Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (2 page)

Karitha and Fortisquo grinned at one another.

“Never thought I’d return to the Prisonlands willingly,” Belgad said as he tromped away.

***

Far to the south behind the two horseback riders loomed the white tops of the mountain range known as the Needles, a river from that direction running to the east of Kron Darkbow and Randall Tendbones. The pair appeared as opposites, Kron in black leathers and carrying a sword and bow on his back, while Randall rode in simple white robes and was armed with only a small blade on his belt. Kron looked ready for war. Randall looked ready for peace, his pale garb revealing his trade as a healer.

Ahead of them lay a land more drab than Kron had experienced. Leafless gray trees dotted the bleak land that supported little other life than pale grass and sporadic dead scrub. The dismal, colorless country spread out before them to the horizon like an enormous cemetery.

Randall was home. After three years of hiding from his father, the prince of Kobalos had returned, but it brought no smile to his features.

“Cheerful country,” Kron said as they trotted alongside the river, breaking the silence that had existed between them for hours.

Randall’s glance at his fellow traveler suggested the young healer had been enjoying the quiet. It had been a week since their reunion after Kron’s escape from a family of cannibals in the Prisonlands and the two had spoken little since. Until that morning they had been traveling with a group of well-armed border wardens, men charged with guarding the Prisonlands, thus they had not had much opportunity to share words. Kron normally was not one much for talk, but after a week of keeping to himself Randall decided he liked the silence. It meant he did not have to think about what lay before him.

But now Kron had spoken, and his two sarcastic words had opened an emotional floodgate for Randall. Yes, the healer knew his nation was not much to look upon, but it was still home.

“Where are the border patrols?” Kron glanced around, bringing Randall out of his thoughts.

“There are none. Who in their right mind wants to
enter
Kobalos?”

The words made Kron grin, a rare sight Randall had not seen in weeks, since Adara had left them to join the border wardens.

Randall often thought about the sword-fighting woman; the last he had seen of her had been at the wardens’ camp in the southern Prisonlands. She had decided to stay with the wardens instead of riding further with Kron and himself. Darkbow had proven too dark a companion, let alone a potential lover, for the woman. The healer understood. Sometimes Kron’s steely gaze was unnerving, like that of a wolf on the hunt.

Since leaving Adara, Randall had had plenty of time to think about his journey. He was traveling to his homeland, Kobalos, to confront his father. He had hidden from Lord Verkain for three years, but his father had discovered he was hiding in the city of Bond. Randall had fled with Kron and Adara, but Kron had talked him into fleeing no longer. The man in black had strongly suggested Randall needed to face his father. After much talk, Randall had decided Kron was right. He had run, he had hidden and he had been found out. And people had died because of it, including a twelve-year-old boy named Wyck who had been Kron’s friend.

Randall didn’t know what would happen, whether he would be killed or if he could talk sense into his mad father’s mind, but he knew he had to finish what had started three years ago when he had last seen his homeland. He couldn’t hide forever, and he wanted no one else to suffer because of him.

Randall had to face his father. There was no other way around it. If it became a kill-or-be-killed situation, he didn’t know if he could slay his father, but he knew Kron would have no qualms about slaying Lord Kaywan Verkain.

“We’re going to need supplies,” Kron commented as they rode. “I’ve seen no villages. Where can we buy food?”

“You can’t buy anything in Kobalos,” Randall explained. “Lord Verkain owns everything. The only coin legal in the country is what he has in his coffers.”

“Makes for a poor economy.”

“Yes, it does,” Randall agreed. “The only ones who have any coin are the military, and they don’t need it because everything is free for their taking. The rest of the nation struggles with a bartering system.”

“Primitive.”

“It keeps the populace in check,” Randall said. “Without gold or silver, they can’t afford weapons or mercenaries.”

“Sounds as if your father expects a rebellion.”

“My father
always
expects a rebellion.”

“Should I hunt for our meals?”

