Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (11 page)

Kron stood like stone, his eyes unblinking.

Adara.

His hand eased its way to the heavy sword on his back, gripping the weapon’s pommel sticking out above his shoulder.

Chapter Eleven

The first soldier died for his curiosity. He was roasting a skewered bird over a fire when he noticed a muscular fellow in a black cloak, looking like any of a thousand other Kobalan soldiers. What was odd about this particular man in black was he stood beneath the crucified woman, a drawn sword in one hand while his other hand reached up and tugged on one of the thick nails impaling the woman’s feet.

“What you doing there?” the soldier asked as he dropped his crispy bird into the fire and approached.

The man with the sword turned at the sound of the voice. Shadow from the cloak’s hood hid his face.

“You wanting her for yourself?” The soldier ambled up to his death. “She’s only three days gone. I guess you could still have fun with her.”

Kron’s blow chopped through the man’s neck, nearly separating head from body.

“Holy Ashal! Did you see that?” someone yelled.

Kron wiped his sword clean on the dead man’s breeches as the body collapsed.

“Hold it right there!” someone nearer shouted.

Kron looked up. A ring of six soldiers had him surrounded.

“What the hell did you do that for?” one man asked.

Kron lunged, his long blade stabbing into a leg. It wasn’t a killing wound, but it would keep the man out of the fight.

Weapons were drawn all around. There would be no more talk.

Two soldiers charged, one from either side. Kron slashed out, slicing one man nearly in half with a cut across the stomach while his free gloved hand batted aside a weak cut from the other opponent. Continuing his motion, Kron spun, his sword swinging high and catching another soldier across the throat.

Then suddenly there were too many of them. Men from the tents charged into the melee. Scores of heavy soldiers with heavy weapons appeared. Kron was surrounded. There was nowhere to flee.

In the background, an officer yelled orders to form a line of pikemen.

Kron whipped out the last of his grenados and flung the clay balls into the advancing soldiers. Smoke and fire burst forth, blinding some and killing others.

Kron dove into the black smoke he had created. He dressed like these men. He was their size. He would blend in.

Rolling and scrambling along the ground through and around the chaotic legs of men, Kron quickly found himself outside the circle of death. Flames from the grenados created dancing shadows on his face as he sheathed his sword and gave a last glance at Adara’s hanging body. She had deserved better.

“Put out the fire!”

“It’s magic!”

“There he is!”

Kron shoved a Kobalan aside and darted between two tents. Looking up to see the city walls were within running distance, he unraveled the silk rope and its attached grapnel from his belt.

“Where did he go?” a soldier yelled as Kron eased past a group of running men in thick leather armor.

Continuing his momentum, the man in black charged for the tall, stone walls. He passed at least a hundred Kobalans on his way, but none halted him or attacked.

Just before reaching the bottom of the barrier, Kron twirled the grappling hook on its rope and slung it for the top of the wall between two low towers. The rope caught on a merlon, twirled around it and the hook latched into stone. Kron didn’t stop running. He pulled the cord taught and walked up the outside of the battlements. He was thankful the sun was still an hour or two away and the soldiers below and above were busy.

At the top of the wall, Kron lifted his legs and pulled himself between two merlons to land on a wooden walkway. The nearest soldiers were a group of three a dozen yards away; their attention was focused on the scramblings of their brethren below.

Kron reeled in his rope and grapnel and returned them to his waist.

That was when the three noticed him.

“Who the hell are you?”

Kron flung a dagger, the short blade sinking into a man’s throat and dropping him.

The other two drew swords. Kron drew his. The three met in the center of the walkway. Blood flowed and two men died. Kron walked away, returning his bloody sword to its scabbard while yanking his bow and an arrow from the quiver on his back.

His first arrow caught a soldier standing guard at the front gate below. The shaft hit him in his left shoulder, causing him to scream out. Scores of men looked up in surprise.

“Kill him!”

“Archers, he’s on the wall!”

“Pikers, hold your ground!”

Kron loosed another bolt, catching a Kobalan in the forehead.

