Dark King Of The North (Book 3)

by Ty Johnston

  Then it threw him.

  Kron plunged through the air, head over feet.

  He slammed into the stone altar, his right shoulder taking most of the blow, bone splitting beneath his skin and cloak. He slumped down, his body dropping onto the hard steps beneath the altar.

  He would have screamed in agony but there was no breath to do so. His vision blurred as he watched the demon approach, the monster shoving aside further pews to get to him. As the thing neared, Kron could see two of the beast. Then blackness. Then he could see again. The demon was nearly to him. A distant ringing buzzed in his ears. Blood poured from his wounds.

  And he could not move. He did not know if his back was broken or if fear had frozen him, but all he could do was lay there on cold, black stone as dirty, putrid talons inched toward his face.

  A single claw brushed an eyelid. Then was jerked back as if stung.

  The demon snarled, hissed and cursed. It reached out again for the prone man in the dark, torn and bloody garb, but it’s hand was withdrawn again as if on fire.

  Kron could only lay there, weak breaths bringing needed air to his lungs.

  The demon howled into his face, it’s grave-like stench pummeling Kron’s senses. The warrior leaned forward and threw up, his stomach juices running down his shirt to mingle with his blood.

  With a glare of scarlet hate, the demon jumped nearly as high as the ceiling. It hissed once more and spread its wings, diving into another of the windows, smashing through and showering glass of a thousand hews.

  Kron slumped against the altar, alone at last. He did not know why the demon had fled. He did not know when the soldiers would return. He did not care. He only wanted rest, to sleep until there was no more pain.

  His eyes closed.

  Then fluttered open.

  No.

  He had to get to Randall.

  With a grunt and a moan, Kron pushed himself off the floor. He stood, swaying on his feet, staring at the long wooden box atop the altar before him as if he expected it to open.

  When nothing happened, he took a painful but necessary step forward.

  He stopped next to the coffin and stared at its lid, a flat sheet of oak stained nearly black. Carved into the wood near where the head would lay were the words “Kerwin Verkain.”

  Kron found himself sliding down to his knees. He thrust out his left hand, catching the coffin’s edge to halt his fall. He shook away the numbness that ate at the edges of his consciousness and hissed as his broken right shoulder taught his body new levels of agony.

  He bent over the coffin, closing his eyes and resting for a moment.

  This had to be done, and done quickly. Otherwise he would plunge into darkness, and death would follow.

  Kron shoved on the casket’s top with his good hand, but the lid would not budge. He cursed his weakness.

  A glance told him there were no nails embedded in the wood holding the lid closed.

  He grinned at his own helplessness and shoved again.

  The lid slid to one side with a scratching din, then clattered to the floor with a clattering of wood on stone.

  Kron stared down at the body.

  It was Randall, the healer’s visage looking at peace. The body was still, motionless in a white muslin tunic that spread to feet covered in pale slippers. A smile was on the face, and the skin looked healthy, fresh.

  Kron stared at the neck, Randall’s neck. The warrior had watched Verkain’s blade enter that neck. He had watched the blood flow. He had watched the look of anguish. He had watched his friend die.

  Now Randall Tendbones bore no wound nor scar.

  Kron’s eyes rolled back to white and he dropped to the floor, his body no longer able to hold him upright. His head smacked against the edge of the altar and he saw bright lights behind his lids. Then he saw no more.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  “Welcome.” The lord of Kobalos smiled at the lines of armored men seated on either side of the long table stretching before him. “I take it Captain Lendo has given word we march on the morn.”

  Several heads nodded, candelabras above shedding a rich glow off their silvered helms throughout the dining hall.

  At the opposite end of the table from Verkain sat Lendo, on his left Belgad, on his right Fortisquo. They watched a general, a bulky Kobalan with a long white beard, hoist himself out of his seat.

  “My lord,” the general said with his aged voice, “our understanding is all magical opposition has been crushed.”

  “That is correct, Sir Carthus.” Verkain leaned forward, his pale robes shifting around the legs of his chair. “Master Markwood is dead by my own hand. His comrade, too, has fallen to a war demon.”

  “What of the West’s other wizards, my lord?” Carthus asked.

  Verkain reached beneath the table. When his hand appeared again it gripped the handle of his heavy mace, a dried scarlet smear upon its flanged end. “I have this for them.” The king slammed the weapon’s head on the table, shaking bronze plates and silver wares laid out. “Markwood was the strongest, the last of The Twelve. Without him, the West is nothing.”

  There was a smattering of applause, leather and metal gauntlets slapping together.

  “The Eastern armies are ready,” Verkain went on. “Their general awaits word on the borders of the Prisonlands. Once we start moving south, I will send a messenger. Then war will begin. The pope will never suspect us, and it will be his undoing.”

  Belgad stared across the table at Fortisquo, his look telling a story of disbelief.

  Verkain slammed the mace against wood once more. “We march in twelve hours.”

  ***

  “What did the king have to say?” Sergeant Lerebus asked.

  Belgad strode along the center of the hall leading to his personal chamber, Fortisquo and the sergeant in step behind. Around them flowed the usual servants in dark tunics, as well as the occasional soldier in heavy plates or chain of black.

