Dark King Of The North (Book 3)

by Ty Johnston

  “The Eastern Church teaches otherwise,” Adara said, “but I don’t know. We’ve both seen Verkain’s war demons, and we both know how touch and go the political situation has been between the East and West these sixty years. It’s kindling, ready to burn and spread like a wildfire.”

  Belgad shook his head. “All of this is speculation, difficult to believe.”

  “Verkain is crazy,” Adara said, “but you can help stop him.”

  “You have no evidence of any of this.”

  “I have Randall’s word,” the woman said. “I spent more than a month on the road with him. I’ve heard his story.”

  Belgad’s eyes turned to slits. “You are very clever, trying to talk me into helping you.”

  Adara kicked at the dirt with her tied feet. “Damn it! Listen to me!”

  Belgad laughed and motioned for two of his soldiers to approach.

  “Gag this one,” he ordered, pointing at Adara. “She has a slippery tongue.”

  ***

  Markwood’s eyes drooped as he swayed on his feet.

  “Maslin?” Randall asked, concern on his face.

  The wizard crumpled, a quick hand from Kron keeping him from falling into the gray dust at their feet.

  “Blanket.” Darkbow nodded toward his horse.

  Randall retrieved a course blanket from Kron’s saddle bags and stretched the cloth on the ground.

  Kron eased the wizard down onto the makeshift cot.

  The young healer knelt next to his friend. “He needs rest. Powerful magic is the most sapping. I should not have put him in such a situation.”

  “You didn’t put me into any situation.” Markwood’s eyes opened and he stared up at the two men over him.

  Randall smiled. “Thank Ashal.”

  Even Kron allowed a slight grin.

  “I’ll be fine once I rest,” Markwood said.

  “You should be home at the university, not gallivanting around Kobalos fighting demons,” Randall said.

  “Can you heal him?” Kron asked Randall.

  Markwood answered. “That would only weaken him, leaving Randall in my condition. I’m not in any danger, simply exhausted.”

  “You’re no longer young,” Randall pointed out to his friend.

  “I’m a wizard,” Markwood said with fire in his weak voice. “My body is used to this. I didn’t get to eighty years of age without a strong constitution.”

  Kron glanced around as if to be sure their foes had been vanquished. His eyes lingered over piles of bones and armor. “We can’t stay here. I know enough about magic to realize Markwood’s spells might draw attention.”

  “Verkain will have noticed,” the wizard said, closing his eyes again.

  “Do you know anywhere safe?” Kron asked Randall.

  “Piker’s Bay is a couple days away.” The healer gazed down at his drained friend.

  “What is it?” Kron asked.

  “A small coastal town to the northwest. There’s an inn, but there’s also a troop regiment stationed there.”

  “That won’t do. What about peasant farms, maybe with a barn?”

  “There won’t be any here near the Grave Lands,” Randall said.

  Kron sighed. “We’ll have to do the best we can. We’ll move a few miles and set up camp. With a night’s rest, maybe Markwood will be in better condition to travel.”

  Both men leaned over to hoist the wizard from the ground.

  The old man did not fight them.

  Chapter Five

  Kron lay on the dirt floor of the barn with his head against a saddle. He slept.

  Markwood also reposed, he on a bed of old, soiled hay covered with a horse blanket.

  Randall sat on a creaking wood crate in the open door of the barn made of stones. He stared at his two friends while the morning sun beat at his back, warming his white cloak and the skin beneath.

  They had ridden north most of the night, Kron leading them out of the Grave Lands and into dull farmland that seemed ill suited for growing crops. Still, they had found several farm houses and barns, with Kron finally settling on the stone barn because it appeared to be on land that had been fallow for some time.

  Randall supposed that was his father’s doing. If a farmer had a bad season, or became ill and could not work, then the farmer and his family could expect a short life. From Verkain’s perspective, there were always more serfs or slaves available to till the land and plant the seed.

  The healer shivered, thinking about his father. Verkain was why Randall had fled Kobalos, and now Verkain was the reason he had returned.

  A whistling noise from outside drew Randall’s attention, but it was only an owl hooting in a near gray tree, the bird probably upset because three men had overtaken its home.

  The young man turned to look back at the sleeping Markwood.

  The ride through the night had given Randall plenty of time to think. Traveling with Kron and Adara, Randall had not known what he would do when he arrived in Kobalos. But now that he was here, and after what had happened in the Grave Lands, Randall knew what had to be done.

  He had to go to his father. He had to go alone.

  He would probably die, but he was tired of hiding. It would be better to finish with this business, to find whatever afterlife would come to him, than to spend the rest of his years moving from town to town with fear gnawing at his mind. There were also others to consider. Markwood had weakened himself by fighting the demon, and others had been hurt, even killed, because of their relation to Randall.

  The healer couldn’t cope with it any more. It was time to finish the deathly game he had started three years earlier when he had watched his brother Corvin massacred by his father and the last of the Kobalan rebellion wiped out.

  The healer stood, still shivering. Fear gripped the young man.