Then the enemy returned the attack. A half dozen crossbow arrows arced through the air. The man in black could not block the missiles, so he avoided them altogether. He dropped off the edge of the walkway, falling a dozen feet to dirt below, arrows slicing air over his head. He rolled when he hit, and came up with an arrow of his own nocked to his bow.

A dozen men with long pikes charged.

Kron loosed the arrow, the shaft catching a soldier in the stomach.

Then it was time to run. Kron could not stand against a line of heavy pikers. He dashed behind a small, nearby building, a smithy from the smells of burning and metal, and found himself in a cul de sac ending with stacks of wooden crates and barrels.

Knowing he had little time to act, Kron jumped onto the nearest box and rushed up the rest as easy as if he were taking stairs.

Shouts from behind told him his foes were close.

At the top of the pile of crates, Kron saw it was a short jump to the roof of the building. He could see other rooftops beyond, many with narrow alleys between, stretching across the city.

The jump was his only chance. Kron glanced back, saw the pikers were already climbing after him, then he leapt.

Halfway to the roof fear stirred as Kron realized the distance had been further than he had thought. An arrow sailed in front of him as he flew through the air, only luck saving him from the shot. He landed with a grunt and rolled again, turning as he tumbled to come up on one knee with an arrow aimed in the direction he had come.

He waited.

Several seconds later the moonlight revealed the helmeted head of a Kobalan at the top of the crates. Kron put an arrow into one of the helmet’s eye holes.

The Kobalan fell with a scream.

Kron spun and moved on. Movement was the key to staying alive. He would fall eventually, he knew, but until then he would kill as many as he could for what they had done to Adara.

He trotted across the roof. An alleyway brought him up short, but not for long.

Kron jogged back from the ledge, then ran forward with his legs pumping. He took to the air again, his body sailing above the gap to land hard on the next rooftop. Again he rolled as his feet touched, and again he came up with an arrow notched.

Behind him, the pikers had reached the last rooftop. They were stumbling around, apparently surprised at not catching their prey.

Kron launched an arrow into their midst to let them know he wasn’t finished.

Then the man in black turned and ran some more. Soon there was another alley, then another jump and another roof. He could do this all night, he told himself.

Chapter Twelve

The end of the whip bit deep, snapping across the slave’s back to cut muslin and flesh.

“Damn you!” Captain Lendo yelled. “Is this the best you could manage?”

The slave, an old man in rags with barely a hair on his head, scrambled for a far corner of the captain’s private chamber.

Lendo slammed the heavy whip onto a table and stomped across the room to the frightened and wounded old man. “You call this my best shirt?” Lendo pointed at the rumpled black silks he wore. “Less than an hour until the ceremony, and you say this is my best!”

The slave cringed in silence.

Lendo glared about the room. “If I find a good knife ...”

The old man crawled away, crossing the room on all fours.

Lendo grabbed a heavy piece of plate armor from its hanging spot above the burning fireplace.

The slave yanked open a door and looked back with trepidation.

“Don’t disappoint me again!” Lendo pitched the shoulder plate.

The slave ducked, but the captain’s aim was good, catching the old man across the forehead to leave a long, bleeding gash.

“Out!” Lendo yelled.

The old man clambered away, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Fools!” the captain stormed to an empty room.

A knock at the door drew his attention. “Enter!”

A guard stuck his head in the door. “Sir, we have a situation.”

“What the hell has happened?”

“There’s a commotion at the front gate,” the soldier said. “One of the sergeants told me to find you.”

“A problem with the Easterners?” Lendo asked.

“No, sir, but we’ve lost eight men.”

Lendo stared at the soldier. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You might want to bring your sword, sir, and armor.”

***

It had taken Markwood nearly an hour of casting before finding Randall, but now their conversation was finished the wizard was growing impatient.

Kron had been gone for far too long.

“Damn the man,” Markwood said to the silence of the cell where he sat on a cold, stone floor.

He should have known better than to let Kron Darkbow out of his sight. There was no telling what trouble the man was into.

