Dark King Of The North (Book 3)

by Ty Johnston

  “You were the first.”

  The words were those of the voice, the first words spoken from it.

  “You are the first.”

  Randall did not understand.

  Then the light blinded him, and he knew.

  ***

  Markwood gritted his teeth, but it wasn’t enough to stop the screams pouring from his throat. Eventually the pain like fire subsided from his chest, but a dull throb of jittery thunder seemed to roll out of his heart.

  The old wizard opened his eyes.

  He still found himself nude, bound by chains to a rusting iron chair. His breast was a bloody mess of sliced flesh, but none of the wounds were so deep as to cause serious harm.

  Standing over the mage was the master of the land. Verkain, in dark robes, wore the grin of a demon. In the lord’s right hand was gripped a small, single-edged blade. In the other hand was what at first appeared to be a kitchen whisk, but on further viewing turned out to be a hundred or so long needles wrapped together at one end to form a handle.

  “It makes no difference if you talk,” Verkain said, alone other than for his victim in the small, square room. “I am enjoying this immensely.”

  A dribble of red leaked from between Markwood’s lips and worked its way down his chin to mix with the gore on his chest. He breathed heavily, his lungs feeling as if he were drowning. “I don’t know what I could tell you.”

  “You are an important person in Bond,” Verkain said, “the last of The Twelve still living, an icon for the West, a professor at the university. You do not disappear without the notice of others.”

  “What is your point?”

  “Who knows you are here?”

  Markwood remained silent, giving the king a flat stare.

  Verkain lifted the knife.

  “A handful of mages at the college,” Markwood said, lying in part while staving off more pain. “By now the Chief Councilor must know. They would have become concerned when I did not report to them after a week.”

  “How much do they know?”

  Markwood said nothing.

  Verkain brought the blade up to the wizard’s throat. “I would be more than happy to finish with you now.”

  “They know there is unrest in the Prisonlands,” Markwood said. “That was all I knew before I came to Kobalos.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I can’t be sure of anything,” Markwood said. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in Bond since I left.”

  “So it’s possible the West could have spies here,” Verkain said, more to himself than to the wizard.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Markwood said. “I am no longer involved in politics. The East and West likely have spies in every nation, including Kobalos.”

  Verkain chuckled. “Likely you are right.” He lowered the knife. “I know there are no magical observations, or I would have detected them, much as I did yours a few months ago.”

  “You knew it was me?”

  “Of course,” Verkain said, “and I’ll make sure you pay for that interruption.”

  The lord lifted the instrument of a hundred needles. “Please, scream all you want.”

  ***

  Kron’s body finally gave out. After another torturous climb up the cliff face against the sea, he broke on a shelf of rock outside the secret door Markwood had found days earlier. He did not know how long it had been since he had slept, possibly four days, since before he and the wizard had entered the city.

  He lay on his back, staring up at the dark walls of Mogus Potere. From this position he could just make out the tips of two of the city’s towers over the wall.

  Then his eyes closed against his will as the cool breeze blowing off the waters drifted over him.

  “Kron, you’re sleeping.”

  The man in black sprang to his feet, his sword in hand.

  “I apologize for startling you,” Randall said.

  Kron remained still, not believing his eyes. In front of him, on the edge of the rocky shelf, stood Randall Tendbones. The Kobalan prince appeared alive and well, his flowing robes so white their glow almost hurt Kron’s eyes. On the healer’s face was a smile of friendship.

  “This is a dream,” Darkbow said.

  “Of sorts.”

  “I saw you die.”

  “Listen to me now,” Randall spoke. “I have little time, and my strength is waning. I have been to the other side of death, and I have seen the face of Creation. Know that I live, and there is much to be done.”

  The flow of light around the healer surged, blinding the warrior.

  ***

  Kron’s eyes fluttered open to a gray sky turning murky.

  He sat up slowly, his head throbbing and his vision blurry. Something heavy tugged at his hand and he glanced down to see he was gripping his sword.

  Muscle aches worked their way through his limbs as Kron pushed himself off the ground. He had slept far longer than he wanted, nearly the entire day. Night was coming soon.

  He blinked, remembering portions of the dream that still clouded his mind. Visions of Randall floated through his memory. The healer had said many things, important things, but Kron could remember next to nothing of them.

  Did his friend live? Or was it all a fantasy played out in Kron’s exhausted mind? Could it have been a trick of Verkain’s?

  Kron didn’t know, and truthfully, it did not matter to him. He was a man of action.

  Sheathing his sword and stretching his limbs, Kron worked the dull aches out of his body. He was still sore from the action of the night before and from sleeping in the open on stone all day, but he was somewhat refreshed, ready to take on the world again.

  Maslin Markwood needed saving.

  Kron glanced to the rock wall where a crack revealed the edges of the door to the city’s secret depths.

  Despite all those he had lost, he knew he could still save Markwood. The dream had instilled in him a sense of hope.

  Kron grinned.

  It was time to play the hero again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The solid oak door swung open slowly, its screeching hinges hurting the ears.

  Sergeant Copen Knox looked up from his stool next to three other officers huddled with him at the end of the hallway.

