Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (9 page)

Her body slumped, causing her breathing to grow more harsh, but she managed to lift herself on a stub of wood, the only kindness afforded her by her captors. The Kobalans had hammered the thick dowel into the timber below her feet just before raising the beam over the fire. Lifting her body on her weak, ripped ankles was all that allowed her to catch her breath.

Adara twisted her head to stare at the flames below, and she wondered how long it would take her to die. Then her mind turned full on death, wondering what would happen to her. She had been raised in the East, indoctrinated with the teachings of Ashal, the god who had walked among men. Her parents had been righteous folk, simple nobility of a simple land. There had never been any questioning of the Ashalite church, but now Adara wondered. Fear made her question. Would she receive the holy rewards the church had offered? Or would she earn eternal damnation for her sins? Or would there be nothing, an endless blankness. That last thought was the most comforting.

A prodding at her feet brought the woman’s drifting head up again. Captain Lendo was below, a club in one hand smacking against her pinned feet.

“Be a good girl and linger a bit,” he said with a grin. “Eventually you’ll feel the pain again, and then the screams will start.”

Adara allowed her chin to fall once more. She would not give the man the pleasure of seeing her tortured further. She slumped, and this time did not push herself up.

Her breathing grew harder, coming in great, shallow gasps.

Lendo jabbed her leg with his club, but the captain’s punishment went unnoticed. Adara’s body was still numb, and her mind was already dim.

She closed her eyes, allowing the brightness of the night’s fire to die away. Swirls of light bounced around behind her closed lids, but Adara would not allow herself to see again.

It was time.

A final gasp of air filled her lungs, was exhaled sharply, then the woman knew no more. Her body slumped further, the iron nails tearing at the flesh of her wrists.

Soldiers approached.

“Leave her,” Lendo said. “Allow the crows their breakfast.”

***

“Poor soul.”

Kron twisted in his saddle to glance back at Markwood. “I take it you mean the crucifixion.”

Markwood nodded. They were atop a low hill, staring at the hundreds of tents below them and the dark walls of Mogus Potere beyond. In the moon’s light, Kron could just make out the edges of cliffs behind the city and the gray Northern Sea beyond.

“Looks like a woman from here,” the old wizard said, “but it’s difficult to tell at this distance.”

“Can you do anything for the person?” Kron asked.

Markwood shook his head. “It might alert Verkain to our presence. Freeing one poor soul would do us little good in saving Randall.”

Kron pointed at the distant figure hanging from wood. “Is that Randall’s fate?”

“Possibly. Verkain will want the execution public.”

“I’ve been wondering why he gathered his armies here,” Kron said.

“He has something planned,” Markwood said, “but I’d say it’s something more than Randall. He wouldn’t need all these soldiers just to witness an execution, even of his son.”

Kron stared for a few more minutes, watching the crucified figure grow still as one of many soldiers in black prodded it with some sort of weapon.

Finally, he said, “We need to keep moving.”

Markwood nodded again, and pointed to the west, around the city and the tents outside its walls.

“Are you sure?” Kron asked.

“There’s a beach behind the city,” Markwood said. “From there we can climb the cliffs to a hidden entrance. It should take us into Verkain’s dungeons, and from there we can make our way into the city itself.”

“How do you know these things?” Kron asked.

“I’m a wizard. I know lots of things.”

They rode on, not looking back at the unmoving form of the hanging woman.

Chapter Nine

Kron hauled himself up the silken cord another few inches, his small iron grapnel latched to a rock formation far over his head. Above the climber was more of the rugged cliff side he had been ascending for an hour, the sharp crags revealed by moonlight. Below was a long, rocky drop to the Northern Sea. The cold breezes blowing off the waters did not help the climber, nor did the wizard who Kron had last seen far below on a beach of pebbles.

The man in black hugged the rope and rested a foot on an outcropping. He needed to catch his breath. The ascent had been strenuous, straight up the side of the cliff behind and below the city of Mogus Potere. Glancing up, in the glow of the moon Kron could make out where the cliffs ended and the high wall around the city began. Markwood had said there was an entrance to the place on the outer wall facing the sea; the secret doorway was supposed to be an iron grate that, once removed, would allow access to the city’s dungeon system.

