the healer’s throat.

  Kron spun toward Randall but saw there were too many of the dead things between himself and the healer. Screaming at the futility of saving his friend, Kron chopped his heavy blade through a rib cage, turning another beast into a pile of bones

  “Enough!” Markwood pulled his fist in to his chest while raising his other hand to the sky. Another miniature flame rocketed from his extended arm and burst above the melee, glowing sparks of yellow falling around them to the ground.

  This time the affect of the wizard’s spell was more lethal to their skeletal foes. One by one the dead things collapsed, their bones rattling apart to cover the earth and dead grass of the valley.

  Now the three turned their attention on the war demon. The creature
was kneeling near the keep’s remains, its wings pulled in tight behind it and its arms hugging its body as if it were bound by an invisible chain. The monster did not move other than a shivering of its body, and it glared with scarlet glowing eyes at the wizard who had seized it.

  “Now we see who we have.” The old wizard approached the demon, stopping just out of its reach. “Who are you?” Markwood asked as Randall and Kron stared over his shoulders at the monster.

  “Why should I answer to you?” the thing hissed.

  Markwood jerked his fist to one side. The demon’s upper body was tugged by an invisible force that apparently caused it anguish as its teeth ground together and its face appeared strained.

  “I do not enjoy spreading pain,” Markwood told the demon, “but you are a creature of hell. I have no qualms about causing you to suffer the same as you have done to others.”

  The wizard lowered his hand then but kept it balled into a fist. The demon’s body went straight again as if a giant rope tugging on it had been released.

  “What is your name?” Markwood asked.

  “I am called Ybalik,” the monster said with gritted teeth and glowering eyes.

  “You are the general of Verkain’s war demons?” Randall said.

  The creature nodded.

  “Verkain called off the search for his son,” Markwood said. “Why are you here?”

  The demon hesitated to answer, as if fearing to give a response, but its black lips began moving again as soon as the wizard raised his fist. “I am here of my own accord. The sooner Prince Kerwin is returned to his father, the sooner I am released from Lord Verkain’s service.”

  “Rather irresponsible of you to attack on your own,” Markwood said. “I suppose Lord Verkain will not be pleased once he discovers your impudence.”

  The demon stared with hate.

  “Can he tell us about any surviving rebels?” Kron asked.

  Markwood looked to Ybalik, his gaze seeking an answer.

  “Why should I provide my enemy information?” the demon asked.

  “Because if you do not, I will twist my hand further and disembowel you where you kneel,” Markwood stated without malice. “And I would think such a procedure would be quite painful, especially for a creature that cannot die.”

  Ybalik’s response was a low growl.

  The old wizard tightened his fist and turned the hand outward.

  The war demon screamed and arched its back. White smoke rose from its armor.

  After a few seconds, Markwood turned his hand palm down again and the demon hunched forward as if weakened, its bulky head hanging before its chest.

  “The rebels,” Markwood said. “Speak or know anguish.”

  Ybalik’s snarling face slowly raised to glare at the wizard. “A few escaped to Dartague or Jorsica, but most were hunted down and slain.”

  “What of Verkain?” Kron asked. “Where is he?”

  Ybalik spat blood into the dust before him and gritted his teeth all the harder as if trying to break the invisible bonds placed upon him. Still, the monster gave an answer. “He is in his keep in Mogus Potere. He awaits the prince.”

  “Very well, Lord Ybalik,” Markwood said, “you have been helpful to my companions and myself, thus I release you from your ensorcellment.”

  The old wizard opened his hand.

  “Are you insane?” Kron shouted at the mage.

  The demon’s fangs showed in its evil smile as it stretched its mighty wings and heavy arms.

  Markwood snapped his fingers and a sudden look of confusion came over the monster’s face.

  “What have you done?” Ybalik asked. “I cannot see. I cannot see!”

  “And you will not until you return to your home.” The mage snapped his fingers again.

  There was a disruption of dark green smoke at the demon’s feet, and the creature began to howl as the smoke began to work ups its body like a climbing snake.

  “I order you to hell.” Markwood pointed a finger at Ybalik.

  The demon continued to scream as it shook its head, wings and arms from side to side. Then another unseen explosion boomed and the monster vanished along with the smoke.

  Chapter Four

  Beneath the heavy limbs of trees, Belgad marched away from the others and approached Adara, a pewter plate in his hands.

  “How gracious.” She reached out with her tied wrists to grasp the offering.

  Belgad knelt next to the woman sitting on the ground and tugged at the cords around her ankles.

  “Think I’m going somewhere?” she asked before stuffing a small biscuit into her mouth.

  “Taking precautions.” He sat next to her.

