Chapter Four

K erric stared down from his lofty perch. Soldiers brought a struggling man into a courtyard now defiled by blood and death. A bag covered the man's head. Who could this be? Someone loyal to Lothan? Someone who tried to take revenge? Several more soldiers watched, as did Crau.

"Tie him to that stake," Crau commanded. The whip in his hand didn't bode well for the hooded man.

The soldiers chained their captive and stepped back. Their captive stood trembling in breeches that might have been fine once and nothing else. One soldier whipped the bag from the man's head.

Anthone! Dirty, bruised, bloody, but still Anthone, young Prince Eron's tutor.

"Where is he?" Crau stroked the whip like a pet.

Where is he? So, Prince Eron really must be alive. Kerric's hope soared for a moment before Anthone's situation brought him back to harsh reality.

"I… I don't know. I thought he was dead."

Crack!

An angry welt appeared on Antone's bare back. "Yaah!" His scream echoed in the courtyard, tearing at Kerric's soul. They were occasional lovers. Though not exclusive, Kerric still couldn't stand to see a friend harmed, or any innocent, for that matter.

"Wrong answer." Crau recoiled his whip. "I know you helped him escape. Tell me where he is!"

"I don't know!" This time, Anthone braced for the blow, which probably made the sting worse.

Crack! Another welt joined the first.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know!"

Crack! A thin trickle of blood oozed from the most recent lash. Anthone whimpered.

Crau struck with the whip again and again until he stopped asking questions and merely beat poor Anthone, screaming in rage. If only Kerric could get free and perform a daring rescue! The bastard guards laughed with each strike of the whip. They'd pay. One day, they'd all pay for beating an innocent man.

Anthone now slumped against the stake, held upright only by his chained arms. His agonized cries carried on the wind.

Kerric could do nothing but watch helplessly as Anthone's moans grew fainter, then stopped altogether.

Crau flung the bloodied whip into the mud and stalked off. His soldiers fell in behind him. One by one, all spectators silently fled. No one helped the dying man.

Kerric recalled Anthone, stretched out in bed, offering his body with no reservation. His brilliant smile, his sinful mouth. He'd been a baron's younger son. A caring soul with soft hands. Gentle, but he'd given his life for the prince. Kerric would bet a month's wages on Anthone knowing Prince Eron's whereabouts. Yet he hadn't told.

Noble until the end. He'd deserved so much better. Kerric had never grown too close, knowing Anthone desired a rich, powerful lover. Still, he'd loved Anthone, even if more as a friend than anything else.

Kerric cried though he was only able to do so in his mind.

The sun rose, the sun set. Rain fell. Sun shone. Damnable birds shat on Kerric's head. Still, he stood watch over the ramparts. King's Lothan's standard no longer flapped in the breeze over Hisar Castle, replaced by a disgusting parody of the rightful king's banner.

Bain, the puppet of the king of Anilitk, with vile Jaidia as his queen, who wouldn't give him an heir despite his wildest dreams.

Kerric's vantage point gave him a clear view of the comings and goings of the castle folk. Bain often visited a mistress in the village whose belly swelled with child. Maybe the queen's inability to give Lothan a son hadn't been Lothan's fault after all.

At least last night offered some entertainment. Kerric tracked a well-appointed coach as it traveled the circuitous route through the forest to the castle. How foolish for the nobleman to so embellish his coach. He might as well seek out robbers himself.

Ah, there. A figure all in black, creeping toward the road. What diversion would he try this time? Fallen tree? A riderless horse? Or perhaps he felt bold this evening and would simply stand in the road.

So graceful, this robber. He didn't move like a desperate man but performed, every action a step in a well-rehearsed dance. None could stand against him. He'd hit hard and fast, then be gone; horse hobbled a short distance away.

Were he not a statue, were his rightful king still on the throne, Kerric would pursue this brigand from the kingdom. As things stood, highway robbery provided a respite from the everyday monotony.

