Dark King Of The North (Book 3) (8 page)

“Dig!” Sergeant Dilk straddled the pit, waving the whip over the heads of the soldiers. But he did not snap the bull-hide thong. There was little need. These men were trained, hardened veterans of campaigns against the northern Dartague barbarians. These men knew their duty. It would be an insult to any and all of them to lash their flesh.

A shadow fell over the sergeant. “Labor is good for the soul.”

Beneath an eye squinting away the morning bright, Dilk stared up to see who had spoken. “That it is, your highness.”

The armored figure of Duke Roward glinted beneath the day’s new light, silvered stars spreading forth from his breast plate while dark chain hung about his arms and legs. The leader of the East Ursian Second Army sat astride a mighty steed of coal, steel barding stroking the beast and twinkling like its master. An iron-tipped lance rode in a cup not far from the general’s right fist, while the hilt of a lengthy sword hinted over his shoulder.

A trio of lesser officers, Ursian nobles all and wearing plate of slightly less flash, huddled atop their riding beasts behind their leader. One of these men now rode forward and coughed. “Sergeant Dilk, what manner of hole is this?”

The sergeant pushed a booted foot off the far side of the trench and landed both feet on the side nearest the officers. He glanced from the duke to the younger man who had spoken. “No offense, sir, but I am not sure yet.”

The youthful officer spurred his horse nearer, forcing Dilk to step aside or be brushed back into the pit. None of the soldiers digging bothered to break their stride, their shovels and picks continuing to wail away, though a few snickered at their sergeant’s near misfortune.

“Are you telling me this hole serves no purpose?” the young armored figure spat at the man on the ground. “Are these men digging just to be digging?”

“As the general said, sir, ‘Labor is good for the soul.’ ”

For a moment, Sergeant Dilk thought he would end the day beneath the ditch. The young officer’s eyes blazed black then red.

Then the duke steered his horse closer.

“Digging keeps the men busy, captain,” Roward said, “and it builds their strength.”

The young officer glared at the sergeant once more, then turned his steed away, sauntering the animal back toward his two companions and the encampment beyond.

“Pay him little mind, sergeant,” the duke said to the man below. “He is a decent enough tent officer, but has little sense for the men.”

“Mayhap, your highness,” Dilk said, “but if you’ll beg my pardon, I’m not one to speak ill of my betters, especially those ennobled by the Church itself.”

Duke Roward chuckled as he slipped off the back of his steed. “I don’t blame you, sergeant.” He wrapped the ends of his animal’s harness around a gauntleted fist. “Tell me, as now you’ve driven my curiosity, do you indeed have plans for this pit?”

Sergeant Dilk grinned and nodded back to the toiling men behind him. “Might make a decent latrine, your highness, though I was thinking it would serve better for burial of the dead.”

“The dead of our enemy, you mean?”

“Aye, your highness.”

Roward stared into the dark of the growing hole, his eyes seeming to stare into a blacker pit, a pit beyond the reckoning of mere mortal men. For a moment, he appeared as if he might slip away into a silent insanity, but then he turned in his calm fashion and faced the camp behind him.

The tents of dark blue stretched for miles along the rolling, grassy hills. Soldiers marched and officers rode, some seemingly on errands of import while others merely passed the time. The rising smoke of cook fires dotted the sky above, and the scents of breakfast meals wafted across the slight wind.

For the first time, Sergeant Dilk’s gaze fell upon the silver braid hanging around his commander’s neck. The chain hung low on the chest and ended in an oval, a noose of golden thread.

The sergeant hesitated, but his curiosity got the best of him. “Your highness, if you don’t mind my asking, why are we here?”

The duke’s gaze remained on the flapping tents. “It is Ashal’s will, sergeant. Are you questioning?”

Dilk gulped. He had not meant to cause a stir. “No, your highness. I merely ask as I have been asked. Soldiers like to know what they’re about, your highness.”

Roward’s eyes drifted to the pit and the working men, then he laughed. “I suppose you are correct, sergeant,” he said, “but it is not time to divulge that information to the ranks just yet.