  The Dartague did not slow his momentum. “Verkain marches in twelve hours.”

  The three men came to the end of the hall as Fortisquo retrieved an iron key from a pocket and proceeded to unlock the door.

  “What are your plans?” Lerebus asked.

  Belgad glanced down the hallway, then motioned the other two inside.

  Minutes later, the three seated in separate cushioned chairs in front of a roaring fireplace, the barbarian spoke. “Fortisquo and I will be watched. Lendo would have told Verkain we were planning to leave before he defeated Markwood.”

  “I still find it difficult to believe Verkain triumphed over the old man, fool that he was,” Fortisquo said. “Tales of The Twelve still linger sixty years after the war.”

  “Verkain has no reason to lie, at least not to himself,” Belgad said. “Markwood had to be dealt with, now or in Bond.”

  “Are you leaving, then?” Lerebus asked.

  “We can’t leave now,” Belgad said. “Even if I wish it, the time for leaving is over. We are caught in Verkain’s plot.”

  Fortisquo grimaced. “Who would have thought the East and West would go to war again?”

  “Everyone,” Belgad said. “The Eastern pope, the Western pope, the Ruling Council. It was only a matter of time.”

  “The East wants its country united once more,” Lerebus said, “and Verkain wants everything.”

  ***

  “Kron.”

  The voice was distant and hollow, as if from across a wide tunnel.

  Kron tried to speak but his lips and tongue would not work. He had no mouth. Then he realized he had no face, nor a body. He could not feel. Existence was all. He could think, but he could not see, nor taste, nor smell, nor touch. But he could hear. He had heard Randall’s voice.

  “Kron.” It came again, this time nearer. It did not sound pleading nor alarmed. It was casual, as if the speaker were sitting across a table from Kron, two old friends gathering for a talk and perhaps a drink.

  Kron’s senses rushed back on
him. He nearly dropped to his knees, the suddenness of sensation slamming into him, forcing air from his lungs.

  He found himself in a field of green as high as his knees. A warm, powerful wind blew, enveloping him and flapping his black cloak out behind his strong body.

  His eyes went to the horizon. Far from him, and as far as he could see, a ring of gray mountains with snow-capped tops stood sturdy like hunched, armored warriors ready for battle. The sky was bright, the sun beating down and warming Kron’s face. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the heat of the day to wash over him.

  Kron Darkbow grinned. It was an unusual smile for him, not full of cynicism nor skepticism. It was a sign of true joy, not only of being alive, but of the simple physical pleasures the sun’s warmth brought to his flesh.

  “Kron.”

  He turned. The voice had sounded as if it were directly behind him. But no one was there, only more greenery stretching to the far mountains.

  Kron reached a hand to his right shoulder and found his sword gone. He glanced at his belt and his gloves and boots, but he carried nothing that dealt death.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he spotted a brightness on the horizon, a golden light that blinked but for a moment and then was gone like the last hint of sun at the end of the day.

  He turned and waited, but the radiance did not reappear.

  Kron began walking, marching in the direction he had seen the glow.

  He could not tell how much time had passed, for the sun hung eternally overhead, but it eventually felt as if he had walked miles and miles. The view had changed little, greenery all around with gray rock in the distance.

  “Kron.” The voice came once more.

  Kron stopped.

  “Show yourself,” he said softly. Then louder, “Show yourself!”

  The yellow glow blinked again, this time brighter and nearer.

  For a flash of a moment, Kron saw two figures facing one another in the light. They were surrounded by the light, the tawny glowing smothering their forms, leaving only vague shadows.

  Kron took off at a sprint.

  He ran and ran, but the mountains grew no closer and the sun did not lower. The light did not return, nor did the voice.

  Eventually he could run no more. His lungs burned and his muscles ached. He dropped on his knees into the grass, which was soft and warm like a bed of feathers.

  Darkness closed over him, then dissipated with a blink. He might have slept. He could not be sure, but he felt rested again. Still, the sun had not moved.

  Kron jumped to his feet and stared about, the familiar view of grass and mountains returning to his eyes.

  “Am I dead?”

  “No.”

  Kron spun.

  A dozen yards from him was a man, a stranger. Auburn hair hung to the collar of the fellow’s simple tunic. His face was that of a young man, in his twenties, and a thin beard spread across his chin.

  “Who are you?” Kron asked.

  “You knew me as Randall Tendbones.”

  Kron’s brows raised, dark eyes beneath. “You look nothing like him.”

  The man glanced down at his body. “No, I suppose I do not. My apologies. I will remedy that.”

  Kron blinked and Randall stood before him. The healer appeared well, his brown hair short and neat as always, a white robe stretching down to cover his lank frame.

  “Is this better?” Randall asked.

  Kron took a step back. “I could be in another of Verkain’s wards.”

  Randall shook his head. “Verkain has no control here.”

  “How can I know it’s truly you?”

  “You came seeking me,” Randall said. “Why, now, won’t you believe?”

