Lord of Rage. Jill Monroe
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sagged in relief.
“But what should we do about the little cousin?”
Her hand flew to cover her gasp. Their cousin, Gavin, who wasn’t much older than four, had come for the party. She doubted any of the guards would think to check on him. She raced down the hallway to where he slept.
“Gavin, darling,” she whispered. “Get dressed. You’ve got to come with me and Rolfe.”
Her little cousin rubbed at his eyes. “Why?” he asked, more asleep than awake.
“We’re playing hide-and-seek,” she told him with a smile.
He sat up in bed, confused by the timing, but still ready for the game. Gavin was young enough for her to carry. She simply lifted him from the covers and draped him over her shoulder. She sang a soft lullaby in his ear so he wouldn’t grow fretful and loud.
Rolfe joined her in the hallway. “Dayn’s not in his room.”
Fear for her dear older brother made her shake all over again. “Perhaps he’s already escaped.”
Doubt flickered in Rolfe’s eyes for a moment, before the guard quickly masked it. Dayn was in charge of protecting the outer walls of the castle. Of course he’d be involved in any kind of defense. But their defenses had already been breached. That would mean her brother—
No, she would not allow her thoughts to go there. Right now she must take care of Gavin. Rolfe was already rushing toward the corridor that would lead to the escape route no one in Elden had needed in several generations. Who would be attacking them? Why? Their kingdom had been at peace with most every other in the realm.
Rolfe pushed aside a heavy tapestry revealing the door leading to their means of escape. The sounds of fighting still echoed from below, but were growing closer. The hidden door groaned when Rolfe pushed at the ancient wood. When it finally gave way, the hinges objected loudly after their lack of use for years.
“Stop!”
Breena turned to see a hideous creature, one created from evil. Its eight legs, gleaming with razors and dripping with the blood of her people, sped toward her. It would get them all if she didn’t do something to distract it.
“You must walk now, Gavin.”
“But I want you to carry me,” he protested.
“Princess,” the monster called to her, baring its fangs. She realized the revolting beast was focused solely on her. Would do anything to get her, including killing her cousin.
“Go!” she screamed, pushing Gavin into Rolfe’s side, and slammed the door shut.
“Breena,” she heard her little cousin cry. But then she heard a comforting click as Rolfe slid the dead bolt from the inside. Relief made her legs shake. Taking a deep breath, she turned. The monster was almost at her side. Like her mother, this creature wielded magic, except it harnessed the dark powers that came only from corrupting life-sustaining blood.
It shoved her against the wall, one of its razor-adorned legs trapping her in place. It tugged at the handle, but the door didn’t budge. “No matter. They can’t hide in there forever.” Then it looked over at her. Its eyes were cold. She’d never seen eyes so full of … nothingness. It chilled her.
A smile, if one could even call it that, pulled at its upper lip. “Come. The master will want to see you.”
It grabbed her arm, and she sucked in a breath as one of the razors pierced her skin. Her captor dragged her to the staircase where the fighting still waged. Only the crash of sword against sword was already fading as it pulled her down to the great hall. The agonized moans of the injured and dying mingled with the terrified weeping of the captured. Then she spotted her parents on the dais where they held court, chained to their thrones. A mocking humiliation.
Anger began to grow in her chest, chasing away the fear. Her father lay slumped where he once ruled proudly. Blood ran down his cheek and pooled at his feet. So much blood. Too much blood. A sob tore from her throat, and she yanked her arm from her captor’s grasp. She couldn’t let him die like that. Not her father, who ruled with justice, who loved his people.
The blow came from behind. It knocked her to the floor, the cold stone of the hearth cutting her forehead. Blackness began to move across her vision, and she blinked to try to clear it and the pain. She met her father’s gaze. He didn’t have much longer to live. Breena forced herself to look at her mother. Her beautiful mother with the striking silver hair, now stained red from the blood she’d shed.
Her parents reached for each other, and the gesture comforted her. They’d die together. Dark brown eyes flashed across her mind. Her dream warrior would fight these creatures who practiced blood magic. He’d die trying to save, to avenge. She wished he were here now.
“No!” called a man, his tone cold. He had a voice that sounded like death.
Breena knew without having to be told that the man, or something that had once been a man, who raced toward her parents was the Blood Sorcerer. A legend. A rumor. Tall and skeletal, this was the creature mothers warned of; he took those foolish to leave the safety of Elden and turned them evil.
Something potent swirled between her parents’ outstretched hands. They weren’t reaching for each other as she’d first thought, they were rallying their powers. Breena reached for the timepiece, her fingers worrying into the sword and shield decorating the front. How ironic, when what she really needed was a sword and shield.
And a man who could wield that sword.
Her timepiece began to warm and glow against her skin. A wave of magic shuddered through her entire body, and Breena no longer felt the sting from the cut of her temple or the coldness of the hard stone beneath her body.
Breena’s last thought was of her warrior.
Chapter 1
A furore libera nos, Domine! Deliver us from the fury, O Lord!
Ten Years Ago
Osborn’s fingers tightened around the smooth handle of his spear. He’d spent countless hours peeling away the bark and sanding the rough wood until it felt easy in his hand. His legs shook in anticipation as he sat at the campfire, watching the logs turn orange and the smoke rise to the stars. His last night as a child. Tomorrow he’d follow the path his father—and his father’s father and the generations of his forebearers—had once all walked since the beginning of the beginning. Tomorrow he’d meet the final challenge. Tomorrow he’d become a man or he’d die.
“You must sleep,” his father told him.
Osborn glanced up. Even in the dimness of the firelight he could recognize the tension bracketing his father’s eyes. Tomorrow he’d either join his father as a warrior or his father would be burying another son.
“I’m not tired,” he admitted.
With a nod, his father joined him on the ground, the fire warming the chill night air. “Neither could I that night.”
Osborn’s eyes narrowed. Even though he’d asked a dozen times about his father’s Bärenjagd, he’d said little. A father’s task was to prepare his son for the fight, but what to expect, how to feel … that battle was left for each boy to face alone. On his own terms. It defined the warrior he’d become.
If he lived.
An abrupt shake to his shoulder awoke Osborn in the morning. Somehow he’d fallen into a deep sleep. “It’s time.”
The fire had died, and he resisted the urge to pull his pelt around him tighter. Then he remembered.
It was now.
A smile tugged at his father’s lower lip when he saw the suddenness of Osborn’s actions. In a flash of movement he was dressed, bedroll secured and spear in hand.
“It’s