Dark King Of The North (Book 3)

by Ty Johnston

  The woman held out a hand. “Help me stand.”

  ***

  The castle awoke quickly though silently. Guards in chain links, servants in muslin and slaves in rags opened their eyes wherever they lay. Soon they were on their feet, dazed looks on their faces, and wondering what had happened. No one asked questions. Lips remained closed as eyes looked to eyes, searching for answers. But all knew something had changed with their waking and with the rising of the morning sun. It was a new day in Kobalos.

  When Captain Lendo came to, he found himself entangled in a heap of soldiers, some dead and others waking like their chief. He also found himself staring up at Belgad the Liar and a bloody Adara Corvus.

  “Your king wants word with you,” Belgad informed the captain.

  Lendo’s eyes found Fortisquo laid out on the floor with thickening blood covering the sword master’s throat. The captain looked back to the bald man standing over him. “Last I remember, you were to answer questions concerning treason.”

  “Treasonous no longer.” The Dartague wrapped an arm around Adara to help her stand. “Your king awaits you in his throne room, and he wants other officers present.”

  “Which ones?” the captain asked.

  “He did not specify.”

  Lendo grumbled and climbed to his feet, as did the other Kobalans who were still living.

  Seeing he had a number of his own men with him, Lendo’s bravery grew. “I suppose you are to blame for this.” He pointed from Belgad to the dead littering the hall’s floor.

  “Some,” the barbarian answered.

  “Murdering a Kobalan soldier is treason,” Lendo said.

  Belgad grimaced. “You will want to speak with your king before trying to arrest us.”

  Lendo glanced to his standing men. They were awake but still groggy with confused faces. “Find Sergeant Lerebus and a few other officers,” he ordered. “Send them to the main hall.”

  A man ran off.

  Lendo looked back to Belgad and Adara. “You’re coming with us.”

  “Of course,” the big, bald man said.

  ***

  It was some little while before everyone found their way to the throne room.

  Belgad and Adara, with Lendo and soldiers following, arrived first; there were some few grumblings among the captain and his guards upon finding Verkain dead, though they kept their words to themselves. With splashes of blood upon the floor and the disarray of the chamber, it was obvious combat had taken place and Randall and Kron were the ones left standing. By Kobalan laws of challenge and succession, laws older than Verkain’s reign, Randall now appeared to be king.

  “My lord, may I speak?” Lendo asked from the bottom of the steps of the throne.

  “We will wait for others to arrive,” Randall said, standing to the right of the ruling chair. “But bring any injured forward so I may relieve them of their pains.”

  Next to show were Sergeant Lerebus and a handful of captains and generals, their swords and armor clinking as they marched into the room. Their eyes opened wide upon learning Verkain no longer ruled the land.

  Soon the mass of Kobalan military men had joined into a gathering before and below the throne. The room was as silent as a tomb as the group stared up to their apparent new leader.

  “I thank you all for coming,” Randall said, still next to the throne. “Chaos is not unknown when a kingdom changes hands, and I wish to dispel any chance of that happening here. Kobalos has been through enough.”

  The room remained silent, many eyes drifting from the ashen spot on the floor that had been their old king to the robed youth before them.

  “In the past, anyone too powerful, anyone my father perceived as a threat, was dealt with in short fashion,” Randall went on. “I wish to assure all of you this will not be my policy. Despite our recent ... troubles ... I have no grudges.”

  More than a few sighs of relief spread through the crowd.

  Randall continued, stretching his voice over the gathering. “As last surviving member of the Verkain line, it is my duty to claim the throne.”

  All eyes remained on the speaker.

  Randall held his chin high, looking the part of a youthful patriarch overseeing his flock. “At this point it would seem customary for a new ruler to declare his intentions for the future. However, I am no such king. I am not meant to be king. That privilege was forsaken three years ago when I fled, leaving all your fates in the hands of my father. For that, I am regretful.”

