Page 6 of Immortal Sentry

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 castleappeared 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.

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