  “I had a dream of Randall,” Kron said, “and I fought hard to find my friend, trusting that he above all others could save ... everything. But not so long ago I was caught in one of Verkain’s magical traps. It makes me suspect.”

  “I called out to you in your dream.”

  “Your word does not prove your identity,” Kron said.

  “Your birth name was Lucius Tallerus.”

  “Common enough knowledge.”

  “You love Adara Corvus.”

  Kron made no reply.

  Randall chuckled. “The same Kron Darkbow. I see you have changed little.”

  “I have changed,” Kron said. “When I first came to Kobalos, I came seeking revenge. Now I seek justice.”

  “You wield justice with weapons of anger,” Randall said. “I do not judge you for that. I merely point it out, for your own betterment.”

  “I’m more concerned with betterment of the world,” Kron said.

  “No. You are angry with the world.”

  Kron was silent.

  “But you don’t hate the world, Kron,” Randall said. “You hate yourself.”

  “Why would I hate myself?”

  “For living,” Randall said, “for surviving. You think you should have died in your parents’ place. You think you should have died instead of poor Wyck.”

  Kron turned away, staring at the horizon.

  “You think you should have died instead of Adara.”

  Kron spun on the healer. “I should have! I should have done something to save them, to save all of them!”

  “Not everyone can be saved.”

  “But some can!”

  “Yes, some can,” Randall said with a nod. “But there are those who do not wish to be saved.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your parents,” Randall said.

  Kron balled his right hand into a fist. “Mind what you say.”

  “They did not die needlessly,” Randall said. “They were protecting you.”

  Kron turned away again.

  “Everyone dies,” Randall said. “Everyone.”

  “They did not have to die that night.”

  “Perhaps not,” Randall said, “but that was not the fault of the little boy who was their son.”

  “That little boy became a man and sought out their killer.”

  “And what did you accomplish?”

  “I made the world safer by removing Trelvigor,” Kron said. “I’ve yet to finish with Belgad.”

  “How do you know Trelvigor would not have changed his ways at some point?” Randall asked. “He might have gained in wisdom as he grew in age. Perhaps he would have saved a child, or helped a beggar, or any number of things.”

  Kron smirked.

  “And there is more to Belgad than you know,” Randall said. “Not all is at it seems with that one.”

  “He is owed for many deaths,” Kron said.

  Randall was silent for a moment, then, “Would you damn yourself for pettiness and revenge?”

  Kron stared into the healer’s eyes. “If the price to save others is eternal damnation, then it is a debt I will gladly pay.”

  Randall shook his head. “You sadden me, Kron Darkbow.”

  “Why? What is my soul to you?”

  “After witnessing my death, I had believed you had changed.”

  Kron pointed at the healer. “I don’t know how you would know such things,” he said. “I’m not even sure I believe you are Randall Tendbones. I watched Randall’s throat split wide by Verkain’s knife.”

  “And you saw my throat healed in the cathedral.”

  Kron stared about them, taking in the greenery again. “I don’t even know where I am.”

  “You are nowhere.”

  Kron glared at the man in front of him. “Then why do I feel the warm breeze? Why do I smell the heat of Spring?”

  “Your senses fool you,” Randall answered.

  Kron closed his eyes and shook his head. “You first appeared to me as another. Why would Randall do such?”

  “It is too soon for that,” Randall said. “You would not believe.”

  “I’m not sure I believe any of this,” Kron said, looking up at the healer. “It makes as much sense that I’ve died and a
m being punished for my sins.”

  “In your time, you have seen many wonders,” Randall said. “You witnessed the destruction of the Asylum by magic, you’ve fought demons, and you know Markwood could perform amazing feats. You know magic. You believe in magic. Can you not believe I live?”

  “People do not return from death,” Kron said. “Not even holy Ashal accomplished that.”

  “Perhaps Ashal did not wish to return. Or perhaps he did, and remained silent of it.”

  Kron grimaced. “If it were possible, then why does no one else return? Why can’t my parents come back, or Wyck, or Adara?”

  “Markwood too is dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “He perished in battle with Verkain.”

  Kron’s stare held steady, remained hard. “There is no reason I should trust anything you say. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Moments ago you saw two people together in the light,” Randall said. “You thought they were your parents, coming to greet you to the world beyond.”

  Kron said nothing, rocked back on his feet by the sting of truth in the others’ words.

  “It was not your kin,” Randall said. “It was Markwood and myself.”

  “Then where is Maslin?”

  “He has passed on,” Randall said. “He did not wish to return. He had a good life, and a long life. He trusted in me to put everything right once more.”

  “Are you suggesting you can give life back to the dead?”

  Randall hesitated to speak, his lips opening before he stopped himself.

  “Well?”

  “In some instances.”

  “Prove this to me. Return my parents,” Kron said. “Then I will trust you are Randall.”

  “I cannot do that,” the healer said.

  “Charlatan.”

  “No,” Randall said. “Your parents’ souls moved on years ago. As has Wyck’s.”

  “What of Adara?”

  “Her spirit roams the land still,” Randall said. “She will move on when she is ready.”

  “You could save her?” Kron asked.

  The healer bowed his head. “I could.”