Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (6 page)

“Did you believe I would allow you a weapon that could defeat me?” Verkain’s voice was directly behind.

The healer spun.

It was too late. A thunk from an iron mace cracked the youth across the forehead, sending Randall to his knees.

“You aren’t even aware of your own strength.” Verkain’s shadow fell over his son.

Blood trickling down his face, Randall looked up with dazed, questioning eyes.

The mace came down again, and the healer knew pain and darkness.

***

“His tracks end.” Kron knelt to stare at the grassy ground where the hoof prints of Randall’s horse disappeared. “It’s as if his animal flew away.”

“That’s why you needed me,” Markwood said from atop Kron’s steed. “I can still follow his trail.”

The man in black stood on the hill and watched the sun begin its slow climb in the morning sky. “He must have gone down to the village,” he said, pointing below them at the town at the bottom of the hill. “He called it Piker’s Bay.”

“His journey did not end there.”

“Where is he going?” Kron asked.

“To Mogus Potere. He’s going to his father.”

Kron cursed.

“Exactly,” Markwood said.

“I’m not familiar with these lands.” Kron climbed aboard his steed in front of the mage. “How far are we from the city?”

Markwood pointed to the east, then north. “About three days. I could get us there in an instant, but — ”

“You would be drained.”

“My apologies,” the wizard said.

“I’ll need you if we face Verkain,” Kron said, “so we can’t have you using heavy magics. We’ll have to ride.”

“I only hope we can arrive in time to help poor Randall.”

“Can’t you call upon other wizards?” Kron asked.

“The distance is too great,” Markwood said. “It too would sap my strength.”

Kron cursed again and spurred his animal away from Piker’s Bay.

***

Consciousness sprang upon Randall with pain shooting through his body and a scream from his throat.

He opened his eyes and found himself stretched face down on a table of oily, hard wood. A muddy floor of rock a couple of feet away greeted his face. He tried to move, but found his ankles and wrists bound by leather thongs.

The only light was a flickering on the wall, as if from a torch behind him. The healer guessed he was somewhere far underground in one of his father’s many dungeons.

“I see you have come around,” Verkain’s voice said.

Randall tried to twist his head to see his father, but an iron brace looped around his neck would not allow it.

A shuffling of leather on stone was followed by a dark figure appearing on Randall’s left at the edge of his vision. Right away Randall could tell this wasn’t his father; the person was too wide and smelled of horse manure and ale.

“Looks as if he’s been eating well since last we saw him, my lord,” the burly figure said with a chuckle. Randall recognized the voice as that of Captain Lendo, the chief of his father’s personal guard.

“The fool was still carrying his ring,” Verkain said.

Randall gripped his left hand into a fist and no longer felt his gold band. For that matter, the healer realized he was wearing nothing. He was nude and at the mercy of his father and Lendo.

“The ring is nothing,” Verkain said. “It didn’t bring him to me. The only magic in the ring is a tracing hex.”

Lendo chuckled.

“I’ve known where you have been the entire time,” Verkain said.

A rare rage suddenly spread through Randall. He squirmed, tugging at the leather bindings.

“This one thinks he can escape, my lord.” Lendo laughed again.

Randall ceased his struggles. The wind had been taken out of him for his struggles.

“Teach him,” Verkain said. “Teach him what happens to one who disobeys me.”

Lendo disappeared from the healer’s view, followed by leathery noises, as if something of hide were being opened or folded.

A wet coldness suddenly dolloped onto Randall’s back, rolling along like icy raindrops, curving along his sides and around to his ribs.

“What are you doing to me?” Randall asked.

“One of my favorite toys,” Verkain said. “One I should have introduced to you years ago.”

“Bore worms.” Lendo cackled.

Randall jerked. He knew what the worms could do. His father had used them as tools of torture for years. The tiny, yellow critters would slime their way along his skin, eventually tearing through the flesh and burrowing deep inside. The things sought the heart, and they took a long time getting to it. Deaths by the worms were agonizing and lasted hours, sometimes days depending upon the strength of the person tortured.