Kron grinned as he pulled himself up further. It wasn’t Bond, but he was returning to a city. He had spent much of his life in the wilds, mostly around the Prisonlands, but he loved city life with all its action, sights, smells and sounds. He felt alive in a city. Masonry did him good.

Kron reached the top of the cliff in a quarter of an hour. Greeting him there, where a slim lip of land gave way to the tall dark walls of the city, was Maslin Markwood.

“How?” Kron asked as he gathered his silk rope and wrapped it into a loop.

“After I freed our horse, I hitched a ride with a moth.” The wizard’s grin was wide.

“Have you found the entrance?” Kron asked.

Markwood pointed ahead of them. “There’s a hidden door in the wall,” he said. “I managed to find it with a little scrying.”

Kron tied his rope to his belt. “Can you open it?”

“Without difficulty,” the wizard replied, “but what concerns me is what lies beyond.”

“You said it would take us to the lower dungeons.”

“That’s what concerns me,” Markwood said. “There are likely to be guards, and if one of them alerts the castle, we will lose the element of surprise.”

“I can handle any guards,” Kron said.

“You can’t take on an army, and if I expend myself on Verkain’s soldiers, I won’t be in condition to face the king himself.”

“We’re here to free Randall,” Kron said. “It’s him who has to face Verkain, not you. We just need to rescue him.”

“If Verkain realizes I am here, he won’t hesitate to try and destroy me,” Markwood said.

“That’s why you have me.” Kron grinned a dark grin.

***

Belgad sat back on a cushioned chair in the center of the apartments Verkain had afforded him and the others. It had been a trying day, but the barbarian was not ready for sleep.

“Karitha and Adara,” Fortisquo said as he glided into the room from a door to an outer chamber. “Such a waste of beauty. Makes one believe Verkain has something against women.”

“Verkain has something against everyone.” Belgad motioned to a chair opposite himself.

Fortisquo eased the long sword on his hip to one side and slipped into the seat. “I’ve been meaning to ask you what our next move will be.”

“We do what Verkain wants. We hunt down Markwood and Darkbow.”

“We don’t even know where they are,” Fortisquo said, “and Karitha is no longer available to help find them.”

“Darkbow will make an appearance sooner or later. He always does. Remember Bond?”

Fortisquo frowned while rubbing a finger across the black leather patch covering the empty socket that had once held one of his eyes. “How could I forget the man in black swooping in to play hero.”

“He will try to play hero here also,” Belgad said. “He won’t be able to resist the chance to save Tendbones. We’ll have to be ready for him.”

“And the wizard?”

“Verkain is supplying us with war demons,” Belgad said. “I’ll leave him to them.”

***

The hall Kron and Markwood found themselves slinking along was as black and still as a moonless night sky. The only sources of light were occasional torches hanging from rusting sconces. The only sounds were their own breathing and some irregular distant moans. The only view was of occasional pale green moss layered upon ancient bricks and mortar.

They were in the heart of the dungeons below Mogus Potere where rumor and tradition had it few exited alive.

After passing through the secret door and traveling straight for some little while, they came across an intersection. To the left was more darkness and silence, as was the path ahead. The right was better lit with more torches and a set of stone stairs appeared to one side not far from where they stood.

Kron nodded to the stairway.

Markwood shrugged. “I don’t know the way any more than you.”

“Too dangerous to cast a spell?” Kron asked.

“Far too dangerous inside Verkain’s city,” Markwood said. “He may already have noticed my presence.”

The thudding noise of approaching boots drew their attention once more to the right passage.

“Someone’s coming,” Markwood whispered.

Slowly, as to remain as quiet as possible, Kron unsheathed the long blade he kept on his back. He pointed from Markwood to the darkened corridor on their left.

The mage look nonplussed.

“So they won’t see you.” Kron gently pushed the wizard into the darkness, then eased ahead into shadows. As he knelt with his blackened sword at his side, he seemed to disappear from the old man’s sight.

