Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (32 page)

“I’m sure I could,” Randall said. “This country needs healing, but not the kind I can provide. It needs someone who can help it heal itself, from the inside.”

“That is where my services shall be essential,” Belgad said.

Kron sneered, his top lip curling back.

Randall motioned toward the Dartague. “Belgad was a chieftain of his people. By his own hand he built an empire of commerce in the West.” The healer glanced to Adara and Kron. “That is the kind of king Kobalos needs now. This nation has been isolated for far too long.”

A smile on Belgad’s lips widened. “I have already sent messengers to the Eastern army. The invasion of the Prisonlands will not commence, though I am offering diplomatic and economic ties to the pope.”

“What could you
possibly
have to offer?” Kron’s thin voice piped in.

“Gems,” Belgad answered. “The Kobalan hills are full of them. It’s how Verkain kept his treasury stable for so long despite a lack of outside trade. I will be changing his policy.”

“Before you change any more policies, we have unfinished business.” Kron stood with his hands at his sides, his fingers twitching as if wanting to grab the larger man by the throat.

“Sit down,” Randall said.

Kron turned his glare on the healer.

Adara’s eyes slid from Randall to Kron to Belgad, the big man still smiling. She could feel the tension in the air, as if a heaviness had been added to the atmosphere.

“Kron, I can put an entire castle to sleep,” Randall warned. “Do not force me to act against you.”

The man in black’s harsh eyes remained locked on those of the healer for a moment, then Kron eased back onto the couch.

Belgad chuckled.

Randall glared at the new king. “He has reasons for his hate.”

“All unfounded,” the Dartague said.

“What are you talking about?” Kron spat.

“The deaths of your mother and father.”

Kron grimaced. “I came here to avenge Wyck,” he said, “and that has been accomplished. But it seems I am to be denied the blood debt owed my parents these fifteen years.”

Without a blink, Belgad stared into the hard eyes of his nemesis. “The man who killed the Tallerus clan was dead months ago.”

Kron placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I did not order the deaths of your parents,” Belgad explained. “I only wanted your family frightened so your uncle would not testify against my release from the Prisonlands. Whether tragic accident or the bumblings of an inept wizard, I do not know, but it was Trelvigor who slew your kin.”

Kron stared at his boots, his face ashen.

“It is true,” Randall said. “My incantations have tested the veracity of Belgad’s words.”

Belgad held out a hand to the man in black, an offering of truce. “One does not make peace with one’s friends. I am willing to set aside our vendetta.”

Adara shoved up from her chair and rushed across the room, kneeling in front of Kron and wrapping her arms about his shoulders.

“I did not know,” Kron whispered.

“Of course not,” Randall said. “You’ve been carrying this hate to no purpose.”

Kron gently pushed Adara away. “No, not for no purpose,” he said. “My hate kept me motivated, and in the end it saved some of us from Verkain.”

Adara grinned, tears wetting her checks. “No, that was your sense of righteousness.”

Belgad made an ugly face and planted a hand against his stomach. “I believe I’m going to be ill.”

Chapter Thirty

Duke Roward’s mailed hand formed into a fist, crunching the scroll therein. He stared down at the man on his knees before him, a fellow with shaggy black hair above a shirt of blacker chain. “This cannot be true,” the duke said.

“It is,” the man on the ground said. “I swear it on my soul. I swear it ... I swear it upon the name of Ashal.”

A collective gasp slipped from the lips of the circle of armored officers and soldiers surrounding the general and Captain Lendo, the unfortunate kneeler who had delivered the new Kobalan king’s missive. Several hands reached for the swords at their belts, but a signal from their leader belayed those actions.

“What were you to Verkain?” Roward asked.

Lendo stared up at his questioner. “Captain of his personal guard.”

“And to Belgad?”

Lendo gulped, taking in cool air. “My prospects remain uncertain with the new liege.  Thus far my only command has been to deliver his message to you, Duke Roward, General of the Northern Army of East Ursia.”

Roward held up the crumbled scroll. “Did you realize the contents of this letter?”

“I did not know the exact words,” Lendo said, “but I can surmise what it would say.”

