Chapter Two

K erric watched from Castle Hisar's ramparts, a sense of doom growing with every passing moment. Line after line of enemy soldiers descended the nearby hills, all draped in the red and green of neighboring Anilitk. King Lothan Eritrescue's advisors had sent urgent messages to his allies. They'd never arrive in time.

What if someone killed the messengers before they could reach help? How many of the king's loyal soldiers, Kerric's comrades, now lay dead on the battlefield, sacrificed to a lost cause?

The constant beat of war drums clashed with warning bells from the temple dome. Smoke carried on the breeze. The bastards must be burning the town. They'd spare the woods, being too valuable for timber and game to destroy.

They would consider the rest as expendable.

"Get below," Kerric barked to his men over the cacophony of drums, bells, angry shouts, and the clash of swords. "We must convince the king to leave. We cannot hold the line much longer."

They'd been sent here too late to give a warning and were doing no good against the enemy.

One by one, his men descended into the castle. Kerric gave a final desperate look at the horizon before lowering his helm and following. Help would not be coming. The best they could do was save King Lothan and his family.

Kerric charged to the royal wing of the castle. His men stood by while Kerric approached the door to the king's chambers, nodding to the posted guard. Kerric raised his hand to knock.

"Hold!" Commander Crau rushed down the corridor, dressed in ceremonial armor rather than for battle. Shouldn't he be dressed to fight?

All of Kerric's guards snapped to attention.

Kerric stopped with his knuckles mere inches from the wooden door. "Sir." He clapped his arm across his chest in salute. "The king and his family must leave. We've no time to spare. The enemy is upon us."

Crau bobbed his pointed chin. "I have ensured their safety. You and your men need to guard the castle entrance, giving His Majesty more time to escape."

What a relief! King Lothan finally listened to reason! Kerric saluted again, giving a slight bow. "Yes, Commander."

Crau opened the door to the king's chambers and disappeared inside without bothering to knock. The king truly must be gone, then.

Kerric turned on his heels. "You heard the commander. We are to guard the castle entrance." The enemy would breach the outer gates at any moment. Commander Crau had just sentenced them all to death.

Dying in the defense of the king and country. Kerric could think of no finer ending.

"Bu… but sir!" one guard stammered. "There's no way to defeat the enemy's superior force. We'll lose our lives for nothing."

"Not for nothing." Kerric bared his teeth. "For our king. For Hisar!"

"For our king!" the remaining guards swore in unison. "For Hisar!"

Kerric stared down at the doubting guard. Now was not the time for a soldier to lose heart. "Will you do your duty?"

The man glanced wildly around, finding no allies. "I… If I must."

So be it. Kerric let out a sigh, nodded to his second-in-command, turned, and led his men down the massive stone stairs, their number soon to be shorter by one. A man not dedicated to the greater good, who saw self instead of his brothers, endangered them all and had no place among the elite king's guard.

No need to ask. Malcolm would carry out his duty swiftly and painlessly, eliminating a threat from within. Malcolm's steady tenor echoed in Kerric's ears: "For dereliction of duty.…"

Kerric led the way out the main castle entrance, eleven men on one side, twelve on the other. Malcolm returned and took his rightful place, lips squeezed into a tight white line. He and Kerric had both socialized with the fallen soldier, drank with him, and laughed with him. But an unwilling guard put himself in danger and his brothers in arms.

While their chances were slim, if there was a way for them to come out alive, Kerric would surely try. He took the dead guard's place among the ranks. They had little hope of victory. If the enemy breached the castle walls, the best they could do was buy time.

The zing of metal leaving leather sounded in unison as the king's guard drew their swords. The fighting grew closer. Already, he spotted enemy soldiers in the courtyard.

Kerric shouldn't be here. He should be racing toward the enemy. He had friends out there. If he had to die today, he'd take as many enemies with him as possible into the afterlife, where Ibrus, God of Warriors and Storms, would judge them for the goodness in their hearts and how well they performed their duties.

Why had Crau sent him to the ramparts after the enemy had been spotted?