Seconds later four Kobalan soldiers in ebony chain stomped into view from the stairway. Each man carried a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. They did not stop at the intersection, but turned down the path Kron and Markwood had been traveling. Within minutes they were gone, the rattling of their armor growing distant.

Kron eased out of his shadow and slipped his sword into its sheath.

“There’s nothing that way but the cliffs,” Markwood said as he too appeared.

“They’re hunting for us,” Kron said. “Fortunately, they’re none too bright.”

Markwood put a hand to his chest. “I haven’t felt such a thrill since I was your age. For a moment I thought you were going to attack those men.”

“I almost did,” Kron said, “but I wanted to know where they were going. Now I know, and now I suspect Verkain is aware of us.”

“If he knew our exact location, we would be in serious straits,” the wizard pointed out.

Kron stared back at the stone stairs. “Do we go up?”

Markwood nodded. “Beware of more guards.”

***

A wide hall with a low roof opened at the top of the steps. Side tunnels lined the walls, with torches hanging every so often to shed a dull, orange sheen on the surroundings.

Without hesitation, Kron marched forward with Markwood following. They quickly trekked what felt like the length of the room, but there was no sign of the chamber ending.

Kron grunted, determined, and they continued on their way. Soon the air became heavy with pale, gray smoke that whisped around their heads.

Still, they walked.

Kron stared down at his moving feet and noticed the floor no longer appeared so solid. The black stone beneath his boots seemed to move and shift, like snakes in oil, but it felt sturdy enough.

Eventually the side walls vanished in the growing haze of smoke and the torches began to ebb, flickering on the edge of sight.

With only little light, and that distant, Kron stopped and turned back to the wizard.

Markwood was gone.

The man in black was not worried, but he did feel confused. Where had his companion gone? Why were they no longer together? Why were they here in the first place?

Kron closed his eyes. His head was swimming. He needed to calm himself. He tried to remember things he had been taught, secrets from some of the wardens in the Prisonlands, foreigners who had been more than glad to pass along hidden knowledge, sometimes magical knowledge, to a young boy who yearned for knowing. Something had to save him. But from what?

Kron opened his eyes again.

Standing in front of him were Marcus and Aurelia Tallerus, his parents. Grins were spread on their thin lips, beneath his father’s thick black mustache and his mother’s kind blue eyes.

Movement to his left caused Kron to turn in that direction.

There was Wyck, the twelve-year-old boy Kron had befriended in Bond. Wyck was running and skipping through the darkness, a sweet strawberry roll in one hand.

Kron lifted a hand to wave at the boy, but found he could no longer move.

Then his uncle Kuthius appeared before him, a sturdy fellow with lengthy brown and gray hair hanging down his back onto his buckskin shirt. Leather breeches, wolf-skin boots and a thick sword belt completed the uncle’s look, but he carried no weapon.

“Kuthius?” Kron said. “You’re dead. I buried you myself near the Lands.”

The eyes of Kuthius Tallerus were black orbs, with no pupils and no whites at the edges. Those eyes stared, glared, into the soul of Kron Darkbow until the man in black felt his whole self shiver.

“I could not save you,” Kron said, “just as I could not save mother and father, nor poor Wyck. I could not stop Belgad and I could not stop your illness.”

His uncle’s eyes narrowed, growing harsher in their stare.

“I am in hell,” Kron said.

A familiar voice spoke from some distance. “Magic is afoot.”

Kron blinked.

And found himself sitting with his legs crossed on a cold, hard floor.

Markwood sat in front of him, a burning candle in the old man’s hands.

Kron blinked again, not sure what was happening.

“I thought I’d lost you there for a moment,” Markwood said with a smile.

Kron stared about. He was in a small, dark room with walls of brick. Moldy hay was strewn about the floor. There was only one exit, a heavy iron door, and it was closed. “What has happened?”

“We walked into one of Verkain’s defenses,” Markwood said. “He had cast a web of confusion on the room we entered.”

“Where are we now?”

“In a side chamber. I was almost caught up in the spell myself. I should have suspected such traps.”