The old wizard cursed again. He had not wanted to cast another spell because each use of magic was another chance Verkain would take notice of him. Months before Markwood had sent out his spiritual form to search through Kobalos and Verkain had been drawn to his ethereal form. Now that Markwood was actually within Mogus Potere, the potential for Verkain’s involvement grew stronger by the second. Markwood supposed the only reason his castings had not been noticed before now was because Verkain must be busy with the upcoming execution ceremony Randall had mentioned.

Still, there was nothing to be done but use magic. The sun would be rising soon, and Randall faced his death. The wizard had to find the man in black.

Markwood closed his eyes and allowed his mind to focus on the blankness beyond his lids. He had placed a tracing hex on Kron. The man should be easy enough to find.

Within seconds, the wizard’s inner eye locked onto his recent companion.

“Oh no.”

***

Captain Lendo stood atop the battlements at the southern wall of the city. He stared down at the open gates and the multitude of tents beyond. It was difficult not to see the damage. Flames still sputtered in the corpses of four tents, their poles mostly ash and the remnants of canvas flapping across the ground. Several soldiers lay dead at the foot of the crucified woman, the slash wounds so large Lendo could see them from nearly a hundred yards away. Black smoke drifted at the open gates, swirling around a line of pikemen in formation blocking any from entering or exiting the city.

Lendo’s eyes lingered on the draped carriage outside the gate. At least their guests’ transport had not been damaged.

Shouts from within Mogus Potere brought the captain around to face the city. Torches were lit everywhere. The town was more well lit than Lendo had witnessed since the rebellion several years earlier; hundreds of soldiers in black armor combed the narrow streets, winding their way through alleys, hammering on doors and waking households.

“What happened here?” Lendo asked no one in particular.

A short, stout fellow stepped forward, a double-bladed ax tied on his back. “Sergeant Klief, at your service, sir.”

“Explain to me our situation, sergeant,” Lendo said.

“It started in the tents, sir,” the sergeant said, pointing a finger at Adara’s body, “where that lady is hanging.”

“
What
started?”

“A man went crazy, hacking up everybody,” Klief explained. “He worked his way through three or four of our fellows before I could get some pikers to charge him. And he had some kind of magic, throwing fire right at us, and creating black smoke from nothing.”

“How did he escape?”

“Damned if I know, sir,” the sergeant continued. “I thought my pikers would have him, but he disappeared somewhere in the tents. Next thing I know he was up here on the walls, just about where we’re standing. He killed one or two fellows with his sword, then commenced to launching arrows at anyone that’d come near. A few of our lads with crossbows managed to drive him off.”

“But you don’t know to where?”

“No, sir,” Klief said. “He brought out that black smoke and we couldn’t see anything. Some of the boys thought they heard him run down Adder Street toward the slave quarters.”

“That’s the best you can tell me?” Lendo asked.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid so,” Klief said.

Lendo grabbed a near soldier by the front of his plate armor. “You’re the new sergeant of the South Gate.” He aimed a finger at Klief. “Kill that man.”

Lendo shoved the soldier aside and descended a ladder to the ground. A cry from above told him his orders had been carried out.

Another Kobalan, this one a runner in light leathers with a short sword dangling from his belt, jogged up to the captain. “Sergeant Fanto sends word, sir,” the young man said. “They got the man cornered.”

Captain Lendo marched off down Adder Street in the direction from which the runner had come. The young soldier followed just behind.

“Do they know who he is?” Lendo asked.

“No, sir,” the runner said, “but he’s wearing nothing but black. Maybe an infiltrator or one of our guys gone crazy.”

“Your opinions are worthless and can get you killed.” Lendo widened his strides.

The runner slowed his gait, falling behind.

Within minutes the captain found himself facing the back of a line of his men, each a burly soldier in dark armor and carrying a heavy sword. The Kobalans were stretched across Adder Street from one alley to another. Beyond them was an open, empty street. A hundred yards further was another line of Kobalan soldiers, them too barring the road.