As though hearing Kerric's plea, Ibrus answered, lighting the sky with his blazing spear and bellowing out an earth-shaking roll of thunder.

It was only a matter of time. Kerric would definitely die this day, laying down his life for his king, a hero's death—the death he'd agreed to when taking his vows to king and country. Thunder crashed in the distance again as fat drops of rain patted against Kerric's helmet.

Clanging and chanting grew closer. Kerric spotted more soldiers through a haze of rain, inching closer and closer. Blood and dirt covered their chainmail.

"Stand aside!" came a command, carrying extra force. The enemy soldiers parted, allowing a lone man to step through, dressed more for a parade than a battle. The sword at his side had likely never tasted blood. This man was no fighter.

His wicked, superior smile made him nearly unrecognizable beneath his elaborate helm. Bain. Bastard Uncle of King Lothan. A horse-drawn cart followed in his wake, wheels and hooves clattering against wet cobblestone. The cart stopped a few yards away. Kerric didn't bow, nor did he acknowledge whatever titles Bain might've given himself. He also fought the urge to wipe away the rain spattering his helmet and splashing into his eyes. "Bain."

The smile left Bain's face. "That's King Bain to you." He waved the cart forward, exposing the contents.

Oh, gods! No! Kerric couldn't stop the magnetic pull urging his feet closer, though his knees grew decidedly weak. His heart broke with each step. He clutched the side of the cart to keep from falling. Kerric had failed. Failed his king. Anger built inside him. Bain thought his surname granted him the right to the throne. He'd never be the rightful king.

Then Kerric looked back into the cart. Oh, Ibrus, no. Pain lashed through his heart, followed quickly by rage. It wasn't just King Lothan lying there.

A shock of red hair. Royal robes. A hand devoid of the royal king's seal. Beside the king lay a younger man and a boy, both with ebony curls, the man's lids open to reveal green eyes, the boy's closed.

Time enough for anger later. The lifeless bodies of King Lothan and his two sons lay sprawled in bloody hay in the cart. A hard swallow did nothing to clear the lump in Kerric's throat. Images flashed through his mind of these two young men, one nearly his own age at twenty-seven, the other seventeen summers younger. "What of Princess Lessa?" Surely Bain wouldn't have killed a woman who'd never be in competition for the kingdom.

"I gained the king of Anilitk's aid in this battle in return for the princess. He plans to wed her." Bain sneered. "Otherwise, she'd have joined her kin."

Imminent death loosened Kerric's tongue. "Bain, you are without honor. Besides, the Anilitk King has a queen."

"Not for much longer, I believe. She's past childbearing age and hasn't provided an heir. Lessa can still bear many sons."

No! Not sweet Princess Lessa and the old deviant from the south! Kerric had failed his king, but he wouldn't fail the king's surviving daughter. "What of Queen Jaidia?" Lothan's widow wasn't well-liked, but she, like Lessa, was Lothan's kin.

Bain appeared far too smug. "She remains queen. She bore Lothan no children but will bear them for the new king." So, Bain planned to take Lothan's widow for his wife. She wouldn't give him legitimacy to the throne. Locals considered her an arrogant foreigner.

The queen also had no love for the children Lothan's former queen gave him before she died. Queen Jaidia wouldn't cry tears for anyone in the cart.

Kerric stalled for time. Why? He didn't know. No one would come and save him, not even Ibrus. Though he knew the answer, he asked anyway, "Do I need to ask who the new king might be?" That's King Bain to you. The deities couldn't be so cruel.

"Me, of course, as should've been my right. My father never should've been passed by."

Bain's father had been an insane tyrant, the reason the old king named a younger son heir—and the fact that Bain was a bastard and not a legitimate son.

"My men and I have failed. We accept our fate. Be quick about it." Kerric would indeed die this day. "But before I lay down my life for my sins, allow me to see the face of my king one more time."

"Look at him all you want. You'll see him soon in death."

