An Oath Of The Kings (Book 4) Read online

Beck shut the door behind him and immediately sensed the second Dagarmon who waited in the shadows of an alcove down the corridor. Fortunately, his wife remained blissfully unaware that she had a protector. As far as he was concerned, if the stubborn woman wouldn’t see to her own safety, he would do it for her and that was all there was to it.

  “Lead on, Dax,” he told the young tattooed wizard.

  Beck had not approved of the Dagarmons’ choice to mark their faces around both sides of their eyes. Why would they wish to make themselves stand out even more than their ability already did for them? But, he also knew that the tattoo was a sign of pride for the Dagarmon and they had never anticipated that most would see it as a sign of arrogance.

  From the third floor, he followed Dax down the wide staircase to the foyer below. Servants in scarlet and black livery bustled in all directions carrying trays laden with food and drink. All paused with a hasty curtsy or bow as he passed.

  A Royal Saber standing guard slammed fist to chest and opened the front doors wide for them.

  Once outside, Beck and Dax navigated the sea of performers in the courtyard that included men on stilts, jugglers, storytelling bards and dancers. The dissonant chorus of sounds hammered at Beck’s senses and he pulled uncomfortably at the laces of his white shirt.

  On instinct, he cast out with a seeking spell for any malevolent thoughts in the crowd, but found nothing to concern him. Mostly, people brimmed with happiness. A few harbored disgruntled jealousies as a favorite girl danced with another partner or a tinge of envy at the fine dress of a rival woman, but other than that, all at the Earthshine celebration was well.

  At last, they made their way through the throng to the Mage Vault, the name the Dagarmon dubbed the large caves cut into the sandstone cliffs on the far western side of Bardot. Part laboratory, part barracks for Iserlohn’s wizards, and far enough away from the citizens to avoid any hazards caused by rogue spells.

  Beck walked into the cool interior and was immediately greeted by Gil Jordin, Beck’s appointed Mage leader. The man’s muscled physique filled out the short black cloak of the Order to near bursting proportions. His bald head glinted with sweat. He was one of the first men to approach Beck over two years ago now about becoming a Mage. A very strong earthshifter in his own right, he was now an accomplished wizard.

  “Good, you’re here.”

  “What is it, Gil?”

  “Follow me if you will, First Mage.” Gil tossed a glance over his shoulder at Dax. “You are excused, Dagarmon.”

  Dax nodded and disappeared into the shadowed passages of the Vault.

  Beck followed Gil along the hollowed out corridors. Chambered rooms lined both sides of the hallway. Gil walked swiftly past the room that served as a laboratory, but Beck stopped to peek inside. Two rows of long, stone tables held bubbling potions of all colors and their raw ingredients heaped in neat piles off to the side. Several Dagarmon stirred the contents of their creations and made eager notations on sheets of parchment.

  Beck smiled and then hurried to catch up to Gil outside of the exercise chamber, a large, round room used for the practice of spell casting.

  “I did it, First Mage!” Gil announced excitedly as soon as he entered. “I discovered a way to allow watershifters to breathe air exclusively. Do you understand what that means? They will no longer require water to sustain life!”

  Beck shook his head in confusion. “I’m pretty sure that they like the fact that they can breathe underwater.”

  If Gil heard him, he didn’t show it.

  “With this new spell I created,” he continued, rubbing his hands together, “the watershifters can move out of the underground catacombs to the Surface World. Watch!”

  Only then did Beck see the large fish lying still in the middle of the chamber. He walked over and prodded it with his toe. “Is it dead?”

  “Almost.” Gil pointed and mumbled a spell Beck did not recognize. Instantly, the fish began to flop animatedly across the floor. “See! The fish was dying from lack of water, but the spell introduced a modification to the structure of the gills, and now the fish can live off the oxygen in the air alone!” Gil spun to the door. “Now, all I need is a watershifter to experiment on and I can—”

  “No.”

  The Dagarmon leader whipped his head around. He had no trouble hearing that. “No?”

