Dark King Of The North (Book 3)

by Ty Johnston

Kron closed his eyes. His head was swimming. He needed to calm himself. He tried to remember things he had been taught, secrets from some of the wardens in the Prisonlands, foreigners who had been more than glad to pass along hidden knowledge, sometimes magical knowledge, to a young boy who yearned for knowing. Something had to save him. But from what?

  Kron opened his eyes again.

  Standing in front of him were Marcus and Aurelia Tallerus, his parents. Grins were spread on their thin lips, beneath his father’s thick black mustache and his mother’s kind blue eyes.

  Movement to his left caused Kron to turn in that direction.

  There was Wyck, the twelve-year-old boy Kron had befriended in Bond. Wyck was running and skipping through the darkness, a sweet strawberry roll in one hand.

  Kron lifted a hand to wave at the boy, but found he could no longer move.

  Then his uncle Kuthius appeared before him, a sturdy fellow with lengthy brown and gray hair hanging down his back onto his buckskin shirt. Leather breeches, wolf-skin boots and a thick sword belt completed the uncle’s look, but he carried no weapon.

  “Kuthius?” Kron said. “You’re dead. I buried you myself near the Lands.”

  The eyes of Kuthius Tallerus were black orbs, with no pupils and no whites at the edges. Those eyes stared, glared, into the soul of Kron Darkbow until the man in black felt his whole self shiver.

  “I could not save you,” Kron said, “just as I could not save mother and father, nor poor Wyck. I could not stop Belgad and I could not stop your illness.”

  His uncle’s eyes narrowed, growing harsher in their stare.

  “I am in hell,” Kron said.

  A familiar voice spoke from some distance. “Magic is afoot.”

  Kron blinked.

  And found himself sitting with his legs crossed on a cold, hard floor.

  Markwood sat in front of him, a burning candle in the old man’s hands.

  Kron blinked again, not sure what was happening.

  “I thought I’d lost you there for a moment,” Markwood said with a smile.

  Kron stared about. He was in a small, dark room with walls of brick. Moldy hay was strewn about the floor. There was only one exit, a heavy iron door, and it was closed. “What has happened?”

  “We walked into one of Verkain’s defenses,” Markwood said. “He had cast a web of confusion on the room we entered.”

  “Where are we now?”

  “In a side chamber. I was almost caught up in the spell myself. I should have suspected such traps.”

  “But Verkain has not found us?” Kron asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” Markwood said. “The spell was probably laid some time ago.”

  “I saw my parents.” Kron shook his head to clear the vision of ghosts. “They’ve been dead fifteen years.”

  “It was the spell,” Markwood explained. “It makes you see things, and become lost. You would die from it eventually, slowly starving to death without realizing it.”

  “How long was I ensorcelled?”

  “Almost three days.”

  Kron jumped to his feet.

  “Calm yourself,” Markwood said.

  “Calm?” Kron said. “How can you remain calm? Randall might be dead already.”

  “I don’t think so,” Markwood said. “I would know.”

  “How?”

  “Magic.”

  “I thought you were wary of casting.”

  “I didn’t,” Markwood said. “Wizards can sense magic, and I sense two very powerful sources relatively close to us. It has to be Verkain and Randall.”

  The wizard held out a hand.

  Kron stared at a biscuit in the other’s palm. “What is this?”

  “Food,” Markwood said. “You have not eaten in three days.”

  The man in black eased back to the ground and took the offering. The bread was warm in his hands, yet he saw no signs of a fire other than the candle. He knew better than to ask questions.

  “I know you think it unsafe to cast a spell,” Kron said after eating, “but our situation warrants it. We need to find Randall.”

  “If I use anything other than the weakest of spells, Verkain will know I am here,” Markwood said. “He will be able to pinpoint our location. If he’s paying attention, he can likely find us just by detecting my presence. I have placed a ward of protection about us, but it is his city. He likely has more defenses.”

  “We can’t skulk underground forever,” Kron said, “and we’re no closer to saving Randall. We have to do something.”

  “I could try to contact the boy through a minor casting.”

  Kron frowned.

  “We should be safe as long as Verkain isn’t searching for me and isn’t paying too much attention to Randall,” the wizard said.

  “But we will have no way of knowing if the king has detected you,” Kron said.

  “The only other option is to get above ground,” Markwood said, “but I have yet to find an exit. And even then we have no easy way of finding Randall.”

  “If you can protect me from Verkain’s wards, I can find a way out of here.”

  “His spells are strong. It could take another three days to thwart them.”

  “There is another option,” Kron said, standing.

  “Yes?”

  “We could do both. You could contact Randall while I seek a way upstairs.”

  Markwood sighed. “You don’t like working with others, do you?”

  “I tend to operate best alone.”

  “Alright,” Markwood said with a sigh. “I will remain here. But first ...”

  The wizard said a few arcane words and pointed a finger at his companion.

  Kron’s head was suddenly outlined with a golden halo, but the luminescence faded quickly.

  “A tracing hex,” Markwood said. “That way I can find you.”

