Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (22 page)

Another arrow sailed, this one the closest of all, and it sliced across the rope above Kron’s hands. The cord did not tear, but its silk threads had taken a wound and were unraveling.

He had only seconds before he would fall.

Kron kicked out with his legs and swung toward the top of the window, grabbing for the edges of the stone framework as anguish continued to shoot through his broken ribs.

The silk line snapped.

Kron let go of the short piece of cord remaining in his hands and lunged for the uppermost edge of the window. There wasn’t enough of a handhold for him to hang from, but he managed to slap against the inner wall just above the window and push himself away from the shattered glass and into the room he had tried desperately to escape moments earlier.

He was falling again, this time in the center of the chamber.

Arrows launched from below, flying past the plummeting figure in black.

The demon, still busy wiping potion from its muzzle, never saw Kron slam onto its right wing, spinning the monster around in mid-air. The man in black wrapped an arm over the boney wing and held on with all his might as he and the monster spiraled down, the creature screaming in surprise.

As the stone floor grew nearer, the Kobalan soldiers ceased with their crossbows. Kron had a moment to realize he and the monster he rode were going to land hard, the beast out of control of its decent, and he climbed higher on its back of dark, thick plates.

The creature crunched into the floor with enough force to crack stone. Kron was thrown, crashing into wooden pews.

The man in black lay across a row of spilled benches, barely able to take air into his tortured lungs without screaming. The pain was tremendous, lancing from his ribs out to the rest of his body. Unconsciousness might be only seconds away, but he promised himself he would put up a fight. He had to get to Randall, and he had to hold on to the hope Randall could help him.

There was another roar from the demon as Kron tried to push himself up from the pews. He turned to find the monster crouched and howling in the center of the chamber, the creature’s head thrown back as if lamenting the very sky.

The creakings of leather and the jinglings of metal brought Kron’s attention back to the soldiers. They had him surrounded, the demon outside their circle, with crossbows pointed at him.

A groan escaped Kron’s lips. It was all he could do as blood trickled from his arm and hope from his spirit. His ribs were a crushed mess, barely allowing him to hiss breaths down his throat. He was done for. His body was too beaten and bruised for further fighting. And there was no pity to be found in the faces of the gruff, burly men encircling him.

Barely able to stand but still seeking an escape, Kron’s gaze ran past a stone altar at the far end of the church. Then he glanced back at the platform. A wooden coffin rested there.

Randall.

Kron dropped between the fallen pews.

Arrows shot overhead.

A scream told that the Kobalans had hit one of their own.

The pews were long but narrow. Kron put a shoulder beneath one of the downed benches and lifted. With a strain and cry, he placed the pew upright, giving him a view beneath. The rows of seats between him and the altar were still upright. He could crawl to Randall’s resting place.

If the soldiers didn’t intervene. And the demon.

Kron crept beneath the nearest pew, then scrambled for the next one.

A crossbow bolt splintered wood near his head.

The wounded man kept moving. The pain continued to shoot through his chest, but he wouldn’t allow that to stop him as gloved fingers and booted feet pulled him further along the floor.

Another arrow slammed into a bench nearby.

The demon roared, just behind Kron, as it lifted a pew and tossed it into the soldiers.

Kobalans screamed and jumped out of the way of the huge wooden missile as Kron continued his crawl.

Then suddenly the man in black was at the feet of a soldier between two pews. The armored figure was fumbling with his crossbow, trying to place another arrow against the weapon.

Kron yanked a dagger from his boot and sank it into the man’s leg.

The Kobalan howled like a wounded animal and dropped his bow.

Kron left his knife and pushed himself away toward the altar.

The demon shoved aside another pew then grabbed the stabbed soldier by the neck and tossed him. The man was dead, his neck broken instantly, before he smashed through one of the tall windows to send splinters of multi-colored glass flying.

Kron still scrambled. It felt as if he had been crawling forever, the blood from his many wounds smearing the stone floor and making it harder for his fingers to get a purchase.

A hiss above, and the demon was upon him

Kron reached for the sword on his back.

The demon snarled with smoking breath. It grabbed dark figure by the cloak and jerked him from the ground.

Kron had a brief moment to notice the soldiers had fled or were slain, killed by the monster’s wrath. Then a demon’s claw wrapped around his neck and hoisted him high in the air. Choking and sputtering, his feet swinging in nothingness, the man in black could only kick at the monstrosity strangling him. His booted blows seemed to do no harm to the thing.

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.