Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (21 page)

Markwood found himself on his back staring up through drifting black smoke that concealed where he knew the stars to be. A chill stung his flesh and he realized he was without clothing again, Verkain’s flames having burnt away his meager garments. He was thankful for the cold air wrapping his body and the burning stench drifting to his nostrils. Those sensations told him he was alive.

The wizard pushed up on his elbows. A hundred yards in all directions lay a swath of black destruction. He was at the center of a crater as deep as a man was tall. The remains of the road were no more than tumbled bricks mingled with gritty dirt. Houses were piles of burning lumber and stones heated to an orange glow. Markwood scanned the edges of the destruction and found it to be a perfect circle, in some places cutting buildings through to reveal furniture, crates and people, some dead and some crying or trying to hide behind simple furnishings.

Verkain was not to be found.

His joints creaking and his breathing rough, Markwood pushed himself off the dirt. He stood there with smoke flapping through his long, gray hair and he was still cold despite the lingering fires. The bandages Kron had used to wrap his chest wounds had been burnt away, leaving behind nearly raw flesh.

The wizard hung his head. He was an old man naked in a cold wind with no protection other than his own will. He had known all along it would come to this, facing Verkain.

A crunching noise caused the wizard to lift his head and turn.

Verkain advanced, steaming bricks crumbling beneath his heavy steel boots.

Markwood pointed at his foe. Arrows of green light shot forth, slamming into the dark king.

Verkain was rocked back on his feet, but he did not fall. A dark, burnt spot remained in the center of his armored chest as he shook himself like a man trying to wake.

“I will not go down easily for you, Verkain,” Markwood said, his hand still aimed at the king.

“I had hoped not.”

The wizard’s hand twisted into a fist.

Smoke drifting about Verkain suddenly began to swirl faster and faster around him. The king seemed to watch with interest, not fear, as the twirling haze quickly grew into a vortex.

Verkain yelled out and the smoke dissipated, creeping away on the air.

Markwood shouted and pointed both hands.

The lord of Kobalos was thrown back by an unseen force. He slammed into a brick wall, then was tossed high into the air. Seconds later Verkain was plummeting. He crashed into a pile of flaming wreckage.

Markwood bent over, his hands on his knees. Weariness showed on his strained face and his thin, weakening body. His breaths came in mighty gulps.

Verkain thrashed his way out of the burning wood and shattered bricks. He kicked aside the remains of a smoking table and marched forward. “Now I finish with you.”

Markwood crossed his wrists in front of his face. Strange words flew from his lips.

“Your mortal’s magic cannot save you.” Verkain aimed his mace at the mage again.

A hot, harsh wind pounded the old wizard, knocking his arms to his sides. He could barely remain on his feet as he leaned into the heated gust. He tried to move toward his opponent but could not take a step. The wind began to flay his skin, eating away at the flesh as if an unseen whip were tearing into him.

Verkain lowered his weapon of iron and the wind died.

Markwood collapsed.

Verkain walked to the fallen wizard, standing over him.

The old mage lay huddled, his fresh wounds trickling blood onto the burnt ground. He shook as if convulsing with fever.

“The last of The Twelve falls,” Verkain said, hefting the mace to his shoulder.

Then the weapon came crashing down.

***

Kron slammed onto the chapel’s roof, knocking the air from his lungs and the bow and arrows from his back. He grabbed for the falling weapon and quiver but missed as he went sliding down the side of the roof. Dazed and winded, he managed to thrust out a hand to scrabble for something, anything, but there was no handhold. The roof was smooth, made from sheets of flat lead, and he continued to slide.

Flying out over the roof’s edge, Kron briefly seemed to float in the air. Then he went plunging toward the ground hundreds of feet below. He momentarily panicked, reaching for the grappling hook and rope at his belt, but then remembered they were not to be found there. He looked to his hand and saw he still gripped the silk cord. Falling faster and faster, Kron jerked on the rope and could still feel the weight of the hook at the other end.

The demon had somehow unlatched itself from the grapnel instead of cutting the cord.

The ground grew nearer and nearer as Kron frantically yanked the rope to himself. He was glad for such a long drop as the hook landed in his palm once more.

He was falling too quickly to see much other than the blur of dark masonry shooting past, but he caught a glimpse of one of the shorter spires of the church. He launched the grapnel from his hands, gripping the free end of the rope.

For a long moment there was nothing, no sensation other than the chill wind slapping against his face. Then the hook caught. The rope snapped. And Kron was sailing in an arc toward the cathedral.

He shifted to catch himself with his booted feet, but he was not flying toward a wall. He was racing at a tall window of multi-colored glass.

The crash was an explosion of glass, spraying shards all about, slicing through Kron’s dark cloak that took the brunt of the damage.

The cord snapped again, this time at the top of the shattered window’s edge.

Kron could not hold his grip. His fingers slipped across the thin rope. He was falling again, this time without the cord in his hands.

He had a moment to see the inside of the church, a long nave of wooden pews lined up upon a black stone floor, then darkness engulfed him and he could not breath.

Chapter Twenty One

Belgad jumped three rungs from the bottom of the ladder, landing next to Sergeant Lerebus as more soldiers poured past in the direction the tower of fire had been seen.

Fortisquo slid down from above to land next to his Dartague companion.

“Did I hear you say you were leaving?” Lerebus asked.

“If you’re smart, you’ll come with us.” Belgad turned away and strode toward the castle.

“He’s right, you know,” Fortisquo said, then took off after the bald man.

Lerebus stared at the back of the two men. He cursed below his breath, tromping after them.

He caught up to the two as they entered the castle, the three men passing more running armored figures as they traveled through a portal into a hall filled with more soldiers and busy officers, all charging around as if the end of the world had come.

“Verkain will flay you alive,” Lerebus pointed out as he followed the other two.

Belgad stopped in the middle of the hall and motioned at the madness of the Kobalans running to and fro. “Do you see what is happening here?”

“Chaos,” from Lerebus.

“Exactly,” Belgad said. “Their master has taken part in a duel of wizards like nothing the world has seen in centuries.”

Lerebus watched as Kobalans ran one direction down a hall while others marched the opposite direction. “They fear.”

“Damn straight they fear,” Belgad said. “We’ll be lucky if all that’s destroyed is the city.”

“I never thought I’d see the day when Belgad the Liar would turn coward,” a new voice called out.

Belgad, Fortisquo and Lerebus turned.

Captain Lendo stood with six of his men near an open doorway.

“If you wish to call intelligence cowardice, then I’m a dunce,” Belgad said.

Lendo chuckled as he moved closer to the three men. Servants in black garb slid around him on their busy ways to elsewhere, most fleeing for the castle’s exits.

“Verkain will triumph,” the Kobalan captain said. “The wizard is weak and old.”

“I’d rather discover that from twenty miles away,” Fortisquo quipped.

Lendo shook his head. “Verkain will consider this desertion. Even if I were not to arrest you, he would have you hunted. The outcome would be most bleak.”

Belgad slid a hand up to the pommel of the huge two-handed sword strapped to his back. “If you plan to hold me, make your attempt. Otherwise, I will take my chances outside Mogus Potere.”

Lerebus stepped forward. “Listen to the captain. There’s no good in you running.”

“You don’t even know if Verkain will survive,” Belgad said.

“I know.”

All eyes turned to the stone stairs above Fortisquo.

At first Belgad did not recognize the lord of the land. Verkain stood taller than he had before and he was layered in silvered armor. A giant’s helm rested in the crook of one of the king’s arms while an iron mace dripping blood hung from the other hand. Belgad noticed a powdery circle of black in the center of Verkain’s plated chest beneath the lord’s chin.

Silence rolled over the halls as all movement came to a halt. Everyone watched the king.

“Markwood is no more.” Verkain turned his gaze to Lendo. “Captain, call a meeting of the generals. We march for the Prisonlands on the morn.”

***

Kron Darkbow believed himself dead. He could not see. He could not breath. An overpowering pressure bore upon his breast.