“And did you believe any of it would be to my liking? Or to the liking of his most holiness, Pope Joyous III?”

“It ... it is not mine to question the king of Kobalos. I merely did as I was ordered.”

Roward tossed aside the paper and gripped the Kobalan by his chin of thick, curling hair. “Was it not conceivable to you that I would have slain the messenger of this letter?”

Lendo’s eyes locked onto those of the East Ursian general. “It would be my guess that is why Lord Belgad named me as the bearer.”

The duke laughed. He shoved away the dark chin and spun to face his men. “Slay this fool.”

Lendo, his sword taken from him upon nearing the camp, saw only one opportunity. He jumped to his feet and lunged, grabbing for the general.

Too late.

Half a dozen blades sank into the former captain of the Kobalan king’s guard. His chain shirt knocked aside two blows, but other swords found homes where his armor did not protect. One silvered tip even sank into his throat, stealing the opportunity for Lendo to scream one last curse upon the Ursians or Ashal or the universe.

Roward glowered over the body of the Kobalan. He spit, the white of his phlegm mixing with the blood splashed in the dirt before his boots.

Then the soldiers’ swords drew back. Men went to work cleaning their blades on cloths hanging from their belts, cloths kept for just such occasions.

Roward’s eyes raised to stare beyond his encircling men.

The camp’s life outside the ring of death continued as if nothing had happened, as it had during the confrontation. Thousands upon thousands of East Ursian warriors, officers and servants went about their daily chores. Goods were carried from one spot to another. Cooking fires were built with flint and steel or doused with buckets of piss or creek water. Horses were tied. Weapons were edged. Links were cut for armor rings.

“What is your command, your highness?” one of the younger officers asked.

Roward did not glance at the man. His eyes wove a route over the camp, watching the life that went on around the death at his feet. “We pack and leave,” he said.

The nearby officers glanced one to another, questioning looks on their faces, but none dared to ask questions.

The duke finally looked to his men. “There is to be no war this day,” he spoke. “The pope himself must decide what direction we must travel now.

“Tell the men. Prepare to move out.”

Shifting eyes still held confusion.

“Move out!”

Booted feet went running, drubbing the dirt beneath them.

Minutes later horns blared and banners were raised. The activity within the giant encampment grew to a new level, a new pitch, as the thousands prepared to go home.

Duke Roward turned his back on the work. He stared across a brook, into the dark forests of the Prisonlands and the heights of the gray Needles above. “Not this day,” he said barely above his own breath, “but there will be another, Belgad Thunderclan.”

***

It was several days later when Kron and Randall found themselves atop steeds outside Mogus Potere’s southern gate. Gone were the legions of soldiers and the city of tents; all that remained of the departed warriors were the burnt circles of their cooking fires and flattened, gray grass where they had been encamped.

The city’s gigantic gates stood wide, casting long shadows beneath the morning sun. Sentries were stationed atop the battlements, and others stood their ground just inside the doors to the city.

Passing around the horsed pair were hundreds of former slaves, families freed by their new ruler. They marched alone, in pairs and in groups. None seemed overjoyed at the unfamiliar future that lay ahead of them, but not a one glanced back to Mogus Potere as they passed out its gates. At the least, freedom was a beginning. They had other family members to find, distant homes to return to and new lives to lead.

“Not all of them are leaving,” Belgad said from the ground next to Randall’s horse, Sergeant Lerebus and a pair of guards behind him. The new king still appeared as his self, a simple white tunic above sturdy boots, but a scarlet robe trimmed in white rabbit fur encompassed his shoulders. “A good number are heading to the mines to the south. Without slaves, we have a new economy to build. I have offered them employment.”

“I am surprised.” Kron’s voice was flat, his eyes pointedly not gracing the bulky ruler.

“Slavery is a detestable practice,” the Dartague said.

“I agree,” Adara said as she approached the gathering of men. In her hands she carried a pair of heavy saddlebags.

Kron kept his eyes averted.

Belgad took one of the leather bags from the woman, then approached the left of Kron’s horse. “For you.” He held up the bag.