  Whispers grew throughout the room, the curiosity building. Questioning eyes darted about, each man looking from one to another then back to Randall.

  “Besides,” the healer continued, “I do not want to be king.”

  The whispering stopped, as did the wandering eyes. The roomful of hardy men in armor seemed afraid to exhale.

  “What are you doing?” Kron whispered to the robed healer next to him.

  Randall glanced at his dark-garbed companion but went on speaking to the crowd. “I have duties elsewhere. I could perform those duties here, to heal the suffering caused by my father, but I know of a man better suited than I to rule Kobalos. He has experience as a leader of men, and he carries in him the strength needed to take this nation beyond the tyranny my father wrought.”

  Randall held out a hand to the barbarian standing next to Lerebus and Adara at the bottom of the steps. “Come forward, Belgad Thunderclan.”

  The big, bald Dartague grinned and tromped up the stairs.

  “I hereby yield my throne to you!” Randall shouted for all to hear. “Belgad Thunderclan, take your rightful place as king of Kobalos.”

  The throng of officers exploded in shouts and clankings of armor and shield. Some voices were accusatory, but most were full of surprise and some with glee. All knew the reputation of Belgad the Liar, and most would have to agree he had the strength and will to take hold of Kobalos. Belgad was no dangerous lunatic such as Verkain, but he was not a man to be crossed.

  Kron grabbed Randall by an arm. “You can’t be serious. This man is a killer, a murderer.”

  “He is suited well for leading my homeland,” Randall said. “Unlike my father, I consider what is best for my people.”

  Kron glared at the Dartague as the large man came to a halt in front of the throne and eased into the royal seat, the smile still large on Belgad’s face.

  Kron’s iron gaze returned to the healer. “You betrayed me.”

  Then the man in black fled through the secret passage behind the throne.

  Randall motioned for Adara. “Go after him,” he pleaded. “Please keep him from doing anything rash.”

  Gripping the hilt of her rapier, the woman charged past the throne and disappeared behind the hanging tapestry.

  Holding his grin and remaining silent, Belgad looked out from his new throne of black, rough stone. The din of those gathered was already dying beneath the stare of their new ruler.

  “With official witnesses present,” Randall yelled, pointing to Lerebus and the other officers, “I declare Belgad Thunderclan king of Kobalos with all its lands and titles.”

  ***

  “Kron! Wait!”

  The man in black did not heed the words. He continued to tromp down the stairs in darkness, the beating of his heart in time with the drumming of his boots on stone.

  He soon found himself in a familiar hallway, but he was not alone. Adara was right behind him, sprinting out the secret stairwell after him.

  She chased him down the hall, running at first, then going into step beside him as he marched on.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He said nothing, but gave her a moody glance out of the corner of his eyes as he continued on his way.

  She jumped ahead of him, attempting to block his path.

  Kron sidestepped her, but she thrust out a hand and grabbed him by an arm. “Stop this! We need to talk.”

  He did not fight her as he halted. “I have nothing to say.”

  “
I know how you must feel.”

  His lips drew back to reveal gritted teeth.

  “Randall is doing what he thinks is best,” Adara said, “what he believes is best for his people and for himself.”

  “By putting another despot on the throne?”

  “He’s giving his people another chance,” Adara said. “Belgad is many things, but foremost he’s a capitalist. As much as Randall’s decision is a surprise, I can’t fault it. I can think of no one better suited than Belgad to get Kobalos back on its feet.”

  Kron moved as if to bolt past her. “He is a murderer.”

  Adara tugged on his arm again. “Who are you to judge? You left a swath of destruction from Bond to Mogus Potere. No wonder Belgad could always find us, dead men were all along our trail.”

  “We’ve had this discussion.”

  “Yes, in the Prisonlands.”

  “I am no longer that man.”

  “Telling yourself you’re a better man doesn’t make it so.”

