C.M. