Chapter One
Wet blood stained the parchment in a perfect circle.
Tiny ridges and whorls from a large finger held Taric’s
attention for far too long. He tore his gaze from it with
difficulty to the man who’d left the smudge. No wound
marked him, but then, Taric hadn’t thought it was Bryton’s
blood. Bryton was far too skilled at questioning prisoners.
"You got him to talk?"
Bryton tightened the cinch on his destrier with a sharp
tug and moved to the pack mule behind him. "Enough pain’ll
make anyone scream secrets like a girl and beg for mercy."
"Did you give him mercy?"
A whoosh whispered through the stable when Bryton palmed
his dagger. Unsatisfied revenge tightened his jaw as he
spun the knife, presenting the hilt to Taric with a raised
brow. "Meet Mercy, Your Majesty. She’s delighted to make
your acquaintance."
Mercy, carved along the handle in a scrolling script,
was darkened with age and worn smooth with use. Taric
didn’t blink and Bryton thrust the dagger back into his
belt. The blade glinted with malicious hunger but not one
drop of red marred the steel. Bryton had taken time to
clean his weapon, long-instilled duty overriding his
consuming anger.
Taric scanned the orderly list of names and prison
numbers, his mouth filling with sour distaste. So many were
crossed off, but not the one Bryton hungered for. He
refolded the parchment and tucked it into his belt. "I
still don’t like this."
"You don’t have to," Bryton muttered.
"I don’t have to let you go, either."
Bryton ran a huge hand through his hair and jerked his
head, cracking his neck with a loud pop. Lines of stress
and strain furrowed his brow beneath the shock of inky
black now staining his long copper hair. The wide line of
black hair had appeared overnight, over one long terrible
night more than a full summer ago. That thick swatch wasn’t
the only darkness Bryton now carried.
The determination blazing from his bright blue eyes
would have made a lesser man cringe. As it was, Taric
fought the urge to step back.
"I’m going," Bryton snapped. "The plan is sound. One man
has a better chance of sneaking into their camp and
executing an ambush. I’m the best soldier you have and you
know it. Even Myla agrees tha—"
"No, Myla agreed a platoon would be too easy to spot.
You took it on yourself to plan this suicide mission."
Fisting his hands, Taric fought for an even tone. "You
haven’t slept. You look like shit. A few days won’t matter."
"I’ll sleep when I make camp. I’m not letting that son
of a bitch go, not when I’m this close."
"You?" Taric roared, his temper slipping. The stable
boys dropped their water buckets and scurried away like
mice. Bryton never flinched. "Over two hundred murderers
were wrongly given their freedom and turned loose on my
kingdom. It’s taken over three long bloody summers but I’ve
been right there beside you, my friend, sending the
Skullmen back to hell."
"There’s no way in hell’s asshole Karok is getting away
from me this time." Bryton locked eyes with Taric and
gritted his teeth. "That bastard murdered my wife. You can
bet your royal ass I’m going to kill him, and I’m going to
make it hurt."
"Your duty is to me."
Deliberation and restraint slowed his movements but
Bryton did not drop his eyes. "It is. But I owe her a duty
as well. Don’t forbid this, Tar. You of all people know
what losing your wife feels like."
"Yes, I do. And I hurt for you."
"Don’t," Bryton spat. "I have to do this."
"You can’t bring Katina back, Bry. She died. You just
stopped living."
"What the fuck do you want from me?"
Jester bucked at the shout and Taric leaped for the
loose reins. Calming the horse helped him hold his tongue.
He really didn’t want a fistfight with Bryton right now. "I
want you to be a pain in my ass again. I want you to call
me ‘Your Maggoty’ and make fun of this stupid beard I’m
trying to grow. I want… I want you to heal, Bry. That’s
all. Don’t do this in anger. There are well over a dozen
Skullmen holed up somewhere in those mountains. We’ll get
them. You don’t have to go alone."
Bryton grabbed his labrys and slowly ran his fingers
down the handle, chilling Taric. He stroked the
doubleheaded battle-axe like a lover…or a killer. "You’re
just pissed Myla won’t let you go instead of me."
Taric cocked his brow. "Myla doesn’t dictate what I do."
New lines of frustration formed between Bryton’s brows.
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two
fingers. Frayed threads of impatience barely hid under his
careful words. "Tar, you’re the King of Eldwyn. She was
right to call you down from the fighting. Let your men
handle this. You need to think more about the future and
your bloodlines."
"My bloodlines are just fine."
Bryton thrust his chin to the left. "Yeah, well, the
future king is eating dirt right now so you might want to
check on that."
Taric glanced out the stable door. His filthy young son
sat stomping a wooden horse to make tracks in the dirt. His
dark hair was dusty and a thick smear of mud lined his
face. Taric hurried to catch the little hand before the
grimy fingers could go into his mouth. "Batu! Your mama’s
going to skin us both like a rabbit if she sees you like
this."
His son laughed at the scolding. "Funny Papa. Me’s not a
wabbit."
Taric scooped the child up and plopped him into a
freshly filled horse trough. Batu giggled and splashed him.
Such pure childish joy beamed from that round face, it took
Taric’s breath. He allowed his grin to remain for one
perfect moment before solemnly looking back to
Bryton. "Maybe you should think about your own bloodlines.
Jana needs you."
Bryton turned his head, looking at the horses, the feed
sacks, anywhere but at Taric. His soft tone carried a deep,
hushed sorrow. "Last moon was the anniversary of Katina’s
death. Jana called the nurse ‘Mama.’"
The slight pause in Bryton’s preparations heartened
Taric as much as the sadness in his words pained him.
Bryton’s joy, his laughter, had died along with Katina but
his eyes always softened when he held his daughter. They
weren’t soft right now. They glistened like shards of ice.
