son, Kerwin. I think that’s why I hated you most.”
Chapter Seven
The journey along the western edge of Dartague was both perilous and nostalgic for Belgad the Liar. The muscular, bald northerner with the crooked nose and white mustache was Dartague himself, but it had been two decades since he had visited his homeland. It was true he had only touched on the edges of that homeland, sticking near the mountain range known as the Needles that formed a natural barrier between Dartague in the east and Kobalos in the west, but those few days’ view of the snowy-capped highlands and the dark green valleys had brought a thrill to his heart.
He had never thought he would see this country again, but his current travels had dictated avoiding much of the Prisonlands by going east and north into the mountains, through Dartague and then west again deeper into the mountains and eventually Kobalos.
The barbarian could have turned away from Dartague, but Kobalos was nearer than Bond, and Belgad wanted to finish what he had started. He wanted Kron Darkbow’s head on a pike, and he wanted whatever reward would be coming from Verkain.
As the large northerner rode west on a dirt road to Mogus Potere, the capital of Kobalos, he wore a broad smile, something not familiar to his traveling companions.
What those around him could not comprehend was that Belgad had become bored with his busy and pampered life in Bond. He was not a foppish dandy who wanted soft couches for talking and talking and talking to nobles or merchants. The big man often regretted that his life had taken him in that direction. The prestige was nothing to him. The sense of adventure, something he had lost for years, brought him joy. He no longer felt a prisoner in his own world, a world he had helped create.
Those feelings of contentment came to a crashing halt as Belgad and his band rode into Kobalos. The road they followed was an old trading route. Their path of dirt was wide and solid but offered little to the view other than mountains and dry, gray grass. Only a few miles into the country and a new site emerged. Black iron pikes that appeared once to have been long military spears were spaced every ten or so yards. The sight of those tall weapons would have been enough to shake many a stout heart, but more disturbing were the bodies. About halfway down the length of each pike hung an impaled figure. Most were men, but some were women or children. Most of the bodies were little more than skeletons with tatters of flesh and clothing holding them together, but some appeared recent, screams of agony still frozen on their faces.
“We’re definitely in Kobalos,” Belgad said, his smile faltering.
The faces of the Dartague’s companions were as grim as his own. One of Belgad’s soldiers, a stout fellow with an unconscious Adara Corvus tied behind his saddle, leaned over the side of his horse to disgorge his breakfast.
“How far are we from the city?” Karitha asked, trotting up next to her employer.
“Two days at this rate,” the northerner answered, “but one if we ride hard.”
Thus they rode hard, passing a few other travelers and reaching the capital city a little before noon of the next day. Once near Mogus Potere they were overcome by its dark splendor. The high, black walls of the city rose above them like a bleak storm rolling across a prairie, blocking their vision of the land and sea beyond. Inside the walls were multiple dark towers looming like a beacon of evil to the surrounding gray countryside. One tower stood taller than the rest, a crenelated structure with multiple windows that made one feel as if being surveyed by the many eyes of a giant spider. Surrounding the capital were thousands of tents with hundreds of black smoke pillars curling up; stationed there were Verkain’s troops, his multitudes of mighty warriors in black armor.
Karitha Jarnac shuddered as she rode forward.
“Such a pleasant, chipper establishment,”
Chapter Seven
The journey along the western edge of Dartague was both perilous and nostalgic for Belgad the Liar. The muscular, bald northerner with the crooked nose and white mustache was Dartague himself, but it had been two decades since he had visited his homeland. It was true he had only touched on the edges of that homeland, sticking near the mountain range known as the Needles that formed a natural barrier between Dartague in the east and Kobalos in the west, but those few days’ view of the snowy-capped highlands and the dark green valleys had brought a thrill to his heart.
He had never thought he would see this country again, but his current travels had dictated avoiding much of the Prisonlands by going east and north into the mountains, through Dartague and then west again deeper into the mountains and eventually Kobalos.
The barbarian could have turned away from Dartague, but Kobalos was nearer than Bond, and Belgad wanted to finish what he had started. He wanted Kron Darkbow’s head on a pike, and he wanted whatever reward would be coming from Verkain.
As the large northerner rode west on a dirt road to Mogus Potere, the capital of Kobalos, he wore a broad smile, something not familiar to his traveling companions.
What those around him could not comprehend was that Belgad had become bored with his busy and pampered life in Bond. He was not a foppish dandy who wanted soft couches for talking and talking and talking to nobles or merchants. The big man often regretted that his life had taken him in that direction. The prestige was nothing to him. The sense of adventure, something he had lost for years, brought him joy. He no longer felt a prisoner in his own world, a world he had helped create.
Those feelings of contentment came to a crashing halt as Belgad and his band rode into Kobalos. The road they followed was an old trading route. Their path of dirt was wide and solid but offered little to the view other than mountains and dry, gray grass. Only a few miles into the country and a new site emerged. Black iron pikes that appeared once to have been long military spears were spaced every ten or so yards. The sight of those tall weapons would have been enough to shake many a stout heart, but more disturbing were the bodies. About halfway down the length of each pike hung an impaled figure. Most were men, but some were women or children. Most of the bodies were little more than skeletons with tatters of flesh and clothing holding them together, but some appeared recent, screams of agony still frozen on their faces.
“We’re definitely in Kobalos,” Belgad said, his smile faltering.
The faces of the Dartague’s companions were as grim as his own. One of Belgad’s soldiers, a stout fellow with an unconscious Adara Corvus tied behind his saddle, leaned over the side of his horse to disgorge his breakfast.
“How far are we from the city?” Karitha asked, trotting up next to her employer.
“Two days at this rate,” the northerner answered, “but one if we ride hard.”
Thus they rode hard, passing a few other travelers and reaching the capital city a little before noon of the next day. Once near Mogus Potere they were overcome by its dark splendor. The high, black walls of the city rose above them like a bleak storm rolling across a prairie, blocking their vision of the land and sea beyond. Inside the walls were multiple dark towers looming like a beacon of evil to the surrounding gray countryside. One tower stood taller than the rest, a crenelated structure with multiple windows that made one feel as if being surveyed by the many eyes of a giant spider. Surrounding the capital were thousands of tents with hundreds of black smoke pillars curling up; stationed there were Verkain’s troops, his multitudes of mighty warriors in black armor.
Karitha Jarnac shuddered as she rode forward.
“Such a pleasant, chipper establishment,”
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