Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (23 page)

Kron reached a hand to his right shoulder and found his sword gone. He glanced at his belt and his gloves and boots, but he carried nothing that dealt death.

Out of the corner of his eyes he spotted a brightness on the horizon, a golden light that blinked but for a moment and then was gone like the last hint of sun at the end of the day.

He turned and waited, but the radiance did not reappear.

Kron began walking, marching in the direction he had seen the glow.

He could not tell how much time had passed, for the sun hung eternally overhead, but it eventually felt as if he had walked miles and miles. The view had changed little, greenery all around with gray rock in the distance.

“Kron.” The voice came once more.

Kron stopped.

“Show yourself,” he said softly. Then louder, “Show yourself!”

The yellow glow blinked again, this time brighter and nearer.

For a flash of a moment, Kron saw two figures facing one another in the light. They were surrounded by the light, the tawny glowing smothering their forms, leaving only vague shadows.

Kron took off at a sprint.

He ran and ran, but the mountains grew no closer and the sun did not lower. The light did not return, nor did the voice.

Eventually he could run no more. His lungs burned and his muscles ached. He dropped on his knees into the grass, which was soft and warm like a bed of feathers.

Darkness closed over him, then dissipated with a blink. He might have slept. He could not be sure, but he felt rested again. Still, the sun had not moved.

Kron jumped to his feet and stared about, the familiar view of grass and mountains returning to his eyes.

“Am I dead?”

“No.”

Kron spun.

A dozen yards from him was a man, a stranger. Auburn hair hung to the collar of the fellow’s simple tunic. His face was that of a young man, in his twenties, and a thin beard spread across his chin.

“Who are you?” Kron asked.

“You knew me as Randall Tendbones.”

Kron’s brows raised, dark eyes beneath. “You look nothing like him.”

The man glanced down at his body. “No, I suppose I do not. My apologies. I will remedy that.”

Kron blinked and Randall stood before him. The healer appeared well, his brown hair short and neat as always, a white robe stretching down to cover his lank frame.

“Is this better?” Randall asked.

Kron took a step back. “I could be in another of Verkain’s wards.”

Randall shook his head. “Verkain has no control here.”

“How can I know it’s truly you?”

“You came seeking me,” Randall said. “Why, now, won’t you believe?”

“I had a dream of Randall,” Kron said, “and I fought hard to find my friend, trusting that he above all others could save ... everything. But not so long ago I was caught in one of Verkain’s magical traps. It makes me suspect.”

“I called out to you in your dream.”

“Your word does not prove your identity,” Kron said.

“Your birth name was Lucius Tallerus.”

“Common enough knowledge.”

“You love Adara Corvus.”

Kron made no reply.

Randall chuckled. “The same Kron Darkbow. I see you have changed little.”

“I have changed,” Kron said. “When I first came to Kobalos, I came seeking revenge. Now I seek justice.”

“You wield justice with weapons of anger,” Randall said. “I do not judge you for that. I merely point it out, for your own betterment.”

“I’m more concerned with betterment of the world,” Kron said.

“No. You are angry with the world.”

Kron was silent.

“But you don’t hate the world, Kron,” Randall said. “You hate yourself.”

“Why would I hate myself?”

“For living,” Randall said, “for surviving. You think you should have died in your parents’ place. You think you should have died instead of poor Wyck.”

Kron turned away, staring at the horizon.

“You think you should have died instead of Adara.”

Kron spun on the healer. “I should have! I should have done something to save them, to save all of them!”

“Not everyone can be saved.”

“But
some
can!”

“Yes, some can,” Randall said with a nod. “But there are those who do not wish to be saved.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your parents,” Randall said.

Kron balled his right hand into a fist. “Mind what you say.”

“They did not die needlessly,” Randall said. “They were protecting you.”

Kron turned away again.

“Everyone dies,” Randall said. “Everyone.”

“They did not have to die that night.”

“Perhaps not,” Randall said, “but that was not the fault of the little boy who was their son.”