Please, Lady, let his chest rise and fall! But no. The king, his grown son, and his younger were still and cold. Kerric studied their features, relaxed in death. Hadn't Commander Crau said they were safe? Judging by the dried blood and stiff limbs, King Lothan had died long before Crau stopped Kerric from opening the door.

Ice formed in Kerric's insides while a dagger pierced his very soul. Betrayed! By his own commander. It came as no surprise when Commander Crau made an appearance, flanked by an officer wearing Anilitk's colors. Kerric blinked back tears. He fixed his gaze on the younger son. Wait! Could that be.…

Though Kerric now faced his last moments, triumph soared within him. The third body wasn't a boy's but a small man's. Not Prince Eron! A stranger.

"Swear fealty to King Bain and live," Crau said with reverence as though he hadn't cursed Bain's name in the past.

"Men!" Kerric shouted. "I'd rather die. Who's with me?"

"Huzzah!" his men shouted. Kerric charged Bain. Crau met him midway, their swords clashing. Kerric shoved his boot into Crau's gut, sending him crashing to the ground. His ceremonial armor wouldn't protect him.

Kerric raised his sword over his head. "Die, traitor." He paused a moment too long to relish the fear in Crau's eyes.

A soldier stepped between Kerric and Crau, straight into Kerric's blade, swung with all his strength. The man screamed once, giving his life for an unworthy traitor. Kerric kicked his body away and lunged.

Crau was gone.

"Crau!" Kerric bellowed. "Face me!" Clangs of steel marked the whereabouts of Kerric's men.

As did their dying screams.

A bright light flashed. More lightning?

All went dark.

Kerric etched a third mark on the rough stone of his cell with a stone he'd found on the floor. Three days. For three long days, he and his remaining men had languished in the cells beneath the castle while Ibrus battered the walls with a storm the likes of which Hisar had not seen within Kerric's lifetime. Thunder rocked the hillside while lightning flashed outside the high window of his cell. The sounds of clashing swords had ended two days ago, though the chaos still rang in his ears.

He swore he still heard the screams of the dying sometimes. Today, he heard voices, chatter, and a horse's neighs interspersed between bouts of Ibrus's wrath.

The God of Warriors and Storms voiced his displeasure—unsurprising since the tenets of Kerric's faith hinged on loyalty, honor, and self-sacrifice, with no tolerance for greed. Of course, Crau likely stopped following Ibrus long ago, and a soldier had stolen the Ibrus talisman Kerric had worn around his neck—a gift from his mother.

Why hadn't Bain killed Kerric and his men yet? For what did he wait? Did he intend to create a spectacle to convince the people of his power? He had no power but the surname Eritrescue and a perceived royal lineage. He'd never be the ruler King Lothan had been—thorough but fair, steadfast, shrewd, placing his subjects' needs before his own. A king whose great flaw had been putting his faith in the wrong people.

Like his bastard of an uncle, Bain.

Kerric had never been noble, never would be, and didn't want to be. Still, he prayed to an unfamiliar goddess. "Great Gertia, Goddess of Nobility and Fair Weather, turn your fury on the betrayer, Bain Eritrescue, for the sake of your faithful murdered servant, King Lothan Eritrescue."

Footsteps sounded outside the cells. A guard he'd never seen before came into view. "His Majesty demands your presence."

His Majesty? Had Lothan survived after all? The hope in Kerric's heart died. No, not King Lothan, but the self-proclaimed King Bain. More soldiers appeared before the bars, but Kerric didn't recognize them, and few uniforms matched his own. Their appearance varied from fair to dark, and their armor was all different. Some wore the facial tattoos of the coastal folks. Not local soldiers, then, but mercenaries from many lands.

Bought forces never remained loyal.

Kerric's own hair—normally sun-streaked brown, now dirty and matted—along with his light blue eyes marked him as from the north. The rest of his men's hair came in shades of brown, as they were native to Hisar. All were taller than the man addressing Kerric and didn't deserve the shackles they wore.

"Hold," Kerric muttered to his men. "Let's not give them sport this day."

"Watch them closely," the first guard commanded as he unlocked the cells. "These were the king's own champions."