"She needed her mother. That didn’t stop Karok but I
will. Jana will be fine with you and Myla."
"You know we love her like our own, but that doesn’t
change the fact she needs you. You’re her father. Trust me
on this. Without a mother, she’ll need you more than you
can imagine."
Bryton looked at him for a long moment before grabbing
the last bag of foodstuff from the stable floor. It slipped
from his hand with a heavy thud as his eyes blazed with a
radiant, unearthly glow. The color shimmered, obscuring the
white and the black until nothing remained but illuminated
blue.
Taric’s gut tightened. "Damn, I hate when you do that."
"Doesn’t really wax my wood, either," Bryton muttered
through the brewing magic vision. His voice dipped lower,
more graveled and menacing. "Keep the guards close…and go
hunting."
"What?"
"I don’t know. You just need to use your bow and go
hunting."
Taric snorted. "Bry, I haven’t hunted anything but
enemies in—"
"Take up your bow, hunt through the darkness to the
light—" Bryton’s tone tremored with power, with charm that
deepened to an ominous whisper, "—and aim toward a kiss."
"That makes no sense."
Bryton’s eyes dimmed to normal and he blinked rapidly.
He yanked the fallen bag off the ground. "Hell, I just
relay what I’m shown. Ask your kitty-cat queen for a
translation. She’s the one that slapped this magic shit
inside me to keep your blond ass safe."
Making sure Batu was secure enough in the shallow water,
Taric rose and walked to his captain. The jangle of coins
on jewels rang loud in the quiet stable. Bryton’s gaze
dropped to the heavy purse then jerked back to his.
"If you’re determined, take this in case you need more
supplies…bribes, whatever. The crown pays. This is Eldwyn’s
mission, not your personal revenge, right?"
Something flashed on Bryton’s face, a flicker of guilt.
He tucked the purse in his homespun tunic with a nod. He
turned his back to adjust the saddle blanket, an insult
Taric barely acknowledged. Bryton had never treated him as
a royal but as a friend. Friends acted like asses to one
another at times. Friends also didn’t shy from the truth no
matter how ugly.
The truth soured Taric’s stomach. Bryton had a death
wish and no intention of coming home alive. Since Katina’s
death, he’d taken increasing risks, put himself in harm’s
way more times than Taric could count. He’d given up
wearing mail, planned and executed reckless attacks, took
point more often than any soldier in the ranks. Each time
he survived, Bryton got drunk—not to celebrate but to
mourn. Despite his friend’s longing for the other side of
life and his wife, Taric wasn’t ready to lose him.
He stepped in front of the stirrup before Bryton could
mount. "I’ve never pulled rank when we’re alone."
Afternoon sunshine sliced through the wide doors,
turning Bryton’s hair to brass—all except the streak of
black that hung along his left cheek. A tic there spoke of
his strained patience. "No, you haven’t, but your ass is
just itching to, so get it over with."
"Do you want me to bring in a witness?"
Bryton snapped straight, insult tingeing his cheeks
red. "My word used to be enough for you. Are you
questioning my loyalty?"
"Your loyalty? No. I always have and will trust you.
Swear to me on your oath you’ll heed my command and I won’t
call a witness. It’ll be between us."
Mouth clamped into a thin slashed line, Bryton bowed
formally. Resentment stiffened his back and curled his
fists.
Taric nodded, the mantle of royalty he could not shed
falling on his shoulders like an invisible shroud. "Kneel."
One knee hit the stone floor of the stable and Bryton
kept his head bowed. Steel sang on leather when he pulled
his sword, holding it aloft in both hands. Dust motes and
sunbeams danced like pollen, and golden light shimmered on
the long silver length. Salvation was etched along the
blade. Taric’s gaze traced each curved and swirled letter,
along the fine nicks from use, across the scarred knuckles
holding the sword. The sword and the man had saved him from
death many times. Could he do the same? Could he save his
bodyguard from himself?
Bryton’s sword rose proudly in one hand and his fist
banged to his left shoulder. His voice echoed with
reverence in the quiet stable.
"To thee, I have pledged my oath as a captain, to give
my life without question. To thee, I give the strength of
my arm, the force of my blade and the sacrifice of my
blood. I swear by the oath I gave to thee, Taric Segur, as
my liege and my king, to defend you and yours from all
harm. I swear by my honor to give all for the preservation
of my homeland. I swear by my fathers, those who came
before me and perished, that Eldwyn should never fall. I
obey thy every command. Long live the name of Segur."
Had there been indignation or anger in his voice, Taric
might have dropped the royal authority but there was none.
Instead, there was only pure, formal honor. It was that
honor Taric was counting on. A vicious tremor shook Taric’s
arm but he forced his hand to stop before resting on
Bryton’s head. Warmth from his hair flowed to Taric’s palm
and up to his chest and he swallowed. Dutiful, ritualistic
words rolled from his tongue.
"You are the High Captain of Taric Segur, King of the
Land of Eldwyn, the twelve provinces therein and the
Islands of Parot, Haverstead and Gillum. You are his Might
and his Law. By honor and your sworn blood oath, you are
life bound to the crown. Heed me now, Bryton Waru Haruk.
This I command and this I demand as your sovereign king…get
your ass home alive."
Horses nickered and shuffled in straw-filled stalls, and
Bryton did not rise. Batu splashed, wet sloshes hitting the
floor in a soft splatter, and Bryton did not rise. Outside,
the metal ring of the blacksmith’s hammer chimed like
music, and Bryton did not rise.
Umbrage laced his soft curse. "You bastard."
"Not literally but you’ve called me worse. You should’ve
learned by now, Bry. Check doesn’t count." Taric stepped
back and reached for Batu. "That was checkmate."