“That little boy became a man and sought out their killer.”

“And what did you accomplish?”

“I made the world safer by removing Trelvigor,” Kron said. “I’ve yet to finish with Belgad.”

“How do you know Trelvigor would not have changed his ways at some point?” Randall asked. “He might have gained in wisdom as he grew in age. Perhaps he would have saved a child, or helped a beggar, or any number of things.”

Kron smirked.

“And there is more to Belgad than you know,” Randall said. “Not all is at it seems with that one.”

“He is owed for many deaths,” Kron said.

Randall was silent for a moment, then, “Would you damn yourself for pettiness and revenge?”

Kron stared into the healer’s eyes. “If the price to save others is eternal damnation, then it is a debt I will gladly pay.”

Randall shook his head. “You sadden me, Kron Darkbow.”

“Why? What is my soul to you?”

“After witnessing my death, I had believed you had changed.”

Kron pointed at the healer. “I don’t know how you would know such things,” he said. “I’m not even sure I believe you are Randall Tendbones. I watched Randall’s throat split wide by Verkain’s knife.”

“And you saw my throat healed in the cathedral.”

Kron stared about them, taking in the greenery again. “I don’t even know where I am.”

“You are nowhere.”

Kron glared at the man in front of him. “Then why do I feel the warm breeze? Why do I smell the heat of Spring?”

“Your senses fool you,” Randall answered.

Kron closed his eyes and shook his head. “You first appeared to me as another. Why would Randall do such?”

“It is too soon for that,” Randall said. “You would not believe.”

“I’m not sure I believe any of this,” Kron said, looking up at the healer. “It makes as much sense that I’ve died and am being punished for my sins.”

“In your time, you have seen many wonders,” Randall said. “You witnessed the destruction of the Asylum by magic, you’ve fought demons, and you know Markwood could perform amazing feats. You know magic. You believe in magic. Can you not believe I live?”

“People do not return from death,” Kron said. “Not even holy Ashal accomplished that.”

“Perhaps Ashal did not wish to return. Or perhaps he did, and remained silent of it.”

Kron grimaced. “If it were possible, then why does no one else return? Why can’t my parents come back, or Wyck, or Adara?”

“Markwood too is dead.”

“
What
? How?”

“He perished in battle with Verkain.”

Kron’s stare held steady, remained hard. “There is no reason I should trust anything you say. I don’t even know who you are.”

“Moments ago you saw two people together in the light,” Randall said. “You thought they were your parents, coming to greet you to the world beyond.”

Kron said nothing, rocked back on his feet by the sting of truth in the others’ words.

“It was not your kin,” Randall said. “It was Markwood and myself.”

“Then where
is
Maslin?”

“He has passed on,” Randall said. “He did not wish to return. He had a good life, and a long life. He trusted in me to put everything right once more.”

“Are you suggesting you can give life back to the dead?”

Randall hesitated to speak, his lips opening before he stopped himself.

“Well?”

“In some instances.”

“Prove this to me. Return my parents,” Kron said. “Then I will trust you are Randall.”

“I cannot do that,” the healer said.

“Charlatan.”

“No,” Randall said. “Your parents’ souls moved on years ago. As has Wyck’s.”

“What of Adara?”

“Her spirit roams the land still,” Randall said. “She will move on when she is ready.”

“You could save her?” Kron asked.

The healer bowed his head. “I could.”

“Then do it,” Kron said. “Bring her back.”

“You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”

Kron gritted his teeth. “If you are truly Randall Tendbones, then you know I never make anything easy.”

***

The world was as it always had been.

But it wasn’t.

Buildings stood, people milled about and nature changed in its slow fashion, plants growing and dying and the sun and moon rising and falling. But it was all changed.

It was like watching the world through a cracked looking glass. There was no smell, and sounds were muffled to the point of being unheard except for the most shrill of voices and loudest of noises.

Nothing could be felt.

Except cold.

Everything was cold, even when the pale sun shed its weak light upon the land.