“However, I will say this ... watch for a rider from the northwest, a rider from Kobalos flying the banner of Bishop Althgar, and know that soon all will be revealed.”

Then the Duke climbed onto the back of his riding beast and yanked on the reins.

Sergeant Dilk watched his commander’s back for some little while, then shrugged when Roward and the other officers went about their way, trotting back to the camp. Not for the last time did the sergeant wonder why he and the thousands upon thousands of others, the entire army of northern East Ursia, were stationed upon the border with the Prisonlands. Whispers of trouble in the Lands had been brewing, but that was nothing new. Something new was in the works. Something important.

Dilk shrugged again and spun about, glaring over the laboring men at his feet.

“Keep your backs in it, you mutts!”

***

When Adara came to again, the light filtering through the windows was the shade of early evening with a hint of the sun holding on before the night became king. A pounding ache hammered at her head, reminding her of the beating she had taken.

She found herself in the same bed, same room and same condition as before, hands and feet bound.

So, still a prisoner, but alone.

Her eyes raced around the room, seeking a blade to cut her bindings or some other weapon she could use to subdue one of her captors. Nothing came to view.

She sat up, immediately wishing she had not as new pain stabbed at her forehead. She brought her hands to her skull and felt a fresh scar, dried blood crusted around it.

Voices drifted to her through the open doorway to the left of the bed but they were low and she could not make out what was being said.

Adara dropped her feet over the side of the mattress and stood. Unable to walk, she could still move her feet slightly, and managed to edge inch by inch nearer the opening. She halted before going around the frame, so as not to be seen.

“What of Karitha?” Fortisquo was asking.

“We’ll have her buried,” Belgad said, “or whatever the Kobalans do for the dead.”

Adara shrank from the door. Belgad’s wizard was dead. Adara wasn’t glad to learn of this, but at least it meant she had one less adversary with whom to deal.

“What do
we
do?” Fortisquo asked.

Belgad grunted. “We do as he wants. We go after Markwood and Darkbow. It doesn’t interfere with any plans of our own. Besides, I still owe Darkbow for what he did to me in Bond.”

“What then? It doesn’t sound as if Verkain is going to allow us to simply leave.”

“We will wait and see,” Belgad said. “Whatever he has planned, it has something to do with his healer son, and it sounds important. Our situation could change.”

“What about the story Adara told you?” another voice asked, one of Belgad’s personal guards.

“That was mere conjecture on her part,” Belgad continued, “but it’s not impossible she guessed correctly. Whatever Verkain is doing, it is none of our business, except it could give us a potential for profit.”

“Or wind up dead like the wizard,” another man’s voice said.

“I don’t think so,” Belgad said. “Verkain might not need us, but we still can be of aid to him. Who in Kobalos knows Darkbow and Markwood better?”

Silence was the answer.

“What of Adara?” Fortisquo eventually asked.

“While I consider it a waste of her talent, and of a beautiful woman,” Belgad said, “I see no reason to fight Verkain on the issue.”

“It is a shame,” Fortisquo said. “When?”

The sound of wood scraping stone, likely a chair on the floor, rang in Adara’s ears. “We should finish with it now, tonight,” Belgad said.

The woman jumped back from the door and scooted along the floor until she was next to the bed again. She dropped like a stone, closing her eyes.

“Be careful with that one,” one of the guards’ voices came from the doorway. “She can surprise you.”

“Yes, too bad Karitha is no longer here with another sleep spell.” Belgad’s voice grew louder as the big man entered the bedroom. “Considering she’s been awake for several minutes, I’m sure she’s heard enough to want to put up quite a fight.”

Adara’s eyes popped open.

She stared up at Belgad.

The big man’s hands enveloped her mouth. “My apologies, but the more you struggle, the more you will suffer.

***

Adara did not fight. There was little reason to give Belgad justification in abusing her. Whatever would be her fate, she would try to meet it with some dignity. She did not need to remind herself she had been born nobility.

The bald Dartague tugged the woman along, nearly dragging her down a flight of stairs, through a long hall of dark stone and eventually into the open. Each of the big man’s steps was purposeful, but also reluctant, as if he did not enjoy his current task.