The healer suddenly decided that if he had to die, it would not be like this, crying and tearing at his own skin, eventually vomiting blood and waiting, waiting, waiting for the worms to eat through his chest.

Randall jerked on his bindings again. He strained, pulling at the cords. Again, after several seconds, his body was too tired to fight.

But Randall had other choices. He whispered several words, calling upon his own inner strength to will the cords away from his body.

Nothing happened.

Randall spoke the words again, this time louder.

Verkain joined Captain Lendo in laughter.

“Ever the fool, Kerwin,” Verkain said to his son. “Did you think it would be so easy to escape? Did you think I would not have protections against your magic?”

Randall realized what a fool he was being. One of his father’s most profound spells was one that nullified all magic, even Verkain’s own, in a radius around the lord of Kobalos. Randall remembered when he was a boy Verkain had often used the spell to protect himself from other powerful mages.

Randall went limp. “Father, please, we have to talk.”

“I’d rather hear you scream,” Verkain said.

A sharp pain in Randall’s left side caused him to flinch, jerking himself and chaffing the skin around his wrists from the straps binding them.

“The worms are beginning their work, my lord,” Lendo said.

“Do not worry, my son,” Verkain’s voice said, so close to Randall’s left ear the healer could feel the breath from the words. “I won’t allow the worms to finish. I have plans for you. You have a few days.”

“Kill me now, if you must.” Randall nearly bit his own tongue at the foolishly brave words he spoke. “Finish this madness.”

“You don’t even realize your own power,” Verkain said. “You are no mere natural mage. You could save yourself.”

“Please, father, end this one way or another,” Randall said.

“No,” Verkain said. “Your death must be seen by the masses. The public must
know
you are dead, not
hear
you are dead. Then the prophecy will be fulfilled, and my true destiny awaits.”

“Father.” Randall tried one last vain attempt to save himself. “No matter what you’ve done, I want you to know I love you.”

Eventually, after long seconds, Verkain spoke, “You were always a good son, Kerwin. I think that’s why I hated you most.”

Chapter Seven

The journey along the western edge of Dartague was both perilous and nostalgic for Belgad the Liar. The muscular, bald northerner with the crooked nose and white mustache was Dartague himself, but it had been two decades since he had visited his homeland. It was true he had only touched on the edges of that homeland, sticking near the mountain range known as the Needles that formed a natural barrier between Dartague in the east and Kobalos in the west, but those few days’ view of the snowy-capped highlands and the dark green valleys had brought a thrill to his heart.

He had never thought he would see this country again, but his current travels had dictated avoiding much of the Prisonlands by going east and north into the mountains, through Dartague and then west again deeper into the mountains and eventually Kobalos.

The barbarian could have turned away from Dartague, but Kobalos was nearer than Bond, and Belgad wanted to finish what he had started. He wanted Kron Darkbow’s head on a pike, and he wanted whatever reward would be coming from Verkain.

As the large northerner rode west on a dirt road to Mogus Potere, the capital of Kobalos, he wore a broad smile, something not familiar to his traveling companions.

What those around him could not comprehend was that Belgad had become bored with his busy and pampered life in Bond. He was not a foppish dandy who wanted soft couches for talking and talking and talking to nobles or merchants. The big man often regretted that his life had taken him in that direction. The prestige was nothing to him. The sense of adventure, something he had lost for years, brought him joy. He no longer felt a prisoner in his own world, a world he had helped create.

Those feelings of contentment came to a crashing halt as Belgad and his band rode into Kobalos. The road they followed was an old trading route. Their path of dirt was wide and solid but offered little to the view other than mountains and dry, gray grass. Only a few miles into the country and a new site emerged. Black iron pikes that appeared once to have been long military spears were spaced every ten or so yards. The sight of those tall weapons would have been enough to shake many a stout heart, but more disturbing were the bodies. About halfway down the length of each pike hung an impaled figure. Most were men, but some were women or children. Most of the bodies were little more than skeletons with tatters of flesh and clothing holding them together, but some appeared recent, screams of agony still frozen on their faces.

“We’re definitely in Kobalos,” Belgad said, his smile faltering.