  The ground at Beck’s feet trembled with his growing anger. “No. I will not allow Mage experiments on human beings.”

  Gil’s brow furrowed. “But, I’m trying to help the watershifters, First Mage.”

  “Actually, you’re trying to alter who they are through the use of magic. I won’t have it.”

  “Even if they can live like normal people?”

  “Your idea of normal, Gil. The watershifters I know believe they are quite normal as they are and I happen to agree.”

  “But—”

  “No! There will be no experiments on human beings in this Order! Let the entire Cyman race of people or the Ellvinian Vypir we had to deal with three years ago serve as a reminder of the effects of Mage experimentation on humans.”

  Gil looked angry, but was wise enough not to speak.

  “Stick to our core vocation, Gil. Find ways to enhance the ways in which we do things, not change the very essence of who we are as individuals.”

  Gil nodded stiffly and Beck strode out of the exercise chamber. On that issue, he would not bend.

  Ever.

  Chapter 2

  The Death of Dynasties

  King Thorn J’El whistled softly and the feral bluehawk alighted on his outstretched finger. “That’s a girl,” he cooed softly, admiring the sleek, bright feathers.

  “It’s beautiful,” said the Gladewatcher assigned to his nightly walk in the royal gardens, a veritable paradise of lilac trees and exotic flowers.

  “Don’t let her beauty fool you, Ellesar, she is one of the most vicious creatures alive. Even now she fights my feralshifting like a caged Draca Cat, desperate to be free and away.”

  “I wish I had the feralshifting, my King.”

  Thorn’s shoulders lifted in sympathy. It was unusual for an Elf not to possess feralshifting, the most common form of magic in Haventhal. It was even more unusual not to have any shifting at all like poor Ellesar.

  Over the years, the Elves had been forced to face a remarkable truth. Almost all in the kingdom were shifters. Unlike his father, King Jerund, who did everything in his power to suppress the magic of this land, Thorn embraced it. Of course, it had been a different time then with magic users in exile and old grudges held tight to the chest. If the Kings had simply peeled away their blinders, they would have seen that the blood oath negated the fear of magic. Very rarely, a shifter who escaped the mark would rise up and cause trouble by harming others, but they were quickly subdued and dealt with.

  “Do not let it concern you too terribly, Ellesar. My cousin, Lord Airron, also does not have the feral—”

  Ellesar suddenly reached out and gripped him in a tight grasp. Thorn turned in surprise at the urgent pressure on his arm. “What is it, Ellesar?”

  The tall Elf stepped in front of him protectively, “Stay behind me, my King.”

  As soon as the warning left Ellesar’s lips, a hooded shadow detached from the ornamental copse of trees. The figure came toward them at a measured pace, not hurried, but not hesitant either.

  “You have entered the private gardens of the High King!” Ellesar barked. “State your name and purpose here!”

  The figure continued to advance silently. A walk to chill the blood. A killer’s walk.

  Ellesar unsheathed his sword and the deadly rasp pierced the evening air.

  With a whispered command, Thorn tossed the bluehawk into the air. The bird issued a shrill, whistling shriek and dove toward the figure with frightening speed, beak open to attack.

  The man lifted a hand and pointed. The bluehawk tumbled through the air and slammed into the ground with sickening force.


  Thorn’s eyes widened. “Sorcery,” he breathed out, sudden dread sending his heart thumping out of control inside his chest.

  Ellesar twirled his weapon. “A Dagarmon then. I will take care of him, my King. Run back to the castle. Now!”

  “Bindeno!” the sorcerer hissed.

  Ellesar’s sword fell from his fist, his arms and legs snapped together and he tipped to the ground with a hard thud.

  Thorn backed away from the oncoming menace until the stone wall of the castle pressed up against his back preventing escape. “What do you want?”

  “Your death,” the voice answered calmly, and with another gesture, a leafy branch hanging over Thorn’s head slid down across his shoulders. He screamed out as the green rope tightened around his neck and body. His fingers flew to his throat in a desperate attempt to create slack in the constricting noose. He just needed enough for one life-saving breath! Blood gathered at his neck from the gouging scratches he carved into the skin below his jaw, but try as he might, he couldn’t get his fingers underneath the rope.