  “You may enter,” Captain Lendo said from the other side of the door.

  Knox stood and moved past the others and the captain. In the room he found what he had expected, a small chamber with no windows and only the one entrance.

  Strapped to an iron chair in the center of the room was an unconscious elderly man with a long, gray beard. The rugged rising of the old man’s chest revealed he yet lived. From the slashes and dried blood covering the man’s chest, Knox was surprised he wasn’t dead already.

  The sergeant leaned forward, closer to the prisoner, and stared into his face. “It’s not him.”

  “You’re sure?” Lendo asked, still in the doorway.

  “I didn’t see much, sir, but that’s not the man who attacked me.”

  Lendo growled deep in his throat and pointed at Markwood. “This man killed nearly a dozen soldiers before I captured him. He has to be the same man.”

  “The fellow who hit me was much younger,” Knox said.

  Lendo growled again. “Return to your station.”

  With a last look at the old man, the sergeant exited the room and tromped away from his fellow officers. The captain wasn’t happy, but Knox knew better than to lie; anyone caught lying to a superior in Kobalos could end up clutching their innards before the day was finished. No, he would not lie. The old man had not been the one who had knocked him unconscious the day before in the dungeons.

  It had been a long night and day for the sergeant. Two of his men had been murdered, then he had been knocked out. Knox had missed Lord Verkain’s ceremony and only afterward did other guards come looking for him. They found Knox locked in one of his own cells with the two dead men. The only thing that had saved him from Verkain’s wrath was bein
g able to identify his attacker; Knox hadn’t seen much, but he was sure he would recognize the assailant.

  The sergeant continued to walk along halls, down stairs, through another hall, through several doors and finally down a last, winding stairwell. At the bottom of the stone steps he came out in the dungeon chambers of which he was in charge.

  A glance at the guards’ station, a long wooden bench and a rickety table holding a couple of wooden mugs with steam rising off them, told the sergeant something was out of place. He had left four men stationed here. Now they were gone. They had no other orders, and there were currently no inmates to tend to.

  The light from a torch tossed dancing shadows upon the walls but did not reveal much of the dungeon.

  Knox drew his sword and began to back the way he had come.

  Something tagged the sergeant in a shoulder and he cried out. His legs suddenly weakened and he dropped back against the wall.

  He grabbed at his throbbing shoulder and found the fletched end of a black arrow protruding. The shock had numbed him from most of the pain, but his mind was reeling again. How could someone attack him twice in a day’s time? In Kobalos of all places?

  A tall, muscular figure in black moved into the light, a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.

  “You!” Knox said.

  “You’re going to tell me where the wizard is imprisoned,” the dark figure said. “Then you’re going to tell me where Verkain’s son is to be buried. After that, you will tell me how to release the poor girl crucified in front of this foul city.”

  “What if I don’t know all that?” Knox asked.

  The man in black lifted the arrow to his bow. “Target practice.”

  ***

  “It was Kron Darkbow,” Belgad said across a desk from Captain Lendo.

  The Kobalan scowled. “I’m telling you there was only one man on that rooftop. The old wizard.”

  Belgad eased back in his chair and surveyed the small chamber that made up Lendo’s office. To the Dartague it seemed Lendo had done well for himself in Mogus Potere. A nice little fireplace kept the room cozy while tapestries on the dark walls and a rug on the floor kept out the chill. Belgad wondered if this lifestyle had made the Kobalan soft. “Darkbow was involved.”

  “There was no sign of him on the roof,” Lendo said, “and there’s been no sign of him since.”

  Fortisquo grinned from his own seat, slightly behind Belgad. “That’s when he’s at his most dangerous.”

  “Nonsense,” Lendo said. “No one man could have slain nearly a dozen of my brutes, not without some heavy magic.”

  “Maybe had magic,” Belgad said. “Maybe Markwood aided him.”

  “Nonsense,” the captain repeated.

  “Not for Kron Darkbow.” Fortisquo passed a finger over the black patch covering his right eye. “Who do you think gave me this?”

  Lendo glared at the two men in silence.

  “Captain,” Belgad said, “I’ve seen Darkbow do amazing things. Fighting, acrobatics, fire magics of some sort ... I’ve witnessed it all. The man traveled all the way from Bond to Mogus Potere with war demons on his trail, but I’m sure he made it here alive. Your words confirm it.”

  Lendo scowled. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Sergeant Knox couldn’t identify Markwood as the man who attacked him. But I still find it all hard to believe, one man causing this much trouble, and under Lord Verkain’s very nose.”

  “Only because Verkain considers him too insignificant to bother with,” Belgad said. “But I’m warning you now, Darkbow is a threat, if not to your master, then to you and I.”

  “He needs to be caught,” Fortisquo added. “He is, after all, why we came to Kobalos in the first place.”

  “Have you spoken with Lord Verkain about this?” Lendo asked.

  “Briefly,” Belgad said. “The invasion of the Prisonlands has him preoccupied.”

  “That’s mere days away,” Lendo said. “I’m not sure Lord Verkain would appreciate complicating the situation by spending resources on hunting this foreigner.”

