Exhausted, sunburned, drenched in sweat, Baron Marris clung to the back of his trembling black gelding. The horse was on its last legs, but the fortress was in sight, close enough that he could make out the heavy, closed gate. The beast only had to last a little longer.

Yesterday—was it yesterday or the day before? Marris had lost track of time. Some time ago at any rate, Sloan had told him to ride ahead. The bandit leader said he’d stay behind, deal with the boy sorcerer, and catch up. Marris had seen nothing of the other man since.

Who would have guessed a sixteen-year-old brat and that skinny bitch of a diplomat could have so completely ruined his plans? He’d sacrificed everything to see the warlock’s plans through. Not that his shrew of a wife and the two screaming brats were a huge loss, nevertheless he expected to get something for their lives. Right now he’d take a cold pitcher of wine and a rare steak.

His mount stopped and shuddered. Marris freed his foot from the stirrup and fell off its back just before the beast collapsed. He squinted into the predawn gloom. Maybe a quarter mile to go. The baron staggered to his feet. He could make it.

Marris pounded on the heavy doors. The lookouts had to have seen him. They were just letting him stew for a few minutes, to show him what they thought of him. He knew a power play when he saw one. They’d all learn soon enough who was the master’s favorite.

A dull boom sounded from behind the doors a moment before they creaked open, just enough for him to slip inside. Blessedly cool air washed over Marris. A pair of rough men in soiled leathers with swords strapped to their backs pushed the doors closed and replaced the heavy bar.

Marris snapped his fingers. “Food and drink, now.”

The men shared a look and led him deeper into the bleak fortress. The baron trudged along behind them, head hanging, sweat pouring off his back. He wouldn’t give the bandits the satisfaction of collapsing. With grim determination Marris put one foot in front of the other until at last they reached the massive dining hall. Twenty people sat huddled together, heads down as they ate whatever passed for food in this place.

Marris turned to his guides. “Food. Drink. Now.”

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He plopped down on the nearest bench and sighed. The hard wood felt as fine as the softest chair in his castle. The two bandits shuffled toward the kitchen to fetch his meal. Not the most enthusiastic servants, but under the circumstances he’d take it. Maris laid his head on the table and shut his eyes.

A minute later a bowl of some white glop, a pair of biscuits and a chipped ceramic cup of water clattered on the table in front of him. He looked at his servant and raised an eyebrow. “What is this rubbish and where is your partner?”

“Breakfast. Mick went to fetch the master.” So saying the unnamed bandit left him to his unappetizing meal.

Marris grimaced, but his empty stomach overruled his squeamishness. He dunked the biscuit in whatever the gravy was and popped it in his mouth. Surprised and pleased to find the mess edible Marris tucked in with a will. He’d nearly finished emptying the bowl and was considering who he could send for seconds when the clank of a heavy tread drew his attention.

A massive figure in black armor strode toward him, a horned skull engraved on his breastplate, the hilt of a sword jutting up by his shoulder. Marris’s lip curled. The warlock’s flunky, terrific. He’d hoped to find the master himself in residence, but wasn’t shocked that he was absent. The armored figure removed his demonic helm revealing the surprisingly human face underneath.

“What are you doing here?” the flunky asked.

“Watch your tone or the master will hear of it.”

The knight glowered down at Marris. “If you don’t have a good reason for abandoning your task, the master will let me peel the skin from your body to make a new pair of gloves. Now speak!”

“Our business with the barons has failed. The king’s agents forced us to flee and I assume killed all the others.”

“Someone killed Sloan?”

“I assume so since he never caught up to me. The point is I can’t return to the kingdom now. I’ll be assuming command here. You’re welcome to serve as my subordinate.”

A thump followed by a vibration that ran through the floor cut short any reply the flunky might have made. He mashed his helm back over his head and stalked toward the rear exit. Curious, Marris heaved his bulk up and followed along behind.

They reached the dungeon and Marris stared at the empty cells. All the prisoners had vanished. Four dead guards lay on the floor and piles of dirt covered the stone near the back wall. “What happened?”

The flunky rounded on him. “Someone dug a tunnel into the dungeon and freed my prisoners. Any idea who might have done that?”

Marris thought of the boy sorcerer. “I have a fair idea. One of the king’s agents was a sorcerer. He pursued us and I suspect defeated Sloan and the others. Someone must have talked.”

The flunky roared at the ceiling, pulled his sword, and rammed it through Marris’s stomach. Pain became his whole world.

“If you can’t return to the kingdom, what good are you?”

The last thing Marris saw was a black boot descending toward his face.