  The Mage turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.

  Thorn kicked and struggled as the vines pulled him off his feet. Tiny pinpoints of light appeared in his darkening vision, and his mind grew sluggish. Still, he managed to see the tear that fell from Ellesar lying helpless on the ground in front of him.

  The leaves pulled tighter and tighter, a mind of their own now.

  With his guard watching, Thorn Falewir, the High King of the Elves, took his last breath dangling from one of the prized lilac trees of his garden.

  ****

  King Erik Rojin untied his robe and let it fall to the floor. The chilly air sent goose pimples racing over his naked body, so he hurried down the short stairs into the heated bath and disappeared into the steamy mist. Ghostly tendrils lifted off the surface of the silent pool and tickled his nose as he slogged through the water to the inlaid bench on the opposite side. Once there, he sank down on the seat and rested his head back against the tile, dipping low to allow the water to cover his shoulders.

  He knew that in all likelihood, this bath would provide his last moments of peace for quite some time, for tomorrow he would wed and all of Deepstone would celebrate.

  The very thought of his fair-haired Ariana made his loins ache and he groaned with the pleasant pain that surged through his lower body.

  This union of his would be no arranged noble wedding. No, never that for him. He was marrying for love.

  The Dwarves had waited patiently over the years for him to find his bride and at long last, he had. At thirty-six years, it was expected he would have married long ago. Some criticized his slow and thoughtful decision-making, but he had always liked to think matters through carefully before committing himself. Surely, that is a trait to be valued in a King, is it not? His father, Rik, had been temperamental and rash and had not always made the best decisions for the kingdom, and Erik decided early on that he would not follow in those footsteps. And, now, all in Deepstone waited with high anticipation for the grand festivities tomorrow. He chuckled to himself as he thought about Ariana plucking a hair from his beard and finding him worthy.

  Erik’s eyes slit open lazily when he felt unexpected movement in the water. He waited, but no one appeared through the hazy vapor. How odd. He could have sworn someone had walked down the steps and entered the bath.

  He straightened. “Klay, is that you?”

  His voice echoed back to him eerily and he received no answer.

  Surely, any one of his guards standing outside of the bathing chamber would have announced themselves if they had entered, and they certainly wouldn’t have allowed anyone else inside.

  Erik stared into the steam for long moments before giving it up as his imagination. Settling back against the tile, he closed his eyes. Instantly, another wave hit him in the chest. “What in the Highworld?”

  Before he could shout out to the Iron Fists, the water slithered as though alive up over his face and into his nose and mouth. The frantic scream on his lips dissolved into a strangled gurgle. His lungs burned painfully from the intake of water, and the world spun dizzyingly, causing him to slip beneath the bath. Arms flailing helplessly, he fought violently to surface once again and lunged toward the stairs. “Get me out of here!”

  The water had other ideas.

  The liquid, sinister serpent glided over his shoulders and coiled around his neck.

  One of the Iron Fists knocked on the door. “My King? The door is locked!”

  Hurry!

  Frenzied pounding and shouts came from outside. Too far, he suddenly realized.

  The serpent dragged him down into the watery depths of the bath and held him there.

  His struggles proved useless. Ariana! My Queen! I’m dying!

  And, that was the last desperate plea of the King of Dwarves as he drowned in his bath.

  ****

  Flickering candlelight danced across King Maximus Everard’s face as he sat alone in his bedchamber. He dipped a quill into the ink bottle on his desk and scratched his signature along the bottom of the parchment in front of him. When he was done, he carefully set the document aside to dry and pulled the next one in the pile closer.

  Faint remnants of the Earthshine celebration could still be heard outside on Dannery Row. It appeared most people had finally had their fill and retired to their homes, and it felt too quiet after all the noise. Usually, Maximus welcomed the solitude after a long day, but tonight he felt a bit of melancholy for some reason.