North. The highwayman always headed north. Typical bandits ran every which way, with no true plan other than to steal and live to tell the tale, and few were bold enough to attempt thievery this close to the castle. This bandit, though. There was an artistry about him. Who was he? Was he known to Kerric? Perhaps he'd been displaced and had become desperate, or was someone loyal to King Lothan who retaliated against the false king.

Kerric would have gladly joined him.

The carriage slowed around a tricky curve. The figure in black stepped out into the middle of the road, as calm as you please. If only Kerric could hear the conversation at this range. What words did the highwayman speak? Stand and deliver? Or something crasser?

Oh, Kerric hoped for crass.

The carriage slowed and stopped. Ah, the hunter had caught its prey, likely some wealthy noble who could give all he carried with him and still not make a dent in his coffers.

But wait! A smaller figure in black launched from a tree branch. How had Kerric not noticed a second bandit? The figure landed gracefully on the carriage's roof, then slipped through the window. Bold creature.

How Kerric longed to be with the bandits or anywhere other than stuck on this rampart serving a sentence for a crime he didn't commit. Or perhaps he did, for not somehow knowing of the coming storm and preparing.

What wouldn't he do to be free of this burden, to travel the countryside taking from the rich?

The highwaymen abandoned the carriage, darting into the woods. Kerric tracked their progress to a stream, where the tree cover grew too thick to see through, even with the enhanced sight granted by the curse. The carriage remained still. Yes, the creative brigands likely tied the driver and passengers loosely. By the time they freed themselves, the bandits would be long gone. At least they only stole. This particular bandit didn't seem to molest young ladies or torture the men.

The larger one didn't, at any rate. Who was the smaller one?

Footsteps sounded behind him. How odd. Only periodic patrols came here. After all, Kerric and his fourteen men were the sentries tasked with keeping watch for all eternity, though now unable to defend the castle he'd vowed to protect.

The advancing footsteps weren't hard-heeled boots like the guards wore. A shuffle, shuffle, tap of slippers and staff warned Kerric who approached.

Mage Miisov stopped a short distance away. "I know you likely curse my name, Captain Kerric, but this was the only chance I could give you. I knocked you out during the final battle to keep you and the rest of your men from dying. You're needed alive. However, Bain demanded that you be punished." He stepped closer still until they were face to face. Face to snout. Whatever. "I don't enjoy serving this mad king, for my loyalty is still to King Lothan, but if I leave, I won't be here to avenge the true king and his family. I am as bound to this accursed pile of stone as you."

A brief twinkle appeared in Miisov's eyes. "It's a good thing Bain doesn't realize I'm known for my cunning ways." All humor fled. "Your punishment can only end when the rightful line returns to power."

Kerric wanted to ask how he disabled them during the last fight. At first, he'd put the act down to divine intervention.

Long live Prince Eron.

"It may take time," Miisov said, "but you and I will still be here to exact revenge, my friend. Hate me now, but I did what I must. I know you can hear me, even if you can't respond. Keep those ears open, Captain, and you might learn of truths between words."

Miisov quieted as more soft steps approached. "Why have you brought me here?" Bain's irritating, nasally whine would've made Kerric wince had he been able.

"Your Majesty," Miisov replied, with a hint of mockery in his tone that Bain missed. "'Tis only to prevent prying eyes and ears. No one can overhear us, and none can approach without our knowledge."

"Very well." Bain ran a hand over Kerric's arm. "I must admit, I like these adornments. Such pieces of art, even if you've never confided how they came to be here."

If Kerric could move, he'd have taken that hand off at the wrist.

"Yes, they are magnificent, aren't they? A fine piece of spell work, if I say so myself. And a fitting end for the guards' dereliction of duty."

More footsteps approached, this time wearing boots. Kerric would know the cadence of those footfalls anywhere. He bristled inside.

"Your Majesty. Mage." The oily slickness of Crau's voice nauseated Kerric. He'd once have followed the commander to the ends of the earth before the bastard betrayed the king and even his own men. For what?

