Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (18 page)

Belgad turned and exited with the taller man following. The two made their way along dreary halls, the morning sun shedding weak rays on them through the castle’s high windows as slaves and soldiers alike passed by.

After several minutes Belgad brought them out upon a terrace that overlooked much of the city and the gray lands beyond its walls. The two stopped at the edge of the battlements and stared outward. Directly below was a narrow street bustling with morning activity, animals and men crossing paths. Further away, outside the city’s front gates, army tents billowed in a gentle breeze; smoke from a hundred camps rose to the sky like a snake charmed, whirling about before disappearing in the clouds. Lines of soldiers in black armor formed near the gates, preparing for their daily training regimen.

Belgad pointed toward the encamped soldiers. “You would not make it ten miles.”

“Verkain will be too busy to notice my absence,” Fortisquo said.

“You believe so?” Belgad asked. “All this time he has seemed uninterested in Kron Darkbow, but rumor is he will bring demons against our foe.”

“Only because Kron rescued Markwood.”

“Perhaps,” Belgad said, “but either way, Darkbow has proven a threat to the Lord of Kobalos, and Verkain will not let it pass.”

“I will take my chances,” Fortisquo said, turning to leave.

A strong hand gripped the swordsman by the shoulder.

Fortisquo looked back at Belgad.

“Wait a few days,” the Dartague said. “Once the march to the Prisonlands begins, Verkain will be truly busy. We can slip away in the night and be in the mountains before our absence is noted.”

“
You
are leaving?”

“I have had enough,” Belgad said. “I’ve wasted too much time and too many resources in the hunt for Darkbow, and the man isn’t likely to survive long if he remains in Kobalos. Besides, I didn’t build an empire in Bond just to let it be wiped away by the likes of Verkain. He’s offered us nothing for our loyalty, thus I see no reason to remain loyal.”

“You realize the war is inevitable,” Fortisquo said. “You could still lose everything.”

Belgad nodded again. “You are right. Once the invasion begins, war will be inevitable. The East and West have been slavering at each others’ throats for too long. But that doesn’t mean we can’t take sides.”

Fortisquo’s eyes widened. “You’re siding with the West.”

“I’ve already sided with the West,” Belgad said. “I’m a knight of the republic, appointed by the Western pontiff himself. It’s my home now.”

“Do you go to warn the Council?” Fortisquo asked.

“I doubt there is a need for a warning,” Belgad said. “I’m sure the Ruling Council already knows what is happening here. They have their scouts and mages.”

Fortisquo grinned. “It’s not like you to play the hero.”

Belgad’s reply was a dark glare.

***

Sunlight creeping between a crack in the window shutters woke Kron as it stretched across his face.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then stared about for a moment to remember where he was. The small, dank room offered shelter, but little more. There was no wood for the fireplace, and the dirty bed on which Markwood slept was not fit for vermin. Kron’s own seat, a hard wooden chair with a stiff back, was cracked and dusty. Still, the place was a sanctuary.

The black-cloaked figure lifted to his feet and stared between the shutter’s cracks. He could make out dark-garbed folk passing by outside, their heads sunk low to their chest as they shuffled along. The front door and windows in the brick building across the street had been opened, and a folding sign set in front of the place proclaimed it to be an apothecary’s shop.

A rustling from behind caused Kron to turn back to the room. He found a yawning Markwood sitting up on his elbows.

“You’re awake,” Kron said.

“I’m alive, thanks to you.” The wizard still looked weak but somewhat rested. “Where are we?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I cast the spell blindly, hoping for a safe haven. My strength was low, so I’m supposing we are still in Mogus Potere.”

“I believe so,” Kron said. “The people on the street look as cheerful as corpses.”

The old wizard glanced around the room. “This place is as good as any. Looks abandoned. Was probably someone’s house at one time.”

Kron pulled a tattered cloak from a peg on a wall and tossed it to the wizard. “Sorry. That’s the best I can offer.”

Markwood wrapped himself in the coarse cloth, covering his near nakedness and the makeshift bandages on his chest. “I thank you again,” he said, “and for wrapping my wounds.”

“Thank me when we leave Kobalos with Randall.”

