A King's Vow

By Xander Tracy

Can the vow of a warrior king win a heart and save a kingdom?

 

Feared by enemies and allies alike, Naxar is reputed to be utterly merciless, without a human heart or soul. As he captures the throne of Kenta, a letter summons him to Ashwall Castle in the land of his birth, a place he left behind years ago to wage war and take his place in the world. Ashwall is caught in the grip of famine, and Prince Adonias, his childhood friend, desperately needs his help. When Naxar arrives, he finds the prince as hauntingly beautiful as ever, with the golden eyes of a true blood mage. But the prince wants nothing to do with Naxar or his aid. And he wants nothing to do with the marriage alliance his father has arranged between him and the unwitting Naxar. But the prince reawakens something in Naxar, a heart he thought had ceased to beat, and Naxar's determined to make the deal.

 

Prince Adonias only wants one thing—to end the famine ravaging his country. His blood magic is the key, but he hasn't mastered its power. And he doesn't see how he can, now that his father has sold him for food and soldiers to the brutal Naxar, the warrior king who bears no resemblance to the boy Adonias used to know. Adonias knows his magic can solve their problems, but only if he can make it work before his marriage to the madman. And before his own countrymen fall into the superstitious fear of his golden blood-mage eyes. As the rumors begin to swirl around them, blaming Adonias for the blight killing their crops, Adonias fears for his life and his kingdom. And when his father insists he use the dark side of his magic, the choice is anything but simple: submit to the power in his blood...or to the man who heats his blood to boiling with a single kiss...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Hill Publishing
• Release date: Jul 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201145446

Book preview

Table of Contents

Cover

Table of Contents

Look for these titles from Xander Tracy

Title Page

Copyright Warning

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

About the Author

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A King’s Vow

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Etopia Press

Copyright Warning

EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Published By

Etopia Press

1643 Warwick Ave., #124

Warwick, RI 02889

http://www.etopiapress.com

A King’s Vow

Copyright © 2018 by Xander Tracy

ISBN: 978-1-947135-64-2

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Etopia Press electronic publication: March 2018

~ Dedication ~

To Carrie, my friend.

CHAPTER ONE

Naxar’s duel on the battlements ended when he drove his sword through the man they called the Faith-Breaker King. The man had no right to the title. He was nothing but a rebel, and Naxar had smashed his castle and killed him like one. With a yank, he pulled his two-handed greatsword free and let the pretender king’s corpse slump to the floor. He flicked his sword and sent a trail of the dead man’s blood spattering across the stones and the battlements.

Another enemy defeated. This Faith-Breaker King—earning the name for breaking his oath to Naxar—was the last to defy him. At least the dead rebel had the stones to face him with a sword.

He moved to the parapet and looked down on the courtyard below the castle’s keep. His men were fighting the enemy king’s soldiers. Cutting them down. Driving them back. The gates lay broken open. The huge ram his warriors had used to take them down sat abandoned beside them. With the rebel king dead, there was little point in continuing the slaughter. The castle would yield if given the proper motivation.

It was up to him to find that motivation. He set his sword aside and grabbed the dead king. The man was smaller than Naxar, and even in his armor and chain mail, Naxar had little problem lifting his corpse and hurling it off the edge of the battlements. The Faith-Breaker King’s body slammed into the courtyard flagstones, sprawling there broken and half hidden by his purple cloak. He could see the king’s soldiers losing heart when they saw their leader’s corpse.

Naxar grabbed his sword and climbed onto the battlements, standing on the parapets. He lifted his blade into the air.

Hear me! he shouted. The gods had gifted him with a voice deep and powerful, good for yelling commands on the battlefield. The Faith-Breaker King is dead! His blood is on my sword. Lay down your arms, swear fealty to me, and live. Continue your hopeless fight and die!

All around the courtyard, the rebel king’s soldiers began to drop their swords and spears. Naxar’s warriors moved in on them, taking them prisoner, and killing any who refused to lower their weapons and yield. Within minutes the last of the castle’s resistance had broken. The battle was finished. Kenta was completely his. He’d earned the crown by blood and by battle.