  Kron moved toward the door. “Find Randall first.” Then he was gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Sergeant Copen Knox had never wanted to be a jailer. He had wanted to be a general, leading armies to great victories, terrorizing and pillaging. But duty was duty. He had spent fifteen years in the Kobalan army and felt the military had prepared him for anything. The problem was that he had found marching around underground all day in Lord Verkain’s dungeons to be boring. Every so often Knox would beat a prisoner or have his way with a slave, but it relieved his anxiety for only a while. There were always more duties to perform, more men to order around and more prisoners to tend with. Verkain liked to have lots of prisoners, especially ones who screamed and carried on under torture.

  So, for the fourth time that day, Sergeant Knox tromped along the main hall of the central dungeon. As always, two black-garbed guards stomped along behind him, torches in the walls lighting their way.

  They passed locked doors, some with whimpering noises beyond and some silent, and eventually they came to the end of the hall where an open stairwell of black steps curved down to darkness.

  Knox paused and stared down the stairs. He did not like to think what went on down there; it was the deepest part of the dungeon, where only Verkain and Captain Lendo normally tred. Knox had only been down their twice before, and on both occasions he had had to bring a mop and bucket; Verkain didn’t leave much behind once he took a personal interest in a victim.

  Torchlight dancing on the wall caused the sergeant to shift his eyes. He thought he had seen a shadow move in the depths of the stairwell. Knox blinked, then shook his head. He had to be wrong. There was no one down there. A group of soldiers had been sent down several days earlier while searching for some rebels, but they had returned long ago. And Lord Verkain’s latest interests he kept locked away in his personal tower, or at least that’s what the rumors told.

  Another shadow played upon the wall and Knox tried to follow it with his eyes. Seeing nothing, he looked to his two guards. Neither of the men seemed out of place, each standing at attention.

  “Notice anything out of place?”
the sergeant asked.

  “No, sir,” each man said in unison.

  “Good.” Knox turned to march back the way they had come. “Lord Verkain is expecting special guests soon. I want you both to make sure the slaves do a good job of scrubbing the cells. Understand?”

  There was no response.

  Sergeant Knox came to a halt. He glanced at one of the cell doors in the right wall and stood there waiting.

  When there still was no response, Knox turned to his men.

  They were not there.

  Instead, they lay back near the staircase, each man’s throat slit from ear to ear and blood spilling from their wounds. Squatting between the two dead men was a figure cloaked all in black.

  Knox grabbed for the sword at his waist. He would deal with this foe. The military had prepared him for anything. His weapon was halfway out of its sheath when he felt a deep sting in his right thigh.

  The sergeant screamed and dropped to one knee, a dagger protruding from the wounded leg. He glared up to see the figure in black had not moved. The weapon had been thrown.

  “Tell me about the healer,” the black thing said.

  Knox stared at the white chin protruding from beneath the dark cloak’s hood. The sergeant could not move, mesmerized by the death he felt was certain upon him.

  “Tell me and you may live to see another sun,” the figure said.

  “I don’t know who you are talking about.” Knox stifled another cry as pain shot through his leg.

  “A young man, early twenties,” the man in black said. “He would have arrived a few days ago.”

  Knox had no idea what to say. He had had no new prisoners in more than a week.

  The cloaked figure straightened, standing tall. “If you have no answer, then you are of no use to me.”

  Knox held up a hand. “Not all prisoners are kept here. Lord Verkain has special inmates brought to his tower.”

  “Where is this tower?”

  Knox appeared nonplussed. Everyone knew where the tower was located.

  “Where?” the figure said, taking a sturdy step closer.

  “The center of town,” Knox blurted out.

  “Thank you. You have been most helpful.” The figure suddenly rushed forward.

  Knowing he couldn’t reach his sword in time, the sergeant grasped at the only weapon available, the knife in his leg. He yanked out the blade just as the black cloak engulfed him.

  The sergeant finally found something for which the military had not prepared him.

  ***

  Randall lay in squalor, his white robes now shreds that barely covered his bruised and tortured body. He was unmoving on his back in a dark room of cold stone. Moldy, rotted hay was scattered beneath him. He could feel the insects and maggots crawling over his flesh.

  His eyes too were unmoving, staring into the black of the space above. It hurt even to blink. Verkain’s bore worms had done that much damage to his body, leaving behind scars and holes in his flesh that caused even the slightest movement to feel as if needles were being jabbed beneath his skin.

  Despite the anguish, Randall’s mind remained clear. He had traveled all this way to face his father, and now he had done so. How could he have expected the outcome to be different? He had grown to an adult in the world of Kobalos, the world of his father’s making.

  “Randall?”

  The healer blinked, wincing.

  “Randall, are you there?”

  He slowly lifted his head to stare around, but there was still nothing but darkness. “Maslin?”

  “Yes,” the voice said, coming to the young man from air. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m alive. Where are you?”

  “Near,” Markwood said. “I should say no more of my whereabouts.”

  “You and Kron followed me.”

  “Of course we did,” Markwood said. “Did you think we would leave you to Verkain?”

  Randall could only shake his head at the tenacity of his friends.

  “ Where are you?”

  “In the dungeon of my father’s tower.”

