Free Dark King Of The North (Book 3) by Ty Johnston

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    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