by Ty Johnston
“How do you propose we do that?” Verkain spat. “I can’t die, not unless I am willing, which I am not. You won’t slay me, so how do you plan on stopping me?”
“If we let him go, the prophecy will become fulfilled,” Kron said to Randall’s back. “Another war will begin and thousands, millions, will perish.”
“Even if I were to reveal myself,” Randall said.
Verkain’s lips formed a grin. “That’s right. Even if you announced to the world who you truly are, it will be too late to save them. In fact, it might make things worse. The church has never been known for tolerance.”
“We capture him.” The words from Kron’s lips were more than a suggestion.
Randall glanced back at the man in black.
In that moment, with his son’s head turned, Verkain lunged. He jumped forward, lashing out with the mace again, smashing Randall in the chest and sending the youth tumbling down the steps away from the throne.
Kron stepped into the approaching attacker. He stabbed out with his knife. The blade sank deep, into the king’s chest. Kron stabbed again, and again, then a fourth time. Each blow buried itself in Verkain’s breast.
The king staggered back, new blood drawing forth from fresh wounds. His eyes blinked, dazed, and the mace hung from his hand by the tips of weakened fingers.
Kron kicked out and high, connecting with a chin and sending Verkain flying. The Kobalan spilled down the steps, each protrusion of marble smacking his head or limbs. When his tumble ended, Verkain lay flat on the floor, unmoving other than the rising and falling of his chest.
Kron spun to find his friend.
Randall was sitting up not too far from his parent, a hand glowing white clutching at his chest, healing him. “I am fine. See to my father.”
Kron charged over to the king. He dropped the dagger along the way, not wanting to waste time sheathing it, then unfurled the rope and grapnel from his belt. He got to the bottom of the short stairway where the king lay, practically standing over Verkain, when Randall’s father sat up.
“You are slow.” Verkain forced himself to one knee and whipped his mace across Kron’s path.
The man in black pulled himself up in time to avoid the blow, but instead of dodging or fleeing, he again stepped in for the attack.
Still prostrate, Verkain lifted his mace for another strike.
Kron kneed him in the face, rocking back his foe’s head and breaking his nose. Splotches of blood misted from the king’s mouth, dotting Kron’s pale features. Kron did not let up. He jabbed a fist, pummeling the broken nose flatter, then brought around his other arm for a full swing that caught on the end of the chin and resounded with a crack like twigs breaking.
Verkain slumped to one side.
Kron still would not stop. He kicked away the iron mace, sending the weapon skittering across the floor toward the healer, then dropped next to Verkain and went to work with his fists again, one still gripping his silk cord and hook. His hands were like the blows of a smith hammering out a sword, each strike well placed and harder than the one before.
Within seconds the king’s visage was bloody and raw, the eyes swollen closed and the nose no longer present, flattened against the skull.
“Kron!”
Randall’s voice caused Darkbow to halt and take in great gulps of air. His body heaved, his fists still out before him, ready to strike again, the rope and grapnel wrapped tight around one hand.
Verkain lay motionless. Not even his chest rose now.
Randall knelt next to his father, inspecting the damage done to the man’s face.
Kron huffed in air before he could speak again. “He will still live, will he not?”
“He will,” Randall said, placing a hand on his father’s neck, feeling the pulse still throbbing.
Kron unwound the rope in his hands. “We have to bind him.”
The healer glanced up to see the determination in his friend’s face. There was no other choice. Randall would not, could not, slay his father, so the king of the land had to be restrained to end the horror of war before it began.
Seeing his younger companion was not bound to impede him, Kron knelt also, reaching across the king to begin tying him.
Verkain’s left arm shot up.
An unseen force shoved Kron back and high. He flew through the air, headed straight for one of the chamber’s tall windows, his rope and hook dangling from one hand.
“No!” Randall stood and spun, his arms reaching for the falling man.
Another unseen force, this one gentle, stayed Kron’s plummet. He came to a slow rest upon the heels of his boots.
Randall pivoted back to his father.
Verkain was already on his feet. “No more weapons.”
The son brought up his hands to cast, but his father was quicker. Verkain spat silent words and Randall yelled out and bent over as if punched in the stomach.
Kron whirled the grapnel over his head and twirled it round and round like a bola.
“First, you!” Verkain basted Randall’s chin with a fist, sending the healer rolling to one side. The king shouted across the room to the man in black. “Your turn!”
Kron let loose with the grappling hook. It sailed over heads straight for its target.
The grapnel cracked into the king’s shoulder, causing little damage, but with a jerk from Kron its barbs tore into Verkain’s robes and caught there.
“Ice!” the king yelled at his last standing opponent.
Kron did not move. He stood still, the cord hanging from his hand and trailing across the floor and up Verkain’s robes to hang from his shoulder.
Randall tried to sit up, but a kick from his father sent him flat on his back where he lay unmoving.
Verkain reached for the hook embedded in his clothing. “I have wasted enough time on the likes of you two. Playtime is finished.”
Kron took a step forward. “Control spells only work on the weak of mind.”
Verkain’s eyes went wide.