Then the wind rushed past, flipping his cloak about his dangling legs, and the warm stench of death breathed down his neck. Pins stabbed into his shoulders and chest, and trickles of blood began to seep from his flesh. His head felt as if crushed in a vice, but he managed to twist for a view other than the darkness.

The floor of the nave was still far below, rushing past in a blur.

Kron raised his head and looked into the face of death, the face of the war demon. The beast’s vermilion eyes glared at him through the open face of its helmet. Far worse was the flaking black skin of the creature. The thing looked like something that had died long ago and should have remained buried.

It opened its maw wide and roared, nauseating heated filth blasting Kron’s face.

He swooned, nearly fainting.

The demon hissed.

Kron closed his eyes. He could not stare the monstrosity in the face and remain collected. He needed his head clear to make sense of the horror of his situation. He was clutched in the demon’s arms, his own limbs pinned beneath thick muscles and heavy plates.

The creature flapped around the large chamber, squeezing its human package while a dozen soldiers ran about beneath. The Kobalans yelled at the beast, but it paid them no mind.

The monster’s jagged armor punched holes in Kron’s skin, causing oozing blood. The man in black heard a cracking sound and a moment later his lower chest give way as lightning and fire erupted inside him.

The demon was crushing him.

Kron wished he had at least one grenado, the small clay balls filled with fire or smoke he had often used to best seemingly unbeatable foes. But his luck was gone. He had used the last of the explosives days earlier.

Desperate, Kron twisted a hand up to clutch at his belt where he had stored the grenados in a small leather sack. He hoped to find anything, perhaps a dagger or throwing dart he could jam into the creature’s black face.

His gloved hand brushed a metal vial, one of several containing healing poltices and draughts. The last time he had used one had been with Markwood a day earlier.

Kron gripped the vial. He only hoped it was the same one he had used on the wizard. His fingers flipped the cork topper free, then a thumb stoppered the vessel.

He twisted his head to one side to spy the window he had crashed through.

The rope still hung there.

The demon howled anew while circling through the long cathedral. It squeezed again, knocking what little air was left from Kron’s lungs and breaking another of the man’s ribs.

The man in black screamed as pain poured through his body like acid in his veins. Luck and focus were all that kept him from dropping the tiny metal container.

The demon flapped and turned, and Kron saw it was taking him back in the general direction of the hanging line.

Another rib cracked, and Kron knew his body could not tolerate much more abuse. He spat blood onto his captor’s plated chest.

The demon and its prisoner flapped past the window.

Shoving up between the monster’s solid chest and his own flesh, Kron thrust a hand into the thing’s face. His thumb lifted.

The vial’s contents were released to air.

The demon gagged, coughing, and brought itself up short with its giant bat’s wings flapping frantically as if maddened. It snorted and snarled and howled as it huffed in the stench of the vial that burned at its throat and eyes.

Then, to grab at its own face, it let go of the human.

Kron kicked away with a cry. He flung himself through the air, heading for the hanging rope.

He was falling again.

A gloved hand lunged and snagged the end of the hanging cord.

Kron’s full weight caught on the end of the rope. The rope jerked, sliding the last of the line through his hand. He slung around his other hand and grabbed the cord at the last possible moment.

Hanging there, the moon’s light glittering through the window to create his shadow on the floor, Kron watched the demon clawing at its own face. The beast tore and rended, denting its heavy helmet and tearing at its bright eyes with clawed fingers.

An arrow sailed past the man in black.

Kron shifted his gaze to the floor.

The Kobalans were still there, several aiming crossbows at the figure dangling above them.

The strength in his body ebbing, Kron urged his arms to pull himself up the rope. It was a struggle, a fight, until he was high enough up the line to use his legs. He gritted as the fire in his ribs tore at his sanity, but he continued to climb. There was nowhere to go but up the rope. The fall was too far.

Another arrow shot past, nicking the edge of Kron’s cloak.

A roar erupted loud enough to shake the temple.

Kron twisted around to face the demon. He was above the thing now, near the top of the window and nearly out of sight of the archers. The demon still flapped its wings as it tore off its black helm and slung it across the room to clank into oblivion behind pews.