Randall shook his head. “We’re too near the Prisonlands for any population, but in another day or two we should run across some serf homes. They will feed us. They’re used to doing what they’re told, and you look too Kobalan not to be a military officer.”

Kron glanced down at his black attire. “I do strike a Kobalan flare, don’t I?”

“But can you pass as Kobalan?” Randall asked. “Do you know the language?”

“I learned several languages in the Prisonlands,” Kron said with a fluent Kobalan brogue.

An unseen crackle in the air, like invisible lightning, sounded in front of them and caused Randall’s horse to stall. Kron looked up and pulled his steed to a stop in time to keep from running over an old man in long robes and a course traveling cloak, the hood pulled up to cover most of his lengthy, gray hair.

“Maslin Markwood.” Randall smiled as he dismounted and approached the old friend.

“Well met, my boy,” the mage said, taking Randall’s hand, shaking it firmly, then grasping the boy at the shoulders for a stout hug.

Kron dropped from his horse and approached, holding the reins of his own steed and taking those of Randall’s.

Markwood turned toward the man in black, hesitated a moment, then put out a hand.

Kron too paused, then shook the hand, with a slight smile.

Markwood returned the grin. “My apologies about that business in the Prisonlands,” he said. “ I don’t know everything that happened there, but I see the young lady is no longer with you.”

Kron and Randall exchanged uneasy glances.

“I saw her last riding with the border patrol in the Lands,” Markwood said.

“You’re aware of what’s going on there?” Randall asked.

“It’s brought me much concern, and has drawn the attention of more than a few of my associates,” the mage said.

Kron raised an eyebrow. “Other wizards?”

“Governments, too,” Markwood said. “The exiles receiving weapons is a serious matter, one that could have worldly consequences.”

“Do you know where the weapons came from?” Kron asked.

“I have suspicions,” Markwood said.

“Who?” Kron asked.

“I believe it is Lord Verkain,” Markwood said.

Randall appeared stunned at the mention of his father.

“He could be using the Prisonlands as a diversion,” Markwood said, “and more than a few of the exiles have been brought into his fold.”

“But why?” Randall asked.

“The prophecy,” Markwood said. “You’re drawing near to him, which is why his war demons have not pestered you in some time. He sees no reason to waste resources when you are coming of your own accord.”

“He’s keeping the wardens and other nations focused on the Prisonlands while he draws together his army,” Kron conjectured.

“Exactly right,” the wizard said. “He already has armies stationed near his capital.”

Randall shook his head. “This can’t be. Not this soon. Kobalos isn’t that big of a country. Even with the East and West preoccupied, he couldn’t raise an army large enough to defeat either of them, let alone both.”

“You yourself have said the man is insane,” Kron said. “He believes in this prophecy of the end of days, and how he’s the Dark King of the North.”

“And the next step for him is to slay
you
.” Markwood glared at Randall.

“We’re walking into the dragon’s mouth,” Randall said with a blank look.

“Yes, you most certainly are.” Markwood grinned as he gripped the youth by a shoulder. “But that’s why I am here. To stay this time.”

“It’s about time.” Kron smirked. “We could use a solid mage.”

Markwood chuckled. “I’m little more than an old codger.”

“What of other mages watching?” Randall asked. “Will they be of help?

“There are few wizards in Bond with any real combat experience,” Markwood said, “and the political situation is delicate. No, they will only watch, unless the situation turns grim and the Chief Councilor orders them to intervene. I’m afraid I’m the best you’ve got.”

“You will be more than enough,” Kron said.

“I am relatively light and could ride with Randall if he has no qualms about it,” Markwood said, “but I could use a rest after transferring myself here from Bond. Or is it too early to break for food?”

“Quite,” Kron said. “We’ve plenty of daylight left.”

“I don’t think it would hurt to slow down for a while, would it?” Randall asked.

Kron’s look said he disagreed, but he realized the issue was not worth arguing about. He shrugged.

“It’s settled then.” Markwood removed a leather bag with a strap from inside his robes and opened the top flap to reveal a sizable cooked bird wrapped in long, green leaves and numerous bread rolls, steam still rising from them. “From Ezra’s shop in the bazaar,” the old wizard explained with a smile.

