Page 25 of Immortal Sentry

So, Miisov didn’t like Crau either.

Miisov mused, “It’s taken twelve summers, but the usurper finally trusts me enough not to have me followed all the time, even including me in his vile schemes. Which is good, considering I’m actively planning his overthrow. Oh, don’t worry, no one could hear me even if they stood a mere foot away. Silencing spells. Handy tools.”

Miisov planned to overthrow Bain?

The company down below grew closer. Was that a cart? The soldiers’ horses made the skinny nag pulling the cart look positively decrepit. Something lay inside the cart. A man?

A man in black. Kerric’s insides would have jolted if they could at the memory of another cart and three lifeless bodies.

“Ah, I see our guest of honor has arrived. Time to get busy.” Miisov strolled away without another word. Was he chortling?

Our guest.The highwayman?

The sun set behind the horizon. Night fell. Lights shone from the windows of houses, rebuilt since the battle decimated the previous town so long ago. All Kerric could do was watch and wait. He could hurl himself to the ground, but he owed it to his men to keep going until all hope had been lost.

A snapping sound jerked him upright. Wait! Did he move? Did he actually move? Tiny shards of something clattered to the roof. Kerric stumbled, nearly falling. What?

He ran his hands over his face. His hands! He had hands! And a face. And his sword at his hip. He glanced around. None of the other statues appeared to be moving. He shoved a piece of the material that had fallen from him into his pocket for later inspection and crossed the distance to his men.

When he turned back, all the broken shards were gone. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he found the piece he’d saved had disappeared, too. Strange. So strange.

Timmons remained encased in stone, as did Malcolm, Kerric’s second in command. Georgi remained. The contingent once contained twenty-five men. Eleven besides Kerric now stood in the full moonlight. Kerric would mourn the fallen later sincehe could determine now who’d been lost. They all appeared as fearsome beasts, all with wings either folded or furled.

But he knew each one.

“Men,” Kerric told them. “I believe you can hear me. If so, know that I’m free. I don’t know how, but I am. I’ll find a way to free you, too. Hold on.”

He looked out at the night. Funny, he’d had much better vision as a statue, maybe because of the curse that destined him to watch and stand guard forever.

Or until a rightful heir to King Lothan arrived. Wasn’t that a term of the curse? Was it a soldier of Lothan’s line who’d entered the castle? Or the man in black?

Kerric hid in the shadows while a sentry passed, not seeming to notice the missing gargoyle, and he set off down the servants’ stairs. First stop? The kitchens. From what he’d seen, the style of uniform he’d been cursed in hadn’t changed much to the untrained eye. There were differences, but a scullery maid might not notice.

He’d been filthy when cursed, clothes torn and blood-stained. Now, they were as pristine as when he’d first put them on.

He pocketed his captain’s bars. Best to pretend to be just another guard if caught—which he didn’t intend to happen. He peered around a corner. A round-faced woman carried a tray through the kitchen and out the door, leaving him alone. Time for Kerric to get what he needed and be gone before anyone else entered.

He slipped in. A rat scuttled across the floor, seemingly unafraid. Potatoes rotted on a sideboard. What happened to Mrs. Harper and the pristine kitchen of Kerric’s memory? Regardless, now wasn’t the time to be choosy.

Ah, the woman had left out cheese and bread. Saliva filled Kerric‘s mouth. He shoved a bite of cheese between his teeth. Heavenly after so long. He followed with a bite of bread and thenfilled a cup from a nearby bucket in the same place where the old cook kept drinking water for the staff. He downed the cupful, then another, then another.

The cook might soon return.

He wrapped more bread and cheese into a cloth that he secured at his waist, filled the cup once more, and slipped from the room, keeping to corridors normally unused during the evening hours—at least in Kerric’s time. Though some of his gargoyle sight had dimmed, he still saw more than he recalled being able to the last time he’d roamed these passageways in the dark, with only the occasional lantern lighting the way.

Where should he go? Look for the highwayman, or find Miisov?

He heard boot heels on the stone floor, and ducked into an alcove hidden from view behind a curtain. He’d kissed a young lord here during a ball once. Whatever became of the man? His family likely married him off to the noble lady of their choice, and he currently raised a new generation of nobles.

The footsteps grew closer. Whoever passed by had no concept or no need of stealth.

A commander’s uniform.

Crau. But why wear a uniform? Wasn’t he a duke now?

But there he was, in all his gutless glory. Kerric could easily step out into the hallway, strangle the bastard, and leave his body undiscovered until morning.

No. Crau kept secrets. Until Kerric discovered those secrets and how he could benefit from them, he’d keep the mangy cur alive.

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