  “Darkbow will complicate the situation himself if nothing is done,” Belgad said.

  Lendo sat back, staring at the top of his desk as if in deep thought, possibly pondering his options.

  “We can take care of it without involving you,” Fortisquo said. “All we need is a little help, maybe some magic.”

  Lendo’s eyes lit up. “I know just the person.”

  ***

  Kron counted himself lucky. First, he had a good memory, and was able once more to work his way through the maze of Mogus Potere’s dungeons. Second, Verkain’s confusion charm had not worked a second time; Kron’s guess was once the charm had been loosed it had to be replenished, and no one had bothered. Kron also considered himself lucky that he had run into no other guards than the sergeant and the four men he had left behind.

  The four were now dead, all cut down by Kron’s sword, their bodies piled in another empty cell. The sergeant had joined them, but Kron had spared the man’s life, only knocking him unconscious. The sergeant had proven valuable, answering questions without too much fuss. Kron considered he owed the man his life at the least. The soldiers, on the other hand, had died in combat. The man in black felt little remorse taking those four lives.

  Now he found himself treading along a deserted hallway, the sergeant’s tabard thrown over his own garb. Tall windows on his right allowed the moon to bring a glow to the hall, and the occasional mounted torch added an orange luminescence to the atmosphere.

  It was night again, and few were about. Kron had passed a handful of guards on patrol and a servant or two, but no one had questioned him.

  He paused at a corner where another hall intersected, the new path leading deeper into the castle, and pondered his choices. If the sergeant had not been lying, Kron was only yards away from Verkain’s tower and a stairwell down to Markwood’s prison. He spied around, and again saw no one watching.

  He turned down the new hall.

  ***

  Belgad waited in the cold rain, the cloak around his shoulders and covering his slick head keeping out the worst of the wet and chill but not improving his mood. He was tiring of the game. While chasing Kron Darkbow had brought an exhilaration to him he had not known in years, the hunt had turned overly long and had brought new complications. The Dartague had not planned on the current situation in Kobalos. He wanted to kill Kron, then he wanted to go home.

  Instead, he was standing in the drizzle, Fortisquo and Captain Lendo at his side facing a line of Kobalan troops near the city’s outer wall. Belgad was impressed with the soldiers, each a burly man in black armor with a round shield on his arm and a heavy sword at his hip; these fellows looked hardened, as if they knew the right end of a sword. He wished he could take a handful of them back to Bond.

  “There he comes.” Lendo pointed.

  Belgad stared down the line of troops to where another soldier approached tramping through the mud with heavy boot steps.

  When the man came to a stop in front of the captain, Belgad grinned. The newcomer was a pure specimen of the northern barbarian, half Belgad’s age but with size and long, blonde locks beneath a horned helmet. His stern gaze and a muscular build beneath a chain shirt reminded Belgad of himself at a younger age. The man’s golden hair revealed he was not Kobalan, but likely Dartague or Jorsican.

  “You asked for me, captain,” the barbarian said with a gruff voice.

  “This is Lerebus Shieldbreaker, sergeant of the guard, third infantry.” Lendo nodded at the blonde man. “He will be of service to us.”

  The sergeant’s eyes shifted to the tall, bald man before him. “Who is this?”

  “I am Belgad. It seems you will be working for me.”

  “I have my duties,” Lerebus said. “I’ve men to ready for the Prisonlands.”

  “I’m ordering you to be of aid to these two,” Lendo said.

  Lerebus’s eyes shifted to Fortisquo, the gangly sw
ord master also concealed beneath a cloak, then he looked back to Belgad and Lendo. “You’re looking for someone, I suppose. Do we do this here?”

  Belgad glanced to Lendo but saw no words coming from the captain.

  “Here is fine,” Lerebus said, reaching into a pocket of his black breeches.

  The sergeant’s big hand withdrew a tiny pale object of which Belgad only caught a glimpse. He could have sworn it looked to be a small animal’s skull.

  Lerebus rubbed his hands together then blew air onto the tiny object he cupped. “Who is it we are seeking? I need at least a name, or a description.”

  “Kron Darkbow,” from Belgad.

  “His garb is black,” Fortisquo added.

  Lerebus grinned. “This is Kobalos. Everyone’s garb is black.”

  “He wears a long sword and bow on his back,” Belgad said. “Short, dark hair. Pale skin. He’s well built, and taller than many a southern man.”

  “That’s enough.” Lerebus breathed on the object in his hands again, then closed his eyes. He stood still as if hearing a distant noise that reached the ear of no other.

  “What kind of magic is this?” Fortisquo asked.

  Lerebus held up a hand for the others to remain quiet.

  A few seconds later, the sergeant’s eyes fluttered, then opened. “It’s the oldest of magics.”

  “The magic of the ancient north,” Belgad said, almost with awe. “The magic of the skein weavers.”

  Lerebus’s smile grew wider. “My father taught me this trick from our village weaver. It’s never failed me.”

  “What about our man?” Captain Lendo asked.

  “He’s beneath our feet.”

  “What? Where?” from Fortisquo.

  Lerebus turned and pointed. “He’s within the castle, at the foot of Lord Verkain’s tower.”