“Thank Ashal for decent food,” Randall said, his mouth watering.

Chapter Two

That evening the three shared the best meal Randall and Kron had eaten in more than a month. During the night each man took a shift as watchman for their camp. It had been many years since the old wizard had traveled in secret with danger surrounding him, but he took to it like a tried-and-true adventurer. In the morning Markwood even had a breakfast of fried eggs awaiting his companions. From where the wizard had pulled the eggs and an iron skillet was a mystery, but Kron and Randall were not about to balk at such a meal. Markwood also offered to place protective wards over them, saving Randall from expending his own energy for such a spell.

By the time the sun was above the tops of the treeline and the mountains far to the east, they were already on their way north through the gray, desolate land with Markwood and Randall sharing a steed, the old wizard riding behind the younger.

The conversation of the morning quickly turned to their options.

“We could try stealthing our way into Mogus Potere,” Kron suggested. “Surely you know of secret pathways and such, Randall.”

“I do,” the healer said, “but we don’t know for sure if my father will be in the city.”

“I could likely find Verkain and get us to him, but what then?” Markwood said. “He might attack immediately, calling down all his powers and whatever military forces he has available, and that would be the end of that. Either we would enter combat, and likely die, or we would have to flee. Either way, nothing would be accomplished.”

“I could just go to him,” Randall said.

Markwood and Kron glared at the young man.

“It might sound insane,” Randall said, “but he’s not going to have me killed the second I’m found. He’ll want to do it himself.”

“That’s out of the question,” Markwood said. “It would mean your death sentence, and Verkain is powerful enough to keep me at bay, at least for a while. Kron and I would not be able to protect you.”

Randall glanced over his shoulder at the wizard. “If we go skulking around the countryside, sooner or later we’re going to be found any way.”

“That’s true,” Markwood said, “but before we are in front of Verkain, we should have some sort of plan. Randall, we need to know your full intentions.”

“I don’t know.” The healer appeared dejected. “I just want to end all this madness. I’m tired of my life being in jeopardy all the time, and I’m tired of fearing for those around me.”

“Talking to your father will likely not bring about the results you seek,” Markwood said.

“Are we suggesting some sort of parley with Verkain?” Kron looked as if he did not believe what he was hearing.

“Not exactly,” Markwood answered, “or, at least, not unless we can do so from a position of strength.”

“How could we do that?” Randall asked as they continued to ride along. “The rebellion was quashed three years ago.”

“We could try finding any surviving rebels,” Markwood suggested. “They might be able to help us. At the least it could give us a foothold in Kobalos.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for them,” Randall said.

“Did your brother have a base, a headquarters of sorts, during the revolt?” Kron asked the healer.

“There was an old keep in the Grave Lands,” Randall said. “That’s where we were stationed when my father attacked and killed Corvin.”

“It might be worth a look.” Markwood’s face appeared hopeful.

“How far are we from these Grave Lands?” Kron asked.

“It’s about a day to the northwest,” Randall said.

Kron steered his riding animal to the left. “Then that is where we shall begin.”

***

Adara knelt, staring at the ground, one hand gripping her steed’s reins while the other hand rubbed across a hump of raised mud.

“Frog!” the woman yelled over her shoulder.

The bald border warden with the shaggy beard came running, halting behind her to stare over her shoulder. “What’ve you found, lass?”

“Someone’s been through here,” she said, “and it’s not been one of us. Looks like soldiers with hobnailed boots and shod horses.”

“How many?”

“Six. Maybe seven.”

“How long ago?”

Adara stuck a finger into a hoof print. “Last hour or two.”

Frog turned and waved the other wardens forward. The ten men in leathers, seeing they were beckoned, rode their horses out of the brush.

“Could the pope’s troops already be here?” Adara asked.

“Not this far in,” Frog said as one of the other men handed him the reins to his horse. “Even if we hadn’t run into them, the Captain would have warned us with the blowing of horns.”