Several of the mercenaries snickered. One laughed. "For all the good it did him." Others joined in the mockery.

Kerric seethed. How dare they make fun of the king's death? He'd show these mongrels a real warrior if they'd only release him!

But three days without food and little water left him weak. His knees nearly buckled when a guard prodded him forward. He obeyed, swaying on his feet, and shuffled from the dungeon. The door clanged shut, leaving his men behind. The notion ate at Kerric's heart. His place was with them. Still, he didn't look back. His defiance took far more strength than it should have, but he kept his back straight and his head high.

Even the dreary light of a rainy day seared his eyes when he passed from the gloomy dungeon into the courtyard. Outside. For the first time in days.

He only stumbled four times from the dungeon, across the courtyard, and into the castle. Conversations stopped, and people stared at him. Gossip resumed once he'd passed. There had been no need to bring him outside. The main entrance to the dungeon lay in the oldest part of the castle. This move had been intentional.

Though thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. The droplets felt cool against Kerric's overheated flesh. Sharing space with his fourteen remaining men in tight quarters made the cell sweltering.

"See him?" a woman said, far louder than necessary. "He was the captain of the royal guard. Not so fierce-looking now, is he?"

Another woman shouted, "Long live King Bain!"

She fooled no one. The kingdom would suffer under Bain's rule.

Kerric's jailer entered through the castle's front entrance, a place normally reserved for the king and his guests. How appalling. Guards should enter through the back, not track in dungeon dirt on their boots.

Perhaps his captors designed the move to humiliate him further. He had made his final stand at the front entrance. And had borne witness to his king's dead body.

King Lothan was dead, and all hope for the kingdom died with him.

What a sight Kerric must be—dirty, foul-smelling, and with blood staining his clothing and boots and likely his face, too. He wasn't fit for an audience with his king. However, this wasn't his king, but an imposter who held Kerric's fate in his miserable, grasping hands.

Ibrus, be with me. Grant me strength to go to my death with honor. And to take the enemy with me for your judgment.

No courtiers lined the hallways, nor did Kerric glimpse any servants. The normally teeming lower level of the castle appeared deserted until the guards opened the double doors leading to the great hall, where Kerric usually stood near King Lothan's chair, keeping him safe.

Someone had pushed the banquet tables against the walls, leaving an open space now crowded with benches and chairs, each filled with a noble lord or lady.

Bain sat upon King Lothan's throne at the head of the room. Beside him sat Queen Jaidia, resplendent in satin. Her ample bosom tested the limits of her low neckline, and jewels sparkled at her neck. She gave no appearance of grieving for her late husband except for her black attire, which seemed more designed for showing her assets than paying respects.

How unlike King Lothan's first wife, Queen Salcha. Although she'd been beyond beautiful, Queen Salcha would never have revealed herself so openly and hadn't needed beauty or gold to capture attention.

Jaidia relied on art and artifice to disguise what nature hadn't blessed her with, dyeing her mousy hair a vibrant shade of red. Woe be to anyone who didn't kowtow to her whims. Her satisfied smirk belied her mourning black ensemble.

Bain grinned at Kerric's approach. "I believe you know everyone here." The man he'd been speaking with turned toward Kerric.

Commander Crau.

"Why you!" Kerric lunged. "You betraying bastard!" Hands roughly grabbed him, but he shrugged them off. "I'll kill you! You betrayed our king!" And Kerric. And Kerric's men. The sinking feeling in his gut said Kerric should have known, should have seen. If he'd not been so blindly obedient to his commander, could he have saved King Lothan?

Four guards held Kerric, forcing him to his knees. He glared at the man he'd once looked up to. "You swore a vow to protect the king."

"And protect the king, I shall," Crau replied with an aloof sneer as he took his place behind the throne. If Bain truly knew Crau, he'd not expose his back to the man. "I'd also hold my tongue if I were you. The lives of you and your men hang in the balance."

So, this was it. Sentencing at last.

"I brought you an old friend." Bain gave a sinister grin that sent shivers up Kerric's spine.