Kron’s hands flipped the cord, the rope riffling across the way to bounce up and wrap around the king’s neck. He jerked and Verkain was pulled to his knees.
The dark-garbed warrior darted forward, giving the king no time to act. He dropped to the ground next to his foe and slammed an elbow into his face to keep him down. The king moaned and tried to roll away, but his attacker grabbed him by the collar and held him still, Kron’s other hand busy tying Verkain’s wrists.
The king’s arms were wrenched behind his back as the man in black continued to work at wrapping and knotting. Kron worked fast, binding the legs together, encircling Verkain in rope and securing the bent arms to the neck with the tight cord. When he was finished, Kron shoved himself away and stared at his handiwork.
Verkain could barely roll to one side, let alone stand or attack again.
The warrior in black immediately saw his one error. The king’s mouth was still free, though full of blood and broken teeth. Darkbow rectified the situation by sliding a glove off his hand and jamming it between Verkain’s swollen lips.
Randall’s father could only stare with vile hate in his eyes.
Kron turned his attention to his friend. He slid across the floor to the healer and gently lifted Randall’s head. “Are you still with me?”
The young man’s eyes flickered. His breathing was even but sounded as if it were difficult for him to take in air.
Kron glanced back at Verkain, his stare hard, then he turned his eyes upon the rest of the room. He soon found what he sought. Crossing to a shadow between a pair of windows, Kron retrieved his fallen sword.
Seeing the healer still did not move, Kron plodded his way to the king. He stood over the man, griping his sword in both hands, the point of the blade resting over Verkain’s throat. Kron stared down at his foe, remembering the death this man had brought. Darkbow’s memory recalled the face of a tawny-headed boy, Wyck, who had died through the actions of Verkain’s war demons. Then his mind’s eye turned to
Adara Corvus, her wrists and ankles nailed to wood, and to Randall, the young man’s throat split open to spread blood before a vile crowd.
Fingers tightened on the pommel of the sword.
“No,” Randall said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kron looked back. The healer had climbed to his hands and knees, shaking his head as if to rid himself of blurry vision and pain.
Randall forced himself to stand, swaying on his legs. “Don’t.”
“We can end this,” Kron said. “Beheading, followed by quartering and burning.”
Randall shook his head again. “He would eventually return, perhaps even be reborn. It may take some time, possibly years, but he would be back.”
“That is time we can use.”
Randall limped nearer. “Kron, he will not die unless he chooses to. With time, I ... I might be able to come up with a spell that would end his immortality —”
“But you won’t.”
Randall nodded.
“If you do not have the stomach for it, then I do.” Kron yanked back his sword, ready to plunge it.
“Stop!” Randall shouted.
Kron’s arms quit over his head, his sword’s blade hanging in front of his face. His eyes moved from the target at his feet to the approaching healer.
Randall came to a stop next to his father and Darkbow. He leaned over, resting a hand on one knee as if tired. “The killing must end,” he said, looking up at Kron.
Darkbow pointed his sword at Verkain. “We have to do something with him!”
“Don’t you understand?” Randall said. “I don’t want you to kill him. But not because I want to save him. I wish to save you.”
Kron’s eyes widened as he stared at his companion. Then those eyes narrowed and Kron slid past Randall. He raised the sword again. “I have nothing from which to be saved.”
“Remember Sawney Gean?” Randall asked.
Kron paused, his blade hanging over Verkain’s neck.
“You lost Adara in the Prisonlands over Gean.”
The man in black flinched.
“Then you lost her here in Mogus Potere to my father’s cruelty,” the healer went on. “If you do this, if you do to my father what you did to Gean, you will lose Adara again. Perhaps forever.”
Kron glanced down at the trussed man. Hate and anger thrust from his eyes as sharp as any steel. He could end this now, finding vengeance and redemption at the end of a sword.
“Spare him,” Randall spoke. “Save him for Adara and for me, but most importantly, save him for yourself. You don’t have to become like my father.”
Kron leaned back, taking his gaze off the fallen king who could only stare back with malice of his own. The man in black looked up, into the dark of the high ceiling, his eyes steady.
He turned, and with a scream tossed the sword.
The weapon clanged into a corner, coming to rest in shadow once more.
Kron turned from his friend.
Randall rested a hand on Darkbow’s back. “Thank you.”
The man in black shook off the touch and moved toward the windows.
The healer glanced to his father and saw the hate in those eyes had only increased, then he turned back to his friend. “Are you wounded?”
Kron shook his head. “Nothing that cannot wait.”
A roar filled the chamber, shaking the ground, nearly causing the two standing to loose their footing. A great rumble buckled beneath the chamber for a moment, bringing a crack down the center of the room’s floor.
Kron and Randall spun on the rocking ground. They found Verkain on his knees, the glove spat from his mouth, his chest and arms expanded to nearly bursting the coils encircling him.
“Kerwin, if you choose these pathetic mortals over your own destiny, over me,” the king spouted, “then I leave you to them!”
Verkain’s bindings burst into flames. He sat back on his heels as the conflagration caught his robes afire, his face to the ceiling as he screamed his anguish.
