Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (28 page)

The short blade pierced shirt and skin beneath Adara’s left breast and came away layered with an inch of blood.

The woman stumbled away, managing to keep on her feet by will alone.

Fortisquo stood back grinning.

Adara leaned against the cool stone wall behind her.

“And second blood goes to me,” the swordsman said.

Adara brought up her left hand to press on the chest wound. She winced from the pain but realized the harm done was not life threatening. The wound was not deep enough to cause her to bleed to death and the blade had not touched vital innards. Still, the blood would flow for some while.

Think! her mind screamed. Now that she was wounded, she was nearly outmatched. Her mind scrambled over a thousand different moves and attacks, but none seemed good enough to break Fortisquo’s defenses. She was physically weaker than the man. She was also shorter. To hit him a death-delivering wound meant she would have to enter well within his deadly reach.

Her brain continued to race, focusing on Kron’s lessons of improvisation, of using the environment and of paying attention to the particular strengths and weaknesses of one’s foe.

How could she seriously harm Fortisquo if her reach was so much less than his? The only part of his body she could possibly hit where he would have a hard time defending would be his legs, especially since he was blind in one eye and would have a difficult time seeing to one side.

Adara’s eyes focused on Fortisquo’s leather boots, which did not rise above his knees. Then she remembered one of the most important lessons taught her by Kron Darkbow. Distance.

She plunged forward, her rapier stabbing at the man’s stomach.

Fortisquo knocked aside the blow with his main gauche. He brought his own sword to front, but it too was blocked by Adara’s steel.

Adara swung her rapier out and to her foe’s left. Fortisquo’s long dagger shot out to block the weak slash, but he hit nothing but air as the woman spun away from him. When she rounded to face the swordsman once more, she unleashed the leather straps that had been curled upon her belt.

With a snap, the whip came around from one side of Fortisquo and bit into the skin and muscle behind the man’s left knee.

He screamed and limped back on his good leg.

Adara eased away, keeping her sword forward and her leather scourge out to one side.

“I didn’t teach you that,” Fortisquo said with gritted teeth.

“You weren’t the only lover I had,” Adara said, now her turn to smile.

With that she darted forward seemingly wild, stabbing and jabbing upward with her rapier while slashing the whip out and around the man.

Fortisquo blocked each stroke of steel with his own weapons, but slowly Adara worked her blade lower and lower. Fortisquo found himself forced back to keep from being stabbed or slashed in the leg again.

The woman did not let up. Her relentless jabs pushed the man back another step and he nearly fell as pain shot through his injured leg.

He winced and his good eye closed for a brief second.

It was enough.

Adara flung out the end of her whip to rip around to the side and, from behind, slice into the back of Fortisquo’s other knee.

The sword master plummeted to the floor.

Adara took a step back and lowered her weapons.

“You bitch,” Fortisquo said from the ground as blood flowed from his legs. “I can’t stand.”

“You didn’t teach me the whip, but you did teach me to win.” Adara slid forward, her rapier directed at her fallen opponent.

“What now?” Fortisquo asked. “Will you slay me, a downed man? Where’s the honor in that?”

The tip of Adara’s sword hesitated, then came to rest at his throat.

“I won’t kill you,” she said. “I have no need. You have been beaten, and for as long as we both live, you’ll know I was the one who bested you.”

Fortisquo screamed in rage and brought his sword around for a slash.

Adara’s blade stabbed. The assassin tried to block with his main gauche, but the loss of blood had weakened his reflexes and he was in an awkward position on the floor.

The woman’s rapier slid into his throat until it rapped the stone floor beneath.

Fortisquo’s hands fell away limp and his weapons clattered to his side.

“My pardon, my love,” Adara said with glassy eyes.

She stared at the still form of her once lover and moved back to the cold wall, leaning against it for support. The rush of the combat was quickly dropping from her and she was feeling her wounds. She was not harmed badly, but her strength was draining with each drop of blood.