“Randall?” Markwood said. “Yes, you mentioned him. The boy is dead. Surely you know that.”

“He came to me in a dream,” Kron said. “I don’t remember everything he said, but something ...”

“It gave you hope.”

“Something like that. How did you know?”

“It’s in your eyes,” Markwood said. “They are not as hard as before.”

Kron squinted one eye, scowling.

Markwood chuckled. “That’s the Kron Darkbow I know.”

“Randall is alive,” Kron said. “I’m sure of it. He told me so.”

“Wizards can speak through dreams,” Markwood said, “but I’ve never heard of a spellcaster coming back from beyond the grave. As far as I know, only Ashal could have accomplished such a feat, and it’s never been proven whether he was a mage or something else entirely.”

Kron stared at the old wizard, looking up and down his frail frame. “How much time do you need to heal?”

“A few days, at least,” Markwood replied. “I could cast now, if needed, but it would drain me again.”

“Are you sure we’re safe here?”

“Not even Verkain should find us unless he sends soldiers building to building.”

“It would be a waste of resources,” Kron said, “but then, he has thousands of soldiers camped outside the city.”

“I learned much in Verkain’s dungeon,” Markwood said. “He is planning to invade the Prisonlands soon, and Belgad and Fortisquo are with him.”

Kron looked surprised. “Belgad has thrown in with Verkain? I thought we had lost him. What about the woman wizard?”

“I didn’t see her.”

“And the Eastern bishop at the ceremony?”

“That’s where Verkain’s madness almost appears to be genius,” Markwood said. “This invasion ... the East is part of it. They’re working with Verkain.”

“Doesn’t make sense. They were enemies in the last war.”

“That was sixty years ago. Times change, and now Verkain and the pope are working together against the West.”

“Verkain invades the Lands, then the East sweeps in to restore order,” Kron said. “You’re right. It has its own genius.”

“The worst part will come when the West interferes,” Markwood said. “The Ruling Council won’t be able not to send forces to the Prisonlands, what with the invasion and the East suddenly on their borders again.”

“It’ll be a disaster,” Kron said. “The pope’s troops and Verkain’s magic ... the West can probably hold out for a few years, but eventually —”

“By then the East will be weakened,” Markwood added. “Verkain will be free to work his magic against the pontiff’s forces.”

Kron shook his head. “Other nations would intervene. Caballerus, Jorsica, perhaps Dartague.”

“Caballerus has a young king,” Markwood said. “He is not secure enough in his station to act. And the Jorsicans and Dartague? They’re mighty warriors, true, but it’s difficult for even the fiercest chieftain to keep the clans united for any amount of time.”

“In a matter of years Verkain will have free rein. Can it be that simple?”

“I would guess Verkain has been planning this for some time.”

“There has to be something we can do.”

“A direct assault on Verkain by the two of us would be suicide,” Markwood said, “even once I’m in better health. I only confronted him at the castle because I was hoping to surprise him, then whisk Randall away.”

“Could you get help from Bond?”

“I could,” Markwood said, “but if I returned to Kobalos with wizards bent on slaying Verkain, it would be seen as an assassination attempt against a sovereign lord. It would still mean war, if not with Kobalos then with the East.”

Kron nodded agreement.

“However, your dream of Randall has sparked my interest, and my hope,” Markwood said. “Tell me more.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Kron said. “I was exhausted and passed out on the cliffs by the sea. Randall came to me, but I remember little of his words.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“He said something about coming face to face with Creation,” Kron said. “Then he told me he could return, but he needed rest. He told me to help you escape.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I remember. I seem to think Adara was there, with Randall ... but I’m not sure. I was tired. My mind could have been playing tricks on me.”

“I wonder,” the wizard said.

“What?”

“Within studies of magic there have long been stories of a creator god,” Markwood said. “Ashal spoke of such a being, but this god has never been worshiped. The early church took it that Ashal was speaking about himself.”

“What does this have to do with our situation?”

“Ancient manuscripts say Ashal was in tune with this creator, that Ashal would return one day because of eternal life granted by the Creator.”

“I still do not understand.”

“If Randall has had contact with this Creator, this god, there is no telling what might happen.”

“What do we do?”