This world of haziness was the home of Adara Corvus. She did not know how long she had resided in the forsaken place, but it felt as if it had been a thousand lifetimes. She remembered little from before, though there were brief flashes of pain that stabbed at her mind.

Her body was broken. Gaping, crusted wounds in her wrists and feet would not allow her to walk. She was forced to crawl across the gray void, sometimes in dust so thick she feared it would clog her throat.

Other times she found herself near a stream, but the water was stale and colder than any ice. The torn shreds of her silken shirt, now stained and gray, would hang in the waters and soak up the chill.

Most of the time she was not aware of her surroundings. She would lay in drab light, feeling nothing and knowing nothing. Sometimes a person or a shadowy figure would wander near, but she could never get them to hear or see her.

Her mind was clouded and dulled.

A light flared like a candle on the horizon. It brought heat, a sliver of warmth that slowly spread wider, heating her gray flesh.

Slowly, so slowly, she was beginning to wake, her skin tingling as the heat grew over her.

The first thing she noticed was her own nakedness. Then she noticed the wounds were gone from her body. She had been healed.

She could feel again, more than just the cold. Her skin was warm and pink once more. Her long, dark hair rubbed against her back, warming her further. Blood flowed through her veins again, bringing life back to the cold thing she had been.

The woman looked up as the light grew brighter.

In the center of the glow stood an old friend, his hand outstretched, beckoning.

“Randall?”

Chapter Twenty Three

It was the middle of the night and cold. A light rain, little more than a drizzle, trickled from the sky to run down the backs of necks and to turn clay and dirt to mud. Horses fought the muck, their hooves sucked down. Men in armor found themselves unable to run, the wet ground tugging at them and sapping their strength as the chill wet continued to soak their hair and skin. Fires were doused, torches at first, then the dancing flames of the camps.

The Kobalans kept at their work, however, taking down tents and sharpening steel and saddling horses and a thousand other jobs that had to be performed before an army could march.

Verkain watched all from the battlements of his city, staring out from the high wall that surrounded Mogus Potere.

Below the king, officers were yelling orders and aiding their warriors with whatever tasks were being attempted in the wet and mud.

A thin smile grew on the lord’s face. “The beginning of the end, the end of the beginning.”

“Did you say something, my lord?” Captain Lendo asked.

Verkain turned to the man in charge of his personal guard, those sturdy men who would be protecting their king during the march. “Captain, the dawn will bring a beautiful new day, a beautiful new world.”

Lendo’s brows arched.

“Never mind,” Verkain said, returning his gaze to the armored figures working below. “Nothing stands between us and victory.”

***

Fortisquo’s gaze bounced left to right, right to left, following the pacing Belgad.

The Dartague had been walking back and forth for hours, muttering to himself. Occasionally he would pause, stare through the bedroom’s tall windows to the balcony outside and Mogus Potere beyond, then he would begin to pace once more.

Fortisquo slouched in a padded chair. Their surroundings were regal, a warm rug on the floor and tapestries on the wall to keep out the cold, but he was not comfortable even in his silk finery and leather boots. The master of the rapier had never seen his companion, his current employer, in such a state. Belgad was so solid and stoic, always knowing what to do; but now the big man in the plain tunic marched around as if in a daze. Even with only one eye, the lanky rapirist could see there was something wrong with the barbarian before him.

Fortisquo yawned, bringing the back of a hand to his mouth. It was late, and they were expected to be up and ready to travel with Verkain’s troops in hours.

Belgad paused again, perhaps for the hundredth time, but this time he did not stare off through the window. He glanced at the fellow reclining before him.

“My apologies if I disturbed you,” Fortisquo said, letting his hand fall back to his side.

“No.” Belgad blinked and shook his bald head as if waking from a foggy dream. “You did not disturb me.”

“Then why have you stopped?”

“I’ve come to some conclusions.”

“Which are?”

Belgad stared hard at Fortisquo. “Tendbones, Markwood, Darkbow, they’re all dead.”