  “We’ve been through the dungeons and have not seen you.”

  “Those would be the castle’s prison dungeons,” Randall explained. “My father has a private gaol beneath the tower at the east end.”

  “What is your condition?”

  “Not well.”

  “Torture?”

  “Yes,” the healer said, “but the worst is to come. My father is going to execute me in a public ceremony an hour before the sun rises.”

  “Do you know how much time we have?” Markwood asked.

  “I don’t. It’s hard to tell time here. I know it’s been night for some while.”

  “Do you know where the execution is to take place?” the old wizard asked.

  “The castle’s main hall.”

  “Randall, we are going to save you,” Markwood said. “I need to confer with Kron, but I will be in contact with you again soon.”

  “Maslin, do not land yourself in trouble because of me.”

  “What’s a little trouble among friends?”

  Silence returned to the cell.

  ***

  A ring of keys from the unconscious sergeant’s belt allowed Kron access to an empty cell where he deposited the man and the two dead guards. After that it was an easy job to slip up a stairwell out of the dungeon and into the castle proper.

  Kron found himself in nearly empty halls of dark stone, the occasional torch hanging from a wall and moonlight shining through tall windows offering light. The man in black found it easy enough to blend in with the few staff and soldiers milling about, as they too wore his color.

  He considered returning to Markwood at that point, to inform the wizard he had found a route out of the dungeons, but thought it best to get a feeling for their new surroundings before doing so.

  He spent nearly an hour learning the basic layout of the gigantic structure he traveled through. He was always careful not to stray too near a guarded door in case questions would be asked.

  Eventually he found his way to a side exit, a servant’s door, and allowed himself access to the street beyond.

  His eyes scanned up and down the narrow, bricked path, taking note of the two-story buildings that seemed to surround the castle. All was quiet, and there were fewer people out on the streets than there had been within the castle.

  Spotting the outer walls of the city not too far away, Kron eased from the castle door and slid into a shadow across the street. He smiled to himself, noticing how dark everything was in Kobalos, from the stone of every building to the road itself. It allowed him to move around quite freely.

  Skulking along buildings, always moving toward the outer wall, Kron came to a halt when he spotted flames ahead. At first he thought a group of soldiers carrying torches were headed in his direction, then he realized he was staring out the open gates of the city into the sea of tents beyond. Camp fires dotted the road and low hills in front of Mogus Potere’s main entrance.

  A large carriage trimmed with dark violet brocade caught Kron’s attention. The vehicle was just outside the walls, unmoving next to the road into the city. The carriage was large enough for at least eight horses, but Kron saw no animals hooked to the contraption. The color of the cloth drew most of his attention, purple being the colors of the Eastern Army.

  Knowing Markwood was probably growing concerned about his lengthy absence, Kron quickly scooted ahead toward the gates, two giant doors of solid wood with iron bands studded across. He did not want to spend much longer away from the wizard, but that carriage had captured his sense of intrigue.

  Nearing the city doors, Kron found a gathering of half a dozen Kobalan soldiers around a fire. The men paid little attention to another person in black as he glided past them. Kron had found no need to hide his presence. He was bulky and wore black. He appeared as one of them.

  He quickly found a different response from the soldiers stationed near the wagon. There were
six of the men, each wearing chain armor and a purple tabard, and all of them took interest in the man in black as he approached.

  Seeing he could not get near the carriage without drawing attention, Kron spun off in another direction.

  After a hundred feet of circling around tents, he spied a tall, upright post in the distance. A body hung from the pillar of wood while a fire burned at it’s feet.

  It was the crucifixion, the one he and Markwood had spotted from atop the hill outside the city days before.

  Kron was intrigued. What crime had this person committed that would cause them to be hung for three days?

  He moved forward, then circled around more tents and a few soldiers up late for guard duty or early for breakfast.

  Kron came up behind the crucifixion. He moved around the pillar slowly, staring at the long, dark hair hanging from atop the victim’s head. When he reached the front of the fire, his eyes locked on the face hanging above him, the woman’s hair spilling out around her pallid cheeks.

  Kron stood like stone, his eyes unblinking.

  Adara.

  His hand eased its way to the heavy sword on his back, gripping the weapon’s pommel sticking out above his shoulder.

  Chapter Eleven

  The first soldier died for his curiosity. He was roasting a skewered bird over a fire when he noticed a muscular fellow in a black cloak, looking like any of a thousand other Kobalan soldiers. What was odd about this particular man in black was he stood beneath the crucified woman, a drawn sword in one hand while his other hand reached up and tugged on one of the thick nails impaling the woman’s feet.

  “What you doing there?” the soldier asked as he dropped his crispy bird into the fire and approached.

  The man with the sword turned at the sound of the voice. Shadow from the cloak’s hood hid his face.

  “You wanting her for yourself?” The soldier ambled up to his death. “She’s only three days gone. I guess you could still have fun with her.”

  Kron’s blow chopped through the man’s neck, nearly separating head from body.

  “Holy Ashal! Did you see that?” someone yelled.

  Kron wiped his sword clean on the dead man’s breeches as the body collapsed.