His men were cheering him, swords lifted. All hail, Naxar Ceren, King of Kenta!

He stood on the battlements for a moment longer, unafraid of the wind or the fall to the flagstones below. He let them have their victory. As for him, he only felt a mild disappointment. His last enemy was dead. He would miss the thrill of battle and the blood of his enemies staining his sword. Scowling, he turned and dropped back down onto the balcony.

Brenal, one of his captains, stood near the archway leading into the keep, holding his long sword in hand. His long blond hair was damp with sweat, and blood spattered his armor. He smiled at Naxar. Congratulations on your victory, King Naxar.

Naxar only grunted in reply. He glanced at the black smoke coming from the stables and the outer town. Put out the fires. Bury the dead.

Brenal bowed low. Naxar walked past him, still feeling the blood frenzy of battle upon him. What he needed now was a drink and a good fuck to put an end to a long day full of brutal battle.

He strode through the corridors of Spirehold Castle alone. He did not have bodyguards. Let any who were brave enough come challenge him if they dared. But there were none who had the courage. The enemy soldiers all went down on one knee to him. The servants prostrated themselves. The advisors bowed.

Part of him was pleased. Part of him missed the defiance. Victory was always bittersweet.

By sunset, the castle and the surrounding lands were uncontested. All belonged to him. His captains and advisors were busy dealing with prisoners and reassuring the frightened nobles and commoners. Every fire was out. The throne of Kenta was his, a now-undisputed claim he’d secured with an army. Those lords and upstart kings who had defied his claim had fallen in his wake like cut wheat.

He was soon bored and restless. His men were almost too efficient. He barely had any problems to brood over…and now he had no more enemies to smash. So he took a wineskin and headed to find the hot baths this castle was supposedly famous for. It was long past time to wash off the sweat and blood of battle. It frightened the servants.

Speaking of which, he managed to find a skittish servant to lead him to the baths on the lower level of the castle. The servant lit the lamps, bowed repeatedly, and then fled. Naxar was pleased enough as he looked over the bath chambers. A hot spring bubbled up in the center of a stone-lined pool. The humid air smelled heavily of minerals. The rhythmic drip of water droplets sounded almost musical. The sultry air reminded him of Kalsk Tarn, where he’d been born. It was a country of salt marshes and swampland. He didn’t miss it.

He began shedding his heavy armor. The steel plates were enameled in black, his chain mail was a deep gray, black metal skulls decorated his shoulder armor, and engraved skull images covered the back of his gauntlets. Nothing more than a show to intimidate his enemies, although he likely didn’t need them. He stood half a hand taller than most men, and five stone heavier. When he raised his greatsword, men usually fled in terror.

After undoing the leather straps, he tossed the rest of his armor to the stone floor. His sweat-stained clothing soon followed. The sword he kept close enough to reach in case of a threat. He rarely let the large weapon out of his sight.

Slowly, he stepped into the steaming water. It was nearly scalding. He smiled, enjoying the discomfort that neared pain. He relentlessly submerged his body, forcing it to adapt, to adjust to this new threat, this new pain. Within moments the discomfort passed, and the heated water began to ease away the aches in his fatigued muscles. Now he felt like he’d earned the comfort by pushing through the hurt.

He leaned back against the stone sides of the hot spring pool, his sword still within easy reach. He might welcome a fight, but he was no fool. A man needed to have two swords on him at all times. One for his hand, for battle against enemies. One between his legs, for battle in the bed. Of course, carrying around one of those two was far easier than the other…

The tension left his body as he soaked in the scalding water, but his mind was far from at peace. He closed his eyes, wishing he could sleep. The constant battles and travel and planning had left him with little rest over the years. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly at ease. Truly safe.

He heard the soft pad of approaching footsteps. His eyes flew open. His hand shot out, and he seized his sword, ready to cut his enemies down without mercy. Instead, a terrified young servant boy stood by the threshold. The boy stared at him wide-eyed and mouth open, cringing away from him. He was frail, dressed in thin, worn leggings and a frayed servant’s tunic.