She slid to the floor near Captain Lendo.

***

Belgad stepped over a sleeping slave in tattered rags at a crossroad of four hallways. He glanced back the way he had come, saw nothing in the steady light of ensconced torches, then looked along the other paths open to him.

He was not lost, but had lost those he had been following. There was no way to know what direction Verkain and Kron had taken.

He leaned over and wiped his sword of gore on the slave’s mud-colored tunic. Then he stood and sheathed the weapon, his eyes shifting from one door to another.

Still seeing nothing, he held his breath to better listen. No sounds came to him.

The big man scowled. He had to get to Verkain. He had to ensure Randall’s safety. There was too much at stake.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Verkain found himself behind his massive chair of black rock in the throne room. As the secret door behind him eased shut, he allowed a red tapestry to fall and conceal it once more. Moonlight from tall windows displayed the dark king, stretching his shadow along the tapestry and outlining his face with a pale glow.

The Kobalan lord made his way around the throne then halted. His black eyes came up to stare about the room. He saw no one in the rows of shadow and moonlight, but the air felt disturbed, moving as if someone had passed near him.

“Who is there?”

At first there was nothing, then in the center of the room a wan light revealed a figure cloaked in white.

“Why?” Randall asked.

Verkain’s head came up further, raising his chin high. He stared for a moment, words unable to come from his lips. Then, finally, “It is true. You live.”

“Yes,” Randall said, moving forward slowly, crossing streams of light and dark, light and dark, until he stopped at the bottom of the steps leading up to his father. The moonlight hovered around his face, giving him a golden aura.

Verkain growled, then lowered himself onto his royal seat.

***

All the climbing, fighting and running had caught up with Kron. His breathing was shallow as he trudged up the stone steps in complete darkness, a hand on the left wall guiding his way.

After what felt like an hour he reached the top of the stairwell, revealed only because his toes could find no other purchase in front of him. He stretched out his arms to tap the walls on either side and found there were no side junctures. He reached ahead and found a flat wall.

His climb had ended. He was positive Verkain had come this way. There had to be a hidden lever or a pulley bar or something that would open another secret door.

Then he heard voices.

Kron leaned forward and put an ear against cold stone.

On the other side of the wall, Verkain was speaking. Then Randall’s voice reverberated through the stone. The man in black could not understand the words spoken, but he recognized enough of the tones to know the speakers.

His search for a secret lever intensified. He had to get to Verkain. There was no telling what the madman would do to Randall.

***

Randall stared up at his father seated in the royal chair of Kobalos, a grimace on the king’s face. “You did not answer my question,” the healer said.

“You asked nonsense,” Verkain said.

“I asked ‘why?’” Randall said. “I believe that is a fair question.”

Verkain’s unblinking eyes shifted from his son to the windows lining one side of the hall. He watched the night, the slow fall of the moon, the winking of the stars.

“Do I deserve no answers?” Randall asked.

The king’s eyes slid to his son’s left hand. “I see you still wear the family ring.”

Randall raised the hand and glanced at the wide gold band on his finger. “I see no reason to remove it. I am still a part of this family.”

Verkain chuckled. “Very much so.”

Randall lowered his hand. “You are avoiding my questions.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear!” Verkain shouted.

That silenced the young man for a moment. He shifted on his feet. There were so many things unspoken between these two, father and son. He had learned much, but there was much he still did not understand.

“What do you want of me?” Verkain asked. “Do you want to know why I killed your brothers and sisters? Do you want to know why I slew you, sticking the blade in myself?
I
should be asking the questions. How do you live?”

“You know the truth of my identity.”

“What does that mean?” Verkain asked. “It’s a nonsense statement. Of course I know who you are. You are Kerwin Verkain!”

“Only in
this
life!”

Verkain slumped back in his throne, his face registering surprise at the yelled words.

“I am much more than Kerwin Verkain or Randall Tendbones, and you know this,” Randall said, taking a determined step nearer the throne. “You have lied to me all my life. Even before!”