  His father would kill him, but Randall would not deny Verkain one last chance at redemption. The man was the only blood he had. Whatever madness Verkain had committed, and there had been many atrocities, Randall wanted to give his father one last chance.

  The healer wrapped his arms around himself and gritted his teeth. “Get a hold of yourself.”

  He closed his eyes, then slowly opened them, still focused on Markwood.

  Yes, Randall would have to leave Maslin and Kron behind. It was too dangerous for them to come with him. They would follow, he was sure, but he had ways to slow their progress. Even healers could use other forms of magic.

  Randall shifted his attention to Kron and slowly, silently moved to stand near the man. Waving a hand over the sleeping warrior, Randall muttered ancient words to ensure the man would remain asleep for some time.

  The young man gave one last sorrowful look to his wizard friend, then moved to the two horses tied together in the back of the barn.

  Within minutes Randall had saddled his steed and tossed a sack of food onto the back of the beast. Once outside he glanced around in the morning light, making sure there were no farmers with watchful eyes, then he trotted his animal away from the barn. Soon he was on a dirt road heading northwest.

  Randall raised his left hand and stared at the gold ring he wore there. He hated the ring. It had killed before. Now he would have to use it again. The healer only hoped it would not bring more death.

  ***

  “He’s gone.”

  The old wizard awoke at the words. He sat up shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Randall is gone,” Kron said, kneeling next to the mage. “He took his horse. The tracks lead away from the barn.”

  By the angle of the sun’s light shining through the barn’s open wood door, Markwood could tell it was late in the day, only a few hours until nightfall.

  “How long ago?” the wizard asked.

  “This morning. At least ten hours ago.”

  Markwood smacked his knee with a hand.

  “You need more rest,” Kron said.

  “Just let me sit for a moment t
o clear my head. I’ve had more sleep than I expected. I’m still weak, but not too weak to go after the boy.”

  “You think he left of his own accord?”

  “Of course I do,” Markwood said. “I’ve been half expecting this. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been traveling with you. He’ll try going to his father on his own. I should have known he would wait until I had been casting and was weakened.”

  “I should have heard him,” Kron admonished himself. “I should have woken instead of sleeping all day.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.” Markwood slowly pushed himself to standing. “Putting someone to sleep is one of the first skills a healer learns.”

  “I’ve studied ways to overcome some magics,” Kron said with a scowl. “Awareness and preparedness stop most illusions and personal spells.”

  “But you never thought Randall would cast on you.” The wizard saw their remaining horse was saddled and their meager gear stowed on the animal. “You weren’t prepared for him. That’s why his spell worked on you.”

  “Can you find him?” Kron asked.

  Markwood shook his head. “Randall will have covered his trail with protective wards. If I were in my private sanctum at the university, it would be a simple task, but not here.”

  Kron headed toward their riding beasts. “I’ll find him,”

  “You’re not going alone,” the old wizard said.

  “Are you sure you are up to this?” Kron asked. “No offense is meant, but I can travel faster alone.”

  “Whatever physical trail he may leave,” Markwood said, “eventually he will use magic to cover his path. You will need me then.”

  ***

  It was nearly night when Randall found himself atop a hill overlooking the town of Piker’s Bay.

  The healer’s eyes followed the dusty road that ran east to west on the southern side of the town at the bottom of the hill. A small stone keep rested next to the road and a swampy pond. Below the castle was a leaning barn, rows of ugly corn and a footpath that meandered downhill to the village proper. Piker’s Bay was little more than two dozen wooden structures with slate roofs, though a few stone buildings dotted the scenery. Beyond the village, further north, was the port itself which opened into the dark blues of the Northern Sea stretching to the horizon. Ships and boats of all sizes bobbed up and down in the harbor along a wooden quay.

  “This is as far as you go, my friend,” Randall said, leaning forward to rub a hand along the neck of his horse.

  With a last look at the town below, he slipped out of the saddle and dropped to the ground. The next few minutes were spent unloading saddle bags, unbuckling gear and removing all tack and harness from his animal.

  Once the horse was free of its accouterments, Randall slapped the animal on its rear and watched it canter away into the growing darkness. “You’ll be safer in the wilds than where I’m going.”

  As soon as the horse was out of sight, Randall picked up his saddle bags and tossed them over a shoulder. He didn’t think he would need what little he had left in the bags, but thought it best to take it with him and not leave for Kron and Maslin to discover.

  He turned back the way he had come and waved a hand over the ground, his horse’s prints in the dirt and grass disappearing.

  As the last of the sun’s rays hid behind distant mountains far to the west, the healer began striding toward Piker’s Bay. The moon lighting his way, he walked down the hill to the dusty road and followed it to the keep.

  He paused at the iron door that gave entrance to the small castle on the edge of the village. Several black-garbed soldiers played a game of bones at a far corner of the building beneath a lantern hanging atop an iron pole.

  A few of the men glanced in Randall’s direction but none came forward.

  The healer looked into the village proper, noticing there were few people on the streets and those that were kept their heads down and shuffled along without a glance or a word. Randall recognized his homeland more than ever in those grim, hardened faces.