“If Randall is alive, we need to find where his body is located,” Markwood said. “It would make sense his soul could still dwell in his original form.”

“You said you had never heard of a healer returning from the dead,” Kron said.

“A powerful enough wizard can do almost anything,” Markwood said. “It depends upon his inner strength, his willpower. Besides, there’s always a first time, and the inclusion of this Creator could change everything.”

***

Duke Roward thrust through the tent’s flaps and slammed down his helm, the silvered headpiece spinning across the floor of packed earth to crash into an iron torch stand. As the general roared and pulled at his hair, the stand went tumbling, flames sparking forth and catching upon a small, folding table loaded with maps of linen.

The fire built swiftly, the drawings eaten away sheet by sheet, but Roward paid it no mind. He spun about, hammering a mailed fist into a stack of armor. The blow rang out, leaving a fresh dent in a chest plate.

The sounds of heavy footsteps outside came abruptly, soon followed by a trio of young officers in chain shirts poking their heads through the flaps.

They found their leader kicking  over the flaming table and lashing out at a robe hanging from a tent pole.

The boldest of the three dashed forward, grabbing a pitcher and tossing its contents onto the flames. The fire died swiftly, but Roward’s mood did not.

The duke spun on the nearest of the three, the young man holding the stone pitcher. “Fool! You’ve just destroyed a hundred-year-old Jorsican wine!” Then the general drew a dagger.

The pitcher bearer made haste to flee, his two companions not far behind. They bound down a grassy hill between row upon row of smaller, dark blue tents, soldiers pointing and laughing at them as they ran.

Eventually the runners came to a halt near a brook. The one still held onto the pitcher, but he dropped the object next to a tree stump upon which he soon sat. The other two dropped to their knees, catching their wind after their flight.

“What vexes him?” one asked the others.

The man sitting kicked the jug at his feet, sending the pitcher skittering into the rambling creek. “Ashal knows! But let him try that again and my uncle will hear about it.”

“Your uncle is what disturbs the duke this day,” the third of them said.

“What say you?”

“Have you not heard? The good bishop was to send message this morning, a note proving his safety and relaying the latest from Mogus Potere.”

“There has been no word? My uncle has been silent?”

“The bishop’s messenger never appeared, nor did any other of his retinue.”

“The duke fears betrayal,” the other kneeling man said, standing slowly to ease his knees. “I can’t say I blame him, what with Verkain’s history.”

“Why have we not dispatched spies?” the seated officer asked.

“The duke ordered it, but none have returned.”

The three looked at one another, their gray glances revealing concern. Much was at stake for their homeland of East Ursia, and much hinged on the Kobalans playing their part.

The seated man began, “If Verkain turns against us — ”

“Then it will mean war again,” the standing officer said.

The last man kneeling spat into the brook. “We’re here for war, but we expected it with the Western blasphemers. Verkain may be heathen, pagan and deluded, but he never spit on the Circle of Ashal.”

“I put nothing past Verkain.”

“True enough,” the seated man stated. “I’ve heard tell Belgad Thunderclan is now among his subjects.”

The other two shot hard, surprised glances upon their friend.

“It’s true,” the seated one went on. “They say Belgad has joined Verkain’s inner circle as an adviser or general.”

The standing officer chuckled. “Does Roward know this?”

“I’m sure he does. It was mentioned in the last dispatch from my uncle.”

The kneeling youth straightened. “The man the pope hates the most. I’m sure Joyous III would be gratified to know Belgad was working with the Kobalans. It might change his mind about these dealings with Verkain.”

“We wait to hear from the bishop,” the other one standing said. “And we only act upon the word of the duke, whatever role Belgad should fill.”

The other two were silent.

“Agreed?”

Heads nodded, but none seemed overjoyed.

***

Stelga had been a slave all her thirty years. She had been born into the home of a Kobalan duke, Lord Baritroke. The earliest chores she could remember were helping her mother and father in folding the duke’s fine clothes. When Stelga was old enough, in her early teens, Lord Baritroke noticed her and brought her to his bed chamber; unlike many Kobalan nobles, Baritroke had been gentle, never harming Stelga and never forcing himself upon her. She had done her duty in her master’s bed because it was expected of her.