  His gaze drifted to a mirror on the other side of the room and his reflection stared back at him. At sixty-five years, he was no longer a young man, but regular exercise kept him physically fit and quibbling with his Court kept him mentally sharp. It was only natural, he supposed, that with good years of life still ahead of him, he had a sudden longing for someone to share them with before his chances slipped away.

  He had let them slip away before.

  There had been his one and only Queen for many years. Dear Highworld, what a woman that Gracie was. Determined, regal, passionate. The rowdy rows between them were legendary in Nysa. He idly fingered the scar she’d left on his temple from one of her shoes. Ah, but the making up at night made every single fight worth it. I would suffer a thousand scars to have her back.

  Many years later, of course, Gemini Starr stole his heart. She was everything Gracie was not, but he loved her just the same.

  Both were long dead now.

  Thankfully, he had Kiernan and her ever expanding family which now included his great-granddaughter, Gracyn, to keep him occupied. He smiled at the thought of his little Kiernan a grandmother. She didn’t look a day over thirty years, but he enjoyed teasing her about it all the same.

  Regrets still plagued him where his daughter was concerned. He missed out on many years of her life due to old grievances, and he wished he had put an end to their separation sooner than he had. He hoped she had forgiven him.

  The thought gave him pause.

  Demon’s breath, I’ve hidden behind that cowardly hope for far too long. In twenty years, have I ever asked Kiernan for her forgiveness? Have I ever explained the reasons for my actions?

  No, he had not, and he vowed then and there that when she arrived in Nysa tomorrow for Court, they would have that long overdue talk and he would beg for her understanding.

  With the decision finally made, the weight of urgency suddenly pressed in on him. Incongruous as it seemed, now that he had decided to apologize to his daughter for the first time in twenty years, it felt like he needed to do so right away or else he might never have the chance.

  Unsettled, he slid his chair back and went to the sideboard to pour a cup of wine. Just as he lifted the decanter, a black shadow leapt onto the table, startling him. The decanter slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor.

  “Natasha!” he exclaimed with a fair amount of fright coloring his voice.

  The black cat simply ignored his reprimand a
nd rubbed her sleek body against his arm. Maximus gave the feline a begrudging pet, his heart still beating rapidly. “You gave this old man quite the scare,” he scolded, wondering now why he had kept the blasted cat when she wandered into the palace a few months ago.

  Rather, she kept him.

  Once the cat found access to his bed and his leftovers, she didn’t seem intent on going anywhere else ever again.

  A knock sounded outside and his guard, Sevant Kree, peeked his head in. “Everything all right, Your Grace?”

  Maximus nodded. “Yes, yes, Sevant. It’s this bloody cat again.”

  The blonde-haired Saber smiled. “With all due respect, Your Grace, you seem quite fond of that bloody cat.”

  Maximus waved a hand in the air. “Maybe so, but don’t tell her that.”

  “If there is nothing else—” A low grunt stifled the rest of Sevant’s words.

  Maximus spun to his guard.

  Eyes bulging wide, the Saber toppled forward with his hands clutched to his throat as he tried to stem the blood spewing from a ragged, gaping wound in his neck.

  A hooded figure came through the door over the top of Sevant’s back and advanced into the room, a bloodied knife in his hand.

  Maximus fumed in anger. “You cowardly bastard!” He reached for the dagger at his side and whipped the blade underhanded at the assassin.

  An uttered spell sent the knife flying wide of its mark.

  A Dagarmon, he thought in shock. I have no defense against a Mage. An eyebrow twitched up. Except this.

  Maximus howled and ran at the sorcerer, planting his shoulder in the man’s stomach. He wrapped his arms around the wizard, lifted him off his feet and slammed him to the ground. Maximus then jumped over the prone body to get to the door, but the Mage grabbed his ankle and tripped him up.

  Maximus flicked his eyes to the sword belt hanging on his chair by the window. It’s my only chance. He scrambled to his feet and dove for the weapon.

  A painful blow to his back sent him in a violent roll up against the wall. Dazed, he sat up and watched the black shadow approach with slow, deliberate movement.