  The creaking of the iron door behind him was followed by a gruff voice. “What do you want?”

  Randall spun on his feet to face a monster of a man in black plate, a gigantic helm shaped like the head of an eagle covering his features. On the man’s back was a two-headed ax, its blades glistening beneath the light of the torches from inside the keep.

  Randall dropped his bags at his feet and glanced at the guards playing dice. “I wanted to apologize.”

  The big man took a step back, as if sensing danger from the small man in white robes.

  “I wanted to apologize for what I am about to do,” Randall said, lifting his ring hand to his chest and making a fist. “I do not wish to harm anyone, but my ring needs the power of others, and I could not harm my friends.”

  The big man grabbed at his ax over his shoulder, slinging it around in a two-handed grip.

  The swift movement drew the attention of the dice players. They abandoned their game and stood, one by one, four men in all, and unsheathed swords from their hips.

  “You had better talk fast if you want to keep your head, little man,” the big fellow with the ax said.

  “Goodbye.” Randall gripped his hand tighter.

  An explosion of noise rocked the air, sending the warriors in black reeling. Several of them fell to their knees, a couple clutched their chests. All but one then fainted, passing out on the road and falling into the dirt.

  The last soldier standing was the big man with the ax. He stood dazed in the open doorway to the keep, his overly large weapon barely hanging from one hand. Before him, Randall Tendbones stood no more. It was as if the small man in white had never been there.

  Chapter Six

  Randall stood in the middle of his father’s throne room.

  Finding himself alone, the young man stared about the chamber that had been familiar to him during his childhood. The room looked the same, humongous, and longer than it was wide. He smiled, remembering how as a boy he believed a thousand soldiers could fit into the room; now, seeing the place with the eyes of a man, he realized he could have doubled that number and been right. He glanced down at the floor of polished black marble, pale sapphire veins running through the stone, and saw himself as if staring into a mirror. Broad columns of similar stone lined the sides of the chamber, tall but narrow windows between the columns allowing the moon’s pale shimmer on the floor. Randall looked up and noted the black iron candelabras hanging on long chains, the flames full and fluttering.

  His eyes followed a dark indigo carpet that ran the length of the room. It started at a pair of enormous iron doors and stretched across the expanse to end at three white steps. Atop the short stairs stood a massive throne of dull, black rock, the seat large enough to hold a giant of a man.

  Randall had never thought he would be happy to see home again, but a part of him was glad. As awful as his upbringing had been, this was still Kobalos and he was still a prince of the land. It felt as if he belonged.

  “I see you finally arrived,” an eerily familiar voice spoke from the air.

  Randall spun on his feet, staring about, looking into dark corners.

  “The ring brought you, of course,” the voice said.

  Randall faced the throne. “We need to talk, father.”

  “No,” the voice of Verkain said. “You have given yourself to me as a lamb to a wolf. The lamb may bleat, but it’s cries go unheeded.”

  Randall held up his ring hand. “I am still a member of the royal family. I claim rights of address.”

  A snicker sounded throughout the chamber.

  “This is not some petty kingdom, my son. This is Kobalos, and the law is what I will it. You have no rights except those I allow.”

  “I do not wish to fight you, father.” Randall glanced around again but saw nothing.

  “Then do not fight,” Verkain said. “It will be easier that way.”

  The rushing sound of wings brought Randall’s head up. Above him,
lunging from the shadows, were three of Verkain’s war demons. The creatures swooped down with claws reaching.

  Randall held his ring hand higher. “Be gone!”

  Two of the monsters vanished in a puffing of black smoke. The last of the three continued to fall, but no longer in control of its decent. The thing clutched at its chest with fists, then slammed into the marble floor with a harsh crunching noise, pieces of its black armor skittering away across the slick floor. A bent arm reached up from the crumpled mass of broken creature, but the limb fell almost as quickly. Flames of green sprang up from inside the monster’s helmet, followed by a horrendous shriek.

  Randall took several steps back, watching with unblinking fright the black thing that burned away with screams of torture.

  It took a long minute, but eventually the demon was quiet and no longer moved.

  “Did you believe I would allow you a weapon that could defeat me?” Verkain’s voice was directly behind.

  The healer spun.

  It was too late. A thunk from an iron mace cracked the youth across the forehead, sending Randall to his knees.

  “You aren’t even aware of your own strength.” Verkain’s shadow fell over his son.

  Blood trickling down his face, Randall looked up with dazed, questioning eyes.

  The mace came down again, and the healer knew pain and darkness.

  ***

  “His tracks end.” Kron knelt to stare at the grassy ground where the hoof prints of Randall’s horse disappeared. “It’s as if his animal flew away.”

  “That’s why you needed me,” Markwood said from atop Kron’s steed. “I can still follow his trail.”

  The man in black stood on the hill and watched the sun begin its slow climb in the morning sky. “He must have gone down to the village,” he said, pointing below them at the town at the bottom of the hill. “He called it Piker’s Bay.”

  “His journey did not end there.”

  “Where is he going?” Kron asked.

  “To Mogus Potere. He’s going to his father.”