Slowly, Naxar put the greatsword down. He tried a reassuring smile. From the look on the boy’s face, the smile did not work as he’d intended. The boy seemed ready to flee.

What is it, little one? he asked. His deep voice echoed back to him from the stone walls and ceiling arches.

I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace. The boy held a silver tray with an envelope lying neatly in the middle. A messenger brought an important letter for you. From Kalsk Tarn. The servant bowed low. The messenger says he’s been chasing rumors of your army from battle to battle for weeks now.

Naxar looked the servant boy over. Well-spoken, but a tiny thing. The boy didn’t look half the weight of the tray he carried. He wondered if the rest of the servants had been too terrified to bring the letter and had sent this child instead.

He held his hand out for the letter. The servant still looked as if he might flee at any moment. But after a moment’s hesitation, he scurried forward and presented the tray, standing with his head bowed, almost as if expecting to be sent away again by a blow. Naxar frowned and took the letter off the tray. He eyed the wax seal. Unbroken. The royal seal of Kalsk Tarn had been pressed into the purple wax. Beside it sat another dab of wax bearing the royal signet from King Hiram of Ashwall Castle.

His heart began to beat faster, and his stomach felt as if it were packed with snow. Ashwall Castle brought back a flood of memories. Most of them were of Adonias. The memory of his beautiful face and his haunted golden eyes pushed its way to the front of his mind. Golden eyes. Golden hair. Full lips begging to be kissed, teased, and bitten. High cheekbones. Noble chin. Beauty that almost seemed as though it didn’t belong on a man…

Scowling, he shook that image away. This was not the time for pining over old memories or regrets long since buried. He glanced at the boy again. Go find my steward. He’s likely looking for me. Bring me clean clothes. He waved a hand at the reeking pile of discarded clothing on the stone floor. Take those out of here and burn them.

Yes, my king. The boy darted forward and gathered up the bloody and sweaty clothes. He held them out, keeping them as far away from himself he could, struggling not to make a disgusted face as he hurried toward the doorway.

Naxar smiled to himself and broke the seals on the letter. He pulled the parchment free and studied it. Reading was not his strong suit, but he could do a passable enough job of it.

The letter was in King Hiram’s hand and bore his scrawling signature. He read it quickly and then went back and read it again slowly, making sure he understood each word. King Hiram was begging Naxar to return to Kalsk Tarn, to Ashwall Castle, as soon as he could. According to the letter, the land of Naxar’s birth was threatened, although the king didn’t say what destruction he feared. Prince Adonias was in desperate need of his childhood friend. Would the great king of Kenta honor Kalsk Tarn with his wisdom and strength?

Naxar skimmed a few lines of redundant flattery until he reached something important again. Hiram was dangling an offer of an alliance and favorable trade that would fill both of their coffers with gold. But it would fill Kenta’s coffers far more quickly.

He placed the letter next to his sword where it wasn’t likely to get any wetter than it already was thanks to his damp fingers. He sank back in the hot water and stared at the ceiling.

Adonias needed him. Kalsk Tarn was under some unknown threat. There was gold to be made.

Was that enough for Naxar to rush off to a country he hadn’t seen in over a decade?

No. Gold was gold. Necessary, yet only a means to an end.

He didn’t care about the land where he was born. His seat of power was here in Kenta now. There was no reason to return to a land of swamps and festering heat, of crocodiles and moss hanging from the trees.

He sighed out a long breath. That was a lie. There was one reason. One very good reason.

Adonias.

Unbidden, the prince’s face pushed its way into his thoughts. Naxar tried to shake the image of the man out of his mind. His smooth skin and soft lips. The silky blond waves of hair, so fine and delicate to the touch. His lean, pale body. The unforgettable golden eyes of those thought to be cursed with blood magic. His laughter—

Enough. He needed to be master of his thoughts and emotions. He couldn’t afford to moon over an old rival like a fool.

Still, how much truth was there to the claim his onetime friend needed him? He hadn’t seen the prince in years. For all he knew, the prince had forgotten him