  Adara spat, sending the chunk of biscuit flying back toward the others. “Tell Karitha she can’t cook.”

  “My apologies for the lack of service.”

  Adara darted a look at the man. “Don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t treat me with sympathy. I know what you’re planning.”

  “What am I planning?” he asked.

  “You’re being kind to me in hopes I will talk.”

  Belgad glanced back at the others, watched his soldiers help Fortisquo and Karitha clean up camp, then turned back to Adara. “I have to keep my wits about me or Fortisquo and the wizard will flay you alive.”

  “You’re such a noble character.”

  Belgad grinned. “I am a knight of the Western Church.”

  “A lot of good that does the church,” Adara said. “In the East—”

  “The Eastern Church had its chance with me,” Belgad said. “They could have strung me up. Instead, they tossed me into the Prisonlands.”

  “You were an exile?”

  “If I were thirty, maybe twenty years younger, I would have killed those wardens the other day,” Belgad said, “but as is, they likely thawed in a few hours, none the worse for wear.”

  “Your generosity amazes me,” Adara said, the sarcasm strong in her voice.

  Belgad chuckled. “My reputation goes before me like a dog on the hunt, but I am not the man I once was.”

  “You just want me to tell you where Randall and Kron are.”

  “No,” Belgad said with a shake of his head. “Outside of turning you over to Fortisquo for torture, I don’t think you would tell me. I have other uses for you.”

  Adara stared at him in silence.

  “Randall likely won’t hand himself over to his father,” Belgad said, “at least not without a fight from Darkbow.”

  “I’m to be bait.” Adara’s eyes grew wide from the knowledge.

  “Verkain will use you to lure his son to him. Darkbow will follow like the protective hound he is, and then I will have them both.”

  “Why do you want Randall?” Adara asked. “He’s never hurt anyone!”

  “He’s merely a bargaining tool. There are no formal ties between West Ursia and Kobalos. I seek trading privileges.”

  “Have you been to Kobalos?” Adara asked. “I passed through it once years ago. There’s nothing there but soldiers and slaves!”

  “There are diamonds,” Belgad said, “and while slavery is illegal in the West, there is a healthy trade in the East and south. A trade alliance with Verkain could profit me much.”

  “And here I thought you traveled all this way from Bond just to kill Kron.”

  Belgad nodded. “I did. The trading rights are extra incentive. Otherwise I would have turned home after we lost you north of Wester’s Edge.”

  Adara dropped the pewter plate she had been holding and stared at it as if it told her future.

  “I won’t allow Fortisquo or Karitha to harm you,” Belgad said.

  “A lot of good that will do me since you’re giving me to Verkain.”

  “He will use you to capture Randall, then he will let you go.”

  “You think so? I don’t.”

  Belgad stood. “Regardless, your fate lies in Mogus Potere. If you continue to behave, I might pu
t in a word with Verkain, to save you.”

  “For what?” Adara asked. “To be your slave.”

  “I don’t own slaves,” Belgad said. “It’s disgusting, owning another.”

  Adara shook her head. “You don’t see what’s going on around you, do you?”

  Belgad stared at her.

  “Exiles were given weapons! Don’t you know from those weapons they came?”

  The barbarian shook his head.

  “It had to be Verkain or the East,” Adara said. “Either way, it spells troubled times ahead. This is bigger than me and you and Kron and Randall. Something is going on in Mogus Potere. Haven’t you asked yourself why Verkain wants to kill his own son?”

  “There was a rebellion a few years ago,” Belgad said. “Randall took part in it against his father.”

  “You simple, narrow-minded man.”

  Belgad snarled.

  “Verkain is insane. He thinks it’s the end of the world,” she said. “He believes by killing Randall he fulfills Ashal’s prophecy of the end of times. He thinks he’s the Dark King of the North, come to bring suffering to the world”

  Belgad blinked.

  “Are you starting to understand?” Adara asked. “Killing Randall is just the beginning. With the Prisonlands in revolt, the Eastern pontiff has an excuse to invade, which will only draw in the West.”

  “It would be the last war all over again.”

  “That’s right,” Adara said. “The pope’s mighty army against the West’s magic. I don’t know what Verkain has planned, but I can guess.”

  “He will sweep in after a few years, after both nations have been weakened to the point of instability,” Belgad said. “It’s what I would do.”

  “You shouldn’t be fighting against Kron and Randall,” Adara said. “You should be helping them. Even if Verkain fails, the death and destruction he will unleash will —”

  “It will bring chaos unimagined,” Belgad interrupted. “It will be the end of times, or as bad as. In my own people’s stories, the king from the north will be triumphant.”