"Duke," Miisov acknowledged, with just enough reverence not to appear openly rude. Truth between words, indeed.

Duke, that had been the lure with which Bain baited his trap—the dubious honor for which Crau had sold his soul.

"Why have you come here, Crau?" Bain snapped.

"I've sent a contingent of soldiers to search for any nobles who might have escaped the battle, as I'd heard rumors to that effect. We can't have Lothan's loyalists stirring up trouble. However, the soldiers never returned. I've also heard of highwaymen nearby."

"Are you sure your men didn't desert? Loyalty to you didn't do well for this lot." Kerric imagined Miisov waving a hand to indicate the gargoyles.

"A regrettable but necessary action, Mage. They were the finest warriors in all of Hisar, in all of Ala, most likely. I couldn't have them ruining my plans." Kerric longed to choke the arrogance from Crau's tones.

"I thought they were loyal to you," Miisov said.

Crau nearly growled, "Not as loyal as they were to the royal family."

Bain led the conversation back to the original subject. "How does that relate to highwaymen?"

"We've tried to attract support for you, King Bain, but more often than not, any foreign nobles who attempt to come here and pledge their allegiance are robbed."

Bain snapped, "Crau! You have the men and the means. How many highwaymen are we talking? A legion?"

Crau coughed.

"What was that? I can't hear you?" Bain finally removed his hand from Kerric's arm.

"One, sire. Possibly two."

The words gave Kerric unexpected pleasure. Someone aggravated the fake king. Kerric liked the bandits even more.

Bain snorted. "I expect your men to have these highwaymen in the dungeon by month's end. Do I make myself clear?"

A sudden crash drew Kerric's eyes downward as the three men walked away. Broken marble lay smashed on the ground below, an arm and a head visible among the ruin.

An ache began in Kerric's chest, one he'd experienced twice before. He'd started with fourteen men after the battle. Three had given up hope so far, using what movement they still possessed to tip over the edge.

Suicide? Now, he was down to eleven men. He'd hang on, couldn't let go. Until all his men were gone, Kerric must endure for them, leaving him alone with thoughts best not entertained. Kerric's mind wandered to the young prince as it so often did. Had he really survived? If so, where was he now? What was he doing?

"Kerric? Will you take me up?"

"Up where, my prince?" Kerric failed to hide his smile. Most nobility overlooked guards, but not the young prince. That he didn't use Kerric's rank was of no consequence.

"All the way to the top. I wanna see the whole world."

Kerric held Prince Eron's hand while slowly taking steps to accommodate a child's chubby legs.

They'd stood on the ramparts, gazing off to the mountains in the north and the Illiona Sea far to the south. Together, they'd watched riders approach the castle or workers scurrying below. The prince's tutor remained nearby, monitoring his charge while occasionally sending knowing smirks Kerric's way.

They'd meet in town later when the tutor wouldn't appear so proper.

Kerric never knew when Prince Eron might appear but had welcomed him each time. Even though Kerric had risen through the ranks to captain, he'd made time, when possible, for his prince.

How much time would pass before Kerric's circumstances changed? Would Prince Eron return and restore his family line? May he have a good life wherever he'd found himself. A better one than the tutor had.

If the prince had survived at all.

Kerric's friends, family, and loved ones—all gone. Now, another one of Kerric's men ended his life rather than spend barely an existence watching over the place where he'd made his worst mistake by trusting a man who should've been trustworthy.

So few were. Certainly none of the regular dwellers in the castle. The queen dallied with Crau, Bain dallied with any he could lure to bed, and the mage plotted to end them all.

Better to remain trapped in stone, above it all. Kerric couldn't even tell which of his men perished.

Yet, Crau wandered free—was even awarded the title of duke and likely lands as well. He'd violated his vows. Crau's debt would come due one day, for Ibrus demanded justice—as did Kerric.

Until then, he'd watch. And wait.