  “I am better than Belgad!” Kron shouted.

  Adara took a step back, her right hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of her rapier.

  Kron turned away. “I am sorry I yelled.”

  Adara lowered her hand to her side. “You should not have done that,” she said. “Your anger, your hate ... they are why we can never be.”

  “I love you.” The words were a surprise, as much to him as to her.

  “And I love you,” Adara returned, “but ... we would never work.”

  Kron’s shoulders sagged.

  She wrapped her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest.

  His head slowly lifted, his eyes leading the way, staring at the top of her head. He ran a gloved hand through her hair, gently brushing aside the tangles of combat. “What am I to do?”

  “You go to Randall,” Adara said, “and you apologize. Then you make peace with Belgad.”

  “If I do this, will you—”

  “No. You have to do this for yourself, not for me.”

  Kron closed his eyes.

  ***

  The word of Verkain’s death and Randall’s abdication traveled as a storm throughout the castle and the city beyond, swirling about crowds of the curious then striking swiftly in one place or another. Slaves and soldiers alike chatted, confused and unsure about their sudden change of fortunes; most were glad to no longer be under Verkain’s boot, but many were leery of Belgad.

  In some few instances, generals or nobles tried to gather troops to them in an attempt to make their own bid for the Kobalan throne. But news of this also traveled swiftly. The populace itself put a stop to any rebellion without Belgad having to raise a hand. For two hundred years these people and their ancestors had lived in fear, but with the source of that fear gone their courage grew like flames on tinder. Within hours, any rebellious officers were slain, pelted to death in the streets, or if they were lucky, taken into custody by the city’s guards to await their fate at Belgad’s word. Fortunately for all, what fighting there was was brief.

  Because of this mess, it was several hours before Kron and Adara saw Randall and Belgad again. The castle was jostling with messengers and servants running to and fro, spreading more news or delivering orders from their new ruler.

  Eventually Adara sent word to Randall through a sergeant of the guards, and she and Kron were called to what had been Fortisquo’s personal quarters but now served as an impromptu meeting room, at least until the new lord could have a proper private chamber prepared for himself.

  Kron surveyed the room from an upright position on a couch. Arranged throughout the chamber were the other members of the gathering. Adara sat across from Kron, propped in a chair next to the closed door to the hall outside. Looming in a door frame that led to the bedroom beyond was the tall Dartague, the new king. To Kron’s left was Randall, also sitting upright in a simple wooden folding chair.

  “So, we are all here,” the healer began.

  “Yes,” from Adara.

  Belgad leaned against the door frame surrounding him, causing the wood to creak. “To what end?” he asked, shifting his shoulders so the huge sword strapped to his back did not knock against the wall.

  Kron’s eyes darted to the Dartague.

  “Certain matters need to be laid to rest before we continue,” Randall said, “and before we go our separate ways.”

  “You are leaving?” Adara asked.

  “I will return to Bond,” the healer answered.

  “But why?” Adara sat forward in her chair. “There is much here that needs done.”

  “Kobalos is no longer my home,” Randall explained. “Bond is my home. West Ursia is my home. I am needed there.”

  “You could do so much good here,” Adara said.

  “I’m sure I could,” Randall said. “This country needs healing, but not the kind I can provide. It needs someone who can help it heal itself, from the inside.”

  “That is where my services shall be essential,” Belgad said.

  Kron sneered, his top lip curling back.

  Randall motioned toward the Dartague. “Belgad was a chieftain of his people. By his own hand he built an empire of commerce in the West.” The healer glanced to Adara and Kron. “That is the kind of king Kobalos needs now. This nation has been isolated for far too long.”

  A smile on Belgad’s lips widened. “I have already sent messengers to the Eastern army. The invasion of the Prisonlands will not commence, though I am offering diplomatic and economic ties to the pope.”

  “What could you possibly have to offer?” Kron’s thin voice piped in.