Adara stared at the last of the dying sun on the horizon, noting the daylight would not linger another ten minutes.

“Move!” One of Belgad’s men shoved her from behind.

Adara could barely keep on her feet with Belgad pulling her along so quickly and forcefully.

The woman and the Dartague, along with Fortisquo and Belgad’s four guards, meandered their way through a maze of streets. With buildings blocking sight of the castle, Adara quickly lost her sense of direction, though Belgad seemed to know where they were heading.

Eventually the troupe entered an open area, what appeared to be a marketplace that had been cleared. A hundred feet ahead of them rose the city’s walls, four times as tall as a man and as thick as a stone’s throw. A pair of gigantic iron doors stood open, and Adara could see beyond a tent city filled with soldiers in black going about their military routines.

Belgad led them to the open door where they were greeted by another big man in black armor; on one arm he wore a round shield painted black with white striping the edges.

“Take her.” Belgad shoved Adara forward.

Captain Lendo caught the woman with his free arm. “Want to do it yourself?” he asked the Dartague.

“I find your Kobalan amusements not to my taste,” Belgad said, his thin smile showing he was not altogether happy with the situation.

“You’re not nearly as tough as your reputation.” Lendo grinned then turned away, tugging Adara along with him into the mass of upright canvass.

Keeping her dignity while with Belgad had been simple, but now Adara was unnerved. She had not expected to be turned over to the Kobalans in so brusque a manner.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

Lendo slammed his shield into her face, knocking Adara back and sending blood spraying from between her lips. She would have fallen if the captain had not yanked her back by the cords around her raw wrists.

“You don’t ask questions,” the man said, then pulled her on.

Adara glanced about, catching the iron-eyed faces of the hundreds of soldiers surrounding her. Most continued with their business without paying the least attention to her, but a number stopped whatever they were doing to watch with stern curiosity.

Another hard tug and Adara found herself standing in a a circle of triangle tents with a small camp fire in the center. Tents spread as far as she could see until her eyes reached the towering walls of Mogus Potere.

Lendo let loose of her bindings and waved at a group of men to one side.

The group, eight in all, tromped forward carrying a wooden beam nearly as thick as a man’s waist.

“What is this?” Adara asked, true fear in her voice.

“Hold her down,” Lendo ordered without looking at her.

The eight dropped the cumbersome pole and two grabbed Adara from behind, pulling her down to the ground as she realized her fate and began to struggle.

“Hammer.” Lendo held out a hand.

One of the soldiers supplied a black iron mallet.

“Nails.”

Another man placed four rough nails, each nearly as long as a dagger, into the captain’s waiting hand.

“Hold her against the wood,” Lendo said.

The two men gripping Adara drug her to the thick piece of timber. She tried to fight, but a cuffing sent her into a near stupor. One of the two lifted her arms above her head and held her wrists to the wood. The other man drew a dagger and cut away her black boots, then gripped her ankles.

Lendo shrugged his shield off and knelt next to the woman, the hammer in one of his hands and the nails in the other. “This is going to hurt,” he said with a grin. “Scream all you want.”

The captain placed a nail against slender, crossed wrists.

As the hammer raised above the captain’s head, Adara’s mind raced back to Kron, then to her mother and father and to the green lands of Corvus Vale, her homeland in East Ursia. She had not seen Kron in many a day. She had not seen her home in many a year. A tear came to her eyes.

The hammer slammed down.

***

Her thoughts were hazy, muddled as she hung in the cool night breeze. Her arms were upraised, stretched above with her head hanging between, the limbs pinned to the wood by a pair of black, bloody nails. Her body was in shock, numbing her to the metal pins ripping through her wrists and ankles and impaling her on the upright log. She was not suspended high, her feet barely above the lingering fire, though the heat too she did not feel.

The wind played with her hair, swinging the dark strands around her face as she stared out across the low hills to the south of the city. Her eyes lingered on two horseback figures at the top of one of the hills, a dirt path leading from them down to the tents. In her fevered mind, she wished the figures were Kron and Randall, just to see them one last time.