“What is this?” Kron asked, his steel gaze falling on the Dartague.

“A parting gesture.”

Kron lifted the saddlebag into his lap and pried apart leather straps to peer inside. “I cannot accept.”

“Yes, you can.” Adara offered the other pack to Randall. “It is for services rendered to the crown of Kobalos.”

Randall looked inside his own saddlebag to see silver and gold coins blinking beneath the sunlight. “The healing towers in Bond will appreciate the donation.”

“I do not want this.” Kron held out his saddlebag to Belgad.

The new king waved the man off, refusing the return of his gift. “It is not a bribe.”

“Take it, Kron,” Adara urged. “Put it to good use in Bond.”

Kron’s dark eyes flashed on the woman.

“You can begin with a proper burial for Wyck,” she said.

Kron said no more on the subject, but tossed the sack behind him on the back of his riding beast.

Belgad held up his hands as if surrendering. “For the sake of Bond and Kobalos, and to keep the peace among us,” here the king stared pointedly at Kron, “I will be divesting myself of my business interests in Bond. One of my court wizards has already contacted my man Lalo, and he will be buying me out.”

Kron smirked. “Don’t take me for a fool.”

“I am not giving up all ties to Bond,” the Dartague said. “I still have diplomatic relations, and many other connections. But I want you to know I will not intrude further upon the city’s commerce. Those days are behind me. I have begun a new life here in Kobalos, and I seek to break some ties to the old days.”

Adara eased around to the other side of Kron’s horse, grabbing the horn of his saddle. “Let it go,” she whispered. “He is who he is, just as you are who you are.”

Kron placed a gloved hand over hers, then nodded with a weak smile.

“I will miss you,” she said, staring into his blue eyes.

“And I you.” Kron leaned down and pressed his lips to the side of her face.

She returned the kiss, gently upon his lips.

Kron sat back once more, high in his saddle. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into returning with Randall and myself.”

“There is much work here still to be done.” Adara patted Kron’s hands as he crossed them on his saddle. “Verkain’s slave pits were filled, many of those slaves children. Lord Belgad has asked me to take charge of a new orphanage, to help find homes for the children.”

Belgad moved to Randall’s horse. “I wanted you to know I have spoken with my officers and the remains of the Kobalan gentry.” He nodded at the sergeant behind him. “There is to be no trouble from those quarters.”

“I’m glad the transfer of power has gone somewhat smoothly,” the former prince said.

Belgad grinned, showing teeth. “Of course if things had not gone smoothly, I’d have called up a horde of my Dartague brethren and there would have been another war on our hands.”

The healer chuckled with the king.

Kron gave one last pat to Adara’s hand, then allowed her to retrieve it. “It is time we were going.” He turned to the healer horsed next to him. “A long ride lies ahead, unless you will reconsider using magic.”

“Not this time,” Randall said. “I’m looking forward to traveling at a leisurely pace. Besides, we may yet be of some help in the Prisonlands.”

“True,” Kron said, “and perhaps we can spend time in some places we had to rush through before.”

“Just not East Ursia,” Adara said.

Kron chuckled for the first time in days. “Of course not.”

Chapter Thirty One

It was two months before Kron and Randall stood atop a grassy hill, their horses grazing below as the two men watched a brick road winding west to the eastern walls of the city of Bond. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys beyond the wall, and the stench of city life wafted to them across fields cut flat for the winter. A sting of cold nipped at the air and the two men, one in black and the other in white, wrapped their cloaks tighter.

“Winter will be here soon,” Kron said, his eyes lingering on the gates in the distance.

“Do you have someplace to stay?”

“I’ve some old friends to check upon,” Kron said, “but if I cannot find shelter as a guest, I will rent a room at the Rusty Scabbard.”

“As long as there are no warrants for your arrest,” the healer added.

Kron grinned at his companion. “Yes, there’s that to consider. What of yourself? Still planning to return to the healing tower?”

“It is where I can serve best.” The healer pointed to the heavy saddle bags astride his steed. “Even if my room is no longer available, I’m sure my donation will land me someplace within.”