Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Jacket image Copyright St. Nick, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
"Valor is superior to number."
CHAPTER ONE
A cell door slammed, and Duncan slowly opened his eyes, wishing he hadn’t. His head was throbbing, one eye was sealed shut, and he struggled to shake off the heavy sleep. A sharp pain shot through his good eye as he leaned back against cold, hard rock. Stone. He was lying on cold, damp stone. He tried to sit up, felt iron tugging at his wrists and ankles, rattling, and immediately, he realized: shackles. He was in a dungeon.
A prisoner.
Duncan opened his eyes wider as there came the distant sound of marching boots, echoing somewhere in the blackness. He tried to get his bearings. It was dark in here, stone walls dimly lit by torches flickering far away, by a small shaft of sunlight from a window too high up to see. The pale light filtered down, stark and lonely, as if from a world miles away. He heard a distant drip of water, a shuffle of boots, and he could just barely make out the contours of the cell. It was vast, its stone walls arched, with too many dark edges disappearing into blackness.
From his years in the capital, Duncan knew right away where he was: the royal dungeon. It was where they sent the kingdom’s worst criminals, most powerful enemies, to rot away their days—or await their execution. Duncan had sent many men down here himself when he had served here, at the bequest of the King. It was a place, he knew too well, from which prisoners did not resurface.
Duncan tried to move, but his shackles wouldn’t let him, cutting into his bruised and bleeding wrists and ankles. These, though, were the least of his ailments; his entire body ached and throbbed, in so much pain that he could hardly decipher where it hurt most. He felt as if he had been clubbed a thousand times, stampeded by an army of horses. It hurt to breathe, and he shook his head, trying to make it go away. It would not.
As he closed his eyes, licked his chapped lips, Duncan saw flashes. The ambush. Had it been yesterday? A week ago? He could no longer recall. He had been betrayed, surrounded, lured by promises of a false deal. He had trusted Tarnis, and Tarnis, too, had been killed, before his eyes.
Duncan remembered his men dropping their weapons at his command; remembered being restrained; and worst of all, he remembered his sons’ murders.
He shook his head again and again as he cried out in anguish, trying fruitlessly to wipe the images from his mind. He sat with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and moaned at the thought. How could he have been so stupid? Kavos had warned him, and he had not heeded the warning, being naively optimistic, thinking it would be different this time, that the nobles could be trusted. And he had led his men right into a trap, right into a den of snakes.
Duncan hated himself for it, more than he could say. His only regret was that he was still alive, that he had not died back there with his sons, and with all the others he had let down.
The footsteps came louder, and Duncan looked up and squinted into the darkness. Slowly there emerged the silhouette of a man, blocking the shaft of sunlight, approaching until he stood but a few feet away. As the man’s face took shape, Duncan recoiled with recognition. The man, easily distinguishable in his aristocratic dress, wore the same pompous look he’d had when petitioning Duncan for the kingship, when trying to betray his father. Enis. Tarnis’s son.
Enis knelt before Duncan, a smug, victorious smile on his face, the long vertical scar on his ear noticeable as he stared back with his shifty, hollow eyes. Duncan felt a wave of revulsion, a burning desire for vengeance. He clenched his fists, wanting to lunge for the boy, to tear him apart with his own hands, this boy who had been responsible for the death of his sons, for his men’s imprisonment. The shackles were all that was left in the world to keep him from killing him.
“The shame of iron,” Enis remarked, smiling. “Here I kneel, but inches from you, and you are powerless to touch me.”
Duncan glared back, wishing he could speak, yet too exhausted to form words. His throat was too dry, his lips too parched, and he needed to conserve his energy. He wondered how many days it had been since he’d had water, how long he’d been down here. This weasel, anyway, was not worth his speech.
Enis was down here for a reason; clearly he wanted something. Duncan had no false illusions: he knew that, no matter what this boy had to say, his execution was looming. Which was what he wanted, anyway. Now that his sons were dead, his men imprisoned, there was nothing left for him in this world, no other way to escape his guilt.
“I am curious,” Enis said, in his slick voice. “How does it feel? How does it feel to have betrayed everyone you know and love, everyone who trusted you?”
Duncan felt his rage flare up. Unable to keep silent any longer, he somehow summoned the strength to speak.
“I betrayed no one,” he managed to say, his voice gravelly and hoarse.
“Didn’t you?” Enis retorted, clearly enjoying this. “They trusted you. You walked them right into ambush, surrender. You stripped the last thing they had left: their pride and honor.”
Duncan fumed with each breath.
“No,” he finally replied, after a long and heavy silence. “You are the one who stripped that away. I trusted your father, and he trusted you.”
“Trust,” Enis laughed. “What a naïve concept. Would you really stake men’s lives in trust?”
He laughed again, as Duncan fumed.
“Leaders don’t trust,” he continued. “Leaders doubt. That is their job, to be skeptical on behalf of all their men. Commanders protect men from battle—but leaders must protect men from deception. You are no leader. You failed them all.”
Duncan took a deep breath. A part of him could not help but feel that Enis was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He had failed his men, and it was the worst feeling of his life.
“Is that why you have come here?” Duncan finally replied. “To gloat over your deception?”
The boy smiled, an ugly, evil smile.
“You are my subject now,” he replied. “I am your new King. I can go anywhere, anytime I wish, for any reason, or for no reason at all. Maybe I just like to look at you, lying here in the dungeon, as broken as you are.”
Duncan breathed, each breath hurting, barely able to control his rage. He wanted to hurt this man more than anyone he’d ever met.
“Tell me,” Duncan said, wanting to hurt him. “How did it feel to murder your father?”
Enis’s expression hardened.
“Not half as good as it will feel when I watch you die in the gallows,” he replied.
“Then do it now,” Duncan said, meaning it.
Enis smiled, though, and shook his head.
“It won’t be that easy