Randall lunged forward, but Kron grabbed him and pulled him away from certain pain if not death.
The king’s self torture blazed away, the fire eating his garb then boiling and melting flesh. All the while he was conscious, his mouth wide and hollering his torment. Eventually the fire burned away enough of his flesh, there was nothing left with which he could scream. No lungs. No throat. No lips. The remaining sound was of the sizzling of muscle and organs.
Kron stood a dozen steps away, his arms wrapped around the shocked healer, holding the young man back. Darkbow watched with an unblinking stare, but Randall’s eyes were red with remorse.
Smoke drifted off the shaking, burning figure. Then the body crashed to one side, all that was left being black bones that cracked from the impact with the floor. Then there was only ash and a hint of sulfur on the air.
“Thus ends the reign of Lord Verkain of Kobalos,” Kron said.
The first rays of the morning sun sprang forth through the hall’s windows.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Kron released his young friend and stared at the charred mess that had been King Verkain of Kobalos.
“An ugly way to die,” the man in black said.
Randall used the hem of his robes to wipe away the streaks down his face. “How much did you hear? I mean, before you entered the room.”
Kron’s eyes darted to his companion in white. “All of it.”
“Then you know who I am, or who I was?”
The answer was a nod.
Randall sighed. “That complicates things.”
“Is it true you are immortal?” Kron asked.
“I can be reborn.”
“What of him?” Kron pointed at Verkain’s ashen remains.
“He can return,” Randall said, “but it will be some time before he is a threat again.”
“Good,” Kron said, cleaning his sword on the few remains of the dead king’s robes. “Then he will have to begin again with a new scheme.”
“His plans might still come to fruition,” the healer said.
Kron sheathed his sword on his back scabbard. “How?”
“It’s morning,” Randall said, pointing to the sunlight stretching across the hall. “His troops will be ready to march.”
“You are king now. Belay Verkain’s orders.”
“It’s not that simple,” Randall tried to explain. “Even when I call off the attack, the Eastern army is already on the border of the Prisonlands. They will not disperse easily.”
“If they have no one to fight, they will go home.”
“There will be fighting when my identity is revealed,” Randall said. “My father will win despite our efforts. The world will be torn apart. Some men will try to kill me while others while try to save me. They will fight over my very words, slaughtering innocents to show they are righteous.”
“Does anyone else know?” Kron asked.
Randall shook his head.
“Then no one else need find out.”
Randall turned to look at his friend, and in those eyes, for the first time, he found hope. Kron would keep his secret.
The healer nodded his agreement.
“Verkain was a madman, a traitor against himself,” Kron continued. “You have taken your rightful place as king of Kobalos. That is all Pope Joyous need know. His soldiers will return home, the wardens will finish scouring the Prisonlands, and a semblance of peace will return.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It is, for me,” Kron said. “I see the world in black and white. There is no reason to make it more difficult than need be.”
“Perhaps not.” It was a new voice, but a familiar one.
A door at the far end of the hall slammed open.
The bulky figure of Belgad the Liar stood like a mountain in the entrance. The Dartague surveyed the room then entered slowly, his sword before him.
“It has ended,” Randall said to the big, bald man. “My father is no more.”
The barbarian lowered his weapon as he crossed the length of the hall, eventually halting at the foot of the stairs before the throne. His eyes lingered on the blackened remains of the dead king at Kron and Randall’s feet, then turned upon the stone chair above him.
“I have unfinished business with this man.” Kron nodded at Belgad as once more he reached for the sword hanging on his back.
Belgad stood his ground, his large blade at the ready.
Randall put out an arm to block Kron’s path. “There has been enough blood spilled.”
The black-garbed figure glared at the healer. “Belgad spilled his share. It is time he paid for it.”
The Dartague chuckled, but made no move.
“Belgad,” the new king turned to the big man, “find Captain Lendo and several other officers. Bring them to me.”
Belgad’s white eyebrows drew together and furrowed, his dark gaze switching between the other two men.
“We made a pact,” Randall said to the Dartague. “I need official representatives present.”
Belgad nodded, then backed away from the throne, his eyes never leaving Darkbow. When he was a good distance away, he lowered his weapon, turned and sped from the room.
“You made a bargain with that devil?” Anger rode high in Kron’s voice.
“We came to an agreement,” Randall said. “It will be best for all.”
***
Belgad knew just where to find Lendo, but he had not expected a dead Fortisquo and wounded Adara.
The barbarian knelt next to the woman amid the bodies of dead and dazed men in the hall outside his personal chambers.
“Are you alive?” he asked, gently shaking the woman.
Her chin upon her chest, her eyes snapped open. She looked up at him from her resting spot against the hallway’s wall.
“How bad are you hurt?”
Adara sat up and pushed away from the wall to sit straight. “I will live.” She winced. “But I won’t be in shape to fight for a while.”
Belgad grinned. “I believe the fighting is finished. Verkain is dead. Randall is king.”
Adara’s eyes darted to the man again. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve seen Verkain’s remains with my own eyes.”