“You speak insanity.”

Randall turned away.

“They say I am mad,” Verkain went on, “and if so, I believe I have passed it on to my only surviving child.”

Randall spun back to glare at his father. “Do you deny who I am?
What
I am?”

Verkain shot out of his throne. “I do not know what you are talking about!” he screamed, standing still at the top of the stairs, his face quivering.

The two glared at one another for long seconds, each set of eyes seeming to dare the other to look away in a contest of wills.

Eventually a calmness took control of Randall’s features. “When I was your prisoner, you told me I was more powerful than I knew. I took you at your word. The night you murdered me ... the night you cut my life away ... I whispered a healing spell just before your blade opened my throat. I had hoped the spell would heal the wounds you gave me as they were being made.”

“I had placed nullifying magic about this room,” Verkain said.

“I know,” Randall continued, “but as I said, I took you at your word. I surmised if you were speaking truth, then my own spell should counter yours.”

“It seems it has worked out that way.”

“Not as intended,” Randall said. “My body was damaged greatly, and the spell did heal, but my soul had already fled.”

Verkain eased back onto his throne.

“I died,” Randall said.

“Then you are the most powerful mage of all, to bring yourself back from the grave.”

Randall smiled. “Your words may be true, but you know this. Why deny it?”

“I owe you nothing,” Verkain said.

Randall chuckled again. “I believe you do. If nothing else, you owe me your thanks. If not for me, you would not—”

“I would not
what
?” Verkain interrupted. “Did you conquer Kobalos centuries ago? Did you lay out my plans, crafted over the last sixty years to bring the East and West back to the brink of war? I think not.”

“When I was beyond death, I saw much,” Randall said. “I learned much of the past, and the present.”

Verkain sneered. “Then please inform your hateful father of what you believe I already know.”

Randall ignored the evil look and the tone of the words. “I went back ... to the beginning of all things.”

“Did you speak with the gods?”

“I know nothing of any gods,” Randall said. “I did not see one, but there was a ... presence. It was warm, in a spiritual sense. It filled my soul with joy.”

“How droll.”

Randall’s eyes flashed on his father. “There was also darkness and light. There was a mighty crash that filled the heavens with fire and a sound like trumpets and screams of anguish.”

“I do not understand what this has to do with us.”

“I saw mankind in the earliest days, feeding off the land, learning to hunt and grow, and eventually creating languages and skills and cities.

“Then I saw you.”

“Me?”

“You were a king then, too,” Randall said. “You had a wife, and a child.”

Verkain was silent.

“I was that child,” the healer said.

The dark king scoffed, bringing a hand to his lips as if to hide his laughter or curses.

“You were jealous of me,” Randall went on. “You were ruler of all, but it was not enough. The only magics you knew then were the low magics, the little magics of sacrifice, with your powders and animal bones and skins.”

Verkain rested his hands on the arms of his throne.

“It was I who had the high magic,” the healer said. “It was I who was the natural mage ... the first natural mage.”

Verkain’s bare hands bit into the arms of the throne, pressing his flesh white in black rock.

“You learned the high magics from me,” Randall said. “You stole them from me.”

Blood began to seep from Verkain’s fingers as they continued to dig into the dark stone.

“Then I escaped, ran away,” Randall said. “I grew to a man in a land far from you, where my skills were appreciated for the help they brought others.”

“I should have been the one!” Verkain screamed. “Not you! Not my son! I should have had the high magics first!”

“You did not appreciate what was offered!” Randall yelled back. “For too long you had depended on the souls of others to perform your feats! You had to steal the high magic from me to learn the value of your own soul’s strength!”

Verkain raised his bloody arms and wrapped them around himself. He sank deeper into his chair, as if hiding from the light of the moon impaling his white face.

“But even when I ran away, you followed,” Randall vented. “You chased me across nations until you finally caught up with me.”