The rasp of soft slippers against stone pulled Kerric's attention to the left. A wizened man with shaggy white hair and a full beard shuffled forward, leaning heavily on an elaborately carved staff. His body was bent with age and hard living. Miisov, the royal mage.

Another who should have protected Lothan, and no friend of Kerric's.

Miisov hobbled across the stone flooring, shuffle, shuffle, tap. He wore the purple robes of his station, the hem embroidered with summer star patterns. In the few days since Kerric last saw him, he appeared to have aged.

Kerric cried out,. "Miisov! What are you—"

Miisov lifted a hand, silencing Kerric with a spell. "Do not speak to me, you vile betrayer."

"Me?" Kerric tried to say but couldn't move his mouth.

"You were charged with protecting the king and his family. You have failed and brought judgment down on yourself and the rest of the royal guards." Miisov glowered, an expression Kerric hadn't seen on the old man's normally jovial features.

Miisov paced the floor, one hand behind his back, the other on his staff. "King Bain has generously allowed me to carry out your punishment in exchange for his use of my services. Because you failed to protect King Lothan, you will forevermore guard this castle, unable to desert your post."

Bain drew close to Jaidia and laughed at something she'd said. How dare they laugh! Had Bain already bedded her before killing her husband?

Miisov came closer, putting his lips near Kerric's ear and lowering his voice to a scant whisper. "Long live Prince Eron."

Did he know they'd killed the wrong person and that Prince Eron might still be alive?

Kerric lowered his head in shame at having failed King Lothan. "I deserve my punishment." Deserve it? Yes. Understand it? No. "But I ask that my men be spared."

"I am afraid they must share your fate." Whatever Miisov planned couldn't be pleasant.

Outside, thunder rocked the castle as heavier rain pelted down. Ibrus poured out his anger once more. At Kerric's inadequacy? At Crau for his treachery? Or Bain, who'd ordered his nephew's family slain for greed?

Miisov stepped back. "Captain Kerric, I now sentence you and your men to act as eternal sentinels for Hisar Castle until such a time as you've redeemed yourselves. Immortal, immovable, you'll stand watch until the castle turns to dust without proper redemption."

Surely Miisov didn't possess such powers.

Kerric stood in shock, watching as people he never thought would betray King Lotan pledged their loyalty to the usurper, Bain: Jaidia, Miisov, and Crau. One by one, other nobles approached the throne.

Did Miisov's sentence mean Kerric had a chance for redemption? If not, why wouldn't he simply kill Kerric outright? While the rest of the assembled were preoccupied, Miisov slipped Kerric's sword from beneath his robes with a wink and handed it to Kerric.

"No! You can't arm him!" Crau roared.

Miisov chuckled. "Are you worried about a single armed man against a mage of my power?"

Tendrils of fog drifted from the glowing jewel at the tip of Miisov's staff, swirling around Kerric. Tired. So tired. Needed sleep. The mist wound tighter and tighter, a moisture-ridden shroud. The sword made no difference, Kerric's arm being too heavy to lift the blade.

A thousand barbed points stabbed him at once. He screamed in pain despite his best efforts to remain silent. Invisible flames licked his body. Kerric closed his eyes, giving in to the agony.

He awoke to birdsong and a bright sunny day. The nearest town smoldered, and Kerric spotted the distant mountains from his vantage point. Where was he? This view looked familiar, with its sweeping grandeur from a high place.

The ramparts, where he'd often kept watch. He sensed his men gathered around him and turned to look. Or tried to. Why couldn't he turn his head?

He tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn't move. What the hell? Panic gripped him. Kerric struggled. No! He had to get free!

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an image horrifying enough to chill his blood to ice. In a neat line along the ramparts sat marble gargoyles that hadn't been there before. Many had wings folded onto their backs, each with a feature he recognized. Those downturned eyes were Georgi's. That crooked finger belonged to Malcolm. Rolling his gaze downward, Kerric saw clawed feet where his boots should be.

His scream sounded only in his head.