The faces of the Dartague’s companions were as grim as his own. One of Belgad’s soldiers, a stout fellow with an unconscious Adara Corvus tied behind his saddle, leaned over the side of his horse to disgorge his breakfast.

“How far are we from the city?” Karitha asked, trotting up next to her employer.

“Two days at this rate,” the northerner answered, “but one if we ride hard.”

Thus they rode hard, passing a few other travelers and reaching the capital city a little before noon of the next day. Once near Mogus Potere they were overcome by its dark splendor. The high, black walls of the city rose above them like a bleak storm rolling across a prairie, blocking their vision of the land and sea beyond. Inside the walls were multiple dark towers looming like a beacon of evil to the surrounding gray countryside. One tower stood taller than the rest, a crenelated structure with multiple windows that made one feel as if being surveyed by the many eyes of a giant spider. Surrounding the capital were thousands of tents with hundreds of black smoke pillars curling up; stationed there were Verkain’s troops, his multitudes of mighty warriors in black armor.

Karitha Jarnac shuddered as she rode forward.

“Such a pleasant, chipper establishment,” Fortisquo remarked as the group approached an encampment of soldiers.

“Shut up,” Belgad ordered as a dozen Kobalans on horseback approached.

The dark-garbed horsemen pulled their animals to a stop mere feet from the saddled Belgad, who brought his steed to a standstill as had his fellow travelers.

“Name and purpose,” one of the Kobalans grunted.

“Tell your master Belgad Thunderclan and comrades have arrived and desire a word with him,” the Dartague stated.

The Kobalans smirked at the big man. One of the officers turned his horse back toward the tents. “I’ll see if I can’t find one of the captains to speak with you.”

“No,” Belgad said. “I haven’t come all this way to speak with a stooge. Tell Lord Verkain I would have words, and I have a present for him.”

The burly soldiers glanced at one another. It seemed it took a bold individual to ride up to their army and demand to speak with their king.

“I’ll see what I can do,” a soldier said, and rode off toward the city.

“You do that,” Belgad said.

***

Entrance into Mogus Potere took little time, Belgad and his pack being escorted by cavalry through gigantic iron doors into the city, then along winding streets around buildings of dark stone. Their travel was helped along by the people who walked the streets, most of them pale and gray peasantry or large soldiers in armor who immediately jumped out of the way when they saw horses trotting in their direction.

Eventually Belgad and band came to the monstrous tower in the center of the town. The dizzying building turned out to be part of a larger complex, an enormous castle within the walled Mogus Potere.

A new bunch of soldiers waited there, a score of men in black plate armor with white tabards bearing the mark of Kobalos, a black fist with spikes between the knuckles. These men carried long pole axes, the metal heads of the weapons as dark as oil.

“We leave you here, sir,” one of the escorts said, then he and his fellows rode away.

Belgad slipped out of his saddle. “Which one of you is the sergeant?” he gruffly asked the line of warriors blocking his way to the only obvious entrance to the tower.

The largest of the soldiers stepped forward, a burly man with a heavy gray beard protruding from beneath an open-face helmet. “I am Captain Lendo. If your manners don’t improve, you will go no further.”

Belgad was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. The Dartague glanced at Fortisquo, who only nodded, a sign to tread lightly.

“We have traveled far, captain.” Belgad faced the officer again. “We are here to see your master.”

“I know who you are, Belgad Thunderclan,” Lendo said. “Lord Verkain will see you in his own good time. Until then, quarters have been prepared for you.”

“It’s about time,” Fortisquo whispered, following Belgad and the others through a heavy wooden door into the tower.

A dried splash of blood on the stone floor of the entrance hall made Karitha blanch. Fortisquo had a chuckle at her expense, but it was a nervous laugh. Belgad’s troupe had stepped into the lion’s den.

***

The private chambers within the giant castle turned out to be comfortable, but not full of the luxuries often associated with the mighty and powerful. The large main chamber had five doors off it, one door the exit to a hallway and the others leading to bedrooms. The main room had cold, dark walls of stone, but heavy tapestries kept the chill at bay as did the large fireplace in the center of the back wall. Thick rugs also kept the pine floor from cooling the feet.