Dark King Of The North (Book 3) by Ty Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

said. “It will be easier that way.”
    The rushing sound of wings brought Randall’s head up. Above him, lunging from the shadows, were three of Verkain’s war demons. The creatures swooped down with claws reaching.
    Randall held his ring hand higher. “Be gone!”
    Two of the monsters vanished in a puffing of black smoke. The last of the three continued to fall, but no longer in control of its decent. The thing clutched at its chest with fists, then slammed into the marble floor with a harsh crunching noise, pieces of its black armor skittering away across the slick floor. A bent arm reached up from the crumpled mass of broken creature, but the limb fell almost as quickly. Flames of green sprang up from inside the monster’s helmet, followed by a horrendous shriek.
    Randall took several steps back, watching with unblinking fright the black thing that burned away with screams of torture.
    It took a long minute, but eventually the demon was quiet and no longer moved.
    “Did you believe I would allow you a weapon that could defeat me?” Verkain’s voice was directly behind.
    The healer spun.
    It was too late. A thunk from an iron mace cracked the youth across the forehead, sending Randall to his knees.
    “You aren’t even aware of your own strength.” Verkain’s shadow fell over his son.
    Blood trickling down his face, Randall looked up with dazed, questioning eyes.
    The mace came down again, and the healer knew pain and darkness.
     
    ***
     
    “His tracks end.” Kron knelt to stare at the grassy ground where the hoof prints of Randall’s horse disappeared. “It’s as if his animal flew away.”
    “That’s why you needed me,” Markwood said from atop Kron’s steed. “I can still follow his trail.”
    The man in black stood on the hill and watched the sun begin its slow climb in the morning sky. “He must have gone down to the village,” he said, pointing below them at the town at the bottom of the hill. “He called it Piker’s Bay.”
    “His journey did not end there.”
    “Where is he going?” Kron asked.
    “To Mogus Potere. He’s going to his father.”
    Kron cursed.
    “Exactly,” Markwood said.
    “I’m not familiar with these lands.” Kron climbed aboard his steed in front of the mage. “How far are we from the city?”
    Markwood pointed to the east, then north. “About three days. I could get us there in an instant, but — ”
    “You would be drained.”
    “My apologies,” the wizard said.
    “I’ll need you if we face Verkain,” Kron said, “so we can’t have you using heavy magics. We’ll have to ride.”
    “I only hope we can arrive in time to help poor Randall.”
    “Can’t you call upon other wizards?” Kron asked.
    “The distance is too great,” Markwood said. “It too would sap my strength.”
    Kron cursed again and spurred his animal away from Piker’s Bay.
     
    ***
     
    Consciousness sprang upon Randall with pain shooting through his body and a scream from his throat.
    He opened his eyes and found himself stretched face down on a table of oily, hard wood. A muddy floor of rock a couple of feet away greeted his face. He tried to move, but found his ankles and wrists bound by leather thongs.
    The only light was a flickering on the wall, as if from a torch behind him. The healer guessed he was somewhere far underground in one of his father’s many dungeons.
    “I see you have come around,” Verkain’s voice said.
    Randall tried to twist his head to see his father, but an iron brace looped around his neck would not allow it.
    A shuffling of leather on stone was followed by a dark figure appearing on Randall’s left at the edge of his vision. Right away Randall could tell this wasn’t his father; the person was too wide and smelled of horse manure and ale.
    “Looks as if he’s been eating well since last we saw him, my lord,” the burly figure said with a chuckle. Randall recognized the voice as that of Captain Lendo, the chief of his father’s personal