  “Gems,” Belgad answered. “The Kobalan hills are full of them. It’s how Verkain kept his treasury stable for so long despite a lack of outside trade. I will be changing his policy.”

  “Before you change any more policies, we have unfinished business.” Kron stood with his hands at his sides, his fingers twitching as if wanting to grab the larger man by the throat.

  “Sit down,” Randall said.

  Kron turned his glare on the healer.

  Adara’s eyes slid from Randall to Kron to Belgad, the big man still smiling. She could feel the tension in the air, as if a heaviness had been added to the atmosphere.

  “Kron, I can put an entire castle to sleep,” Randall warned. “Do not force me to act against you.”

  The man in black’s harsh eyes remained locked on those of the healer for a moment, then Kron eased back onto the couch.

  Belgad chuckled.

  Randall glared at the new king. “He has reasons for his hate.”

  “All unfounded,” the Dartague said.

  “What are you talking about?” Kron spat.

  “The deaths of your mother and father.”

  Kron grimaced. “I came here to avenge Wyck,” he said, “and that has been accomplished. But it seems I am to be denied the blood debt owed my parents these fifteen years.”

  Without a blink, Belgad stared into the hard eyes of his nemesis. “The man who killed the Tallerus clan was dead months ago.”

  Kron placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “I did not order the deaths of your parents,” Belgad explained. “I only wanted your family frightened so your uncle would not testify against my release from the Prisonlands. Whether tragic accident or the bumblings of an inept wizard, I do not know, but it was Trelvigor who slew your kin.”

  Kron stared at his boots, his face ashen.

  “It is true,” Randall said. “My incantations have tested the veracity of Belgad’s words.”

  Belgad held out a hand to the man in black, an offering of truce. “One does not make peace with one’s friends. I am willing to set aside our vendetta.”

  Adara shoved up from her chair and rushed across the room, kneeling in front of Kron and wrapping her arms about his shoulders.

  “I did not know,” Kron whispered.

  “Of course not,” Randall said. “You’ve been carrying this hate to no purpose.”
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  Kron gently pushed Adara away. “No, not for no purpose,” he said. “My hate kept me motivated, and in the end it saved some of us from Verkain.”

  Adara grinned, tears wetting her checks. “No, that was your sense of righteousness.”

  Belgad made an ugly face and planted a hand against his stomach. “I believe I’m going to be ill.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Duke Roward’s mailed hand formed into a fist, crunching the scroll therein. He stared down at the man on his knees before him, a fellow with shaggy black hair above a shirt of blacker chain. “This cannot be true,” the duke said.

  “It is,” the man on the ground said. “I swear it on my soul. I swear it ... I swear it upon the name of Ashal.”

  A collective gasp slipped from the lips of the circle of armored officers and soldiers surrounding the general and Captain Lendo, the unfortunate kneeler who had delivered the new Kobalan king’s missive. Several hands reached for the swords at their belts, but a signal from their leader belayed those actions.

  “What were you to Verkain?” Roward asked.

  Lendo stared up at his questioner. “Captain of his personal guard.”

  “And to Belgad?”

  Lendo gulped, taking in cool air. “My prospects remain uncertain with the new liege. Thus far my only command has been to deliver his message to you, Duke Roward, General of the Northern Army of East Ursia.”

  Roward held up the crumbled scroll. “Did you realize the contents of this letter?”

  “I did not know the exact words,” Lendo said, “but I can surmise what it would say.”

  “And did you believe any of it would be to my liking? Or to the liking of his most holiness, Pope Joyous III?”

  “It ... it is not mine to question the king of Kobalos. I merely did as I was ordered.”

  Roward tossed aside the paper and gripped the Kobalan by his chin of thick, curling hair. “Was it not conceivable to you that I would have slain the messenger of this letter?”

  Lendo’s eyes locked onto those of the East Ursian general. “It would be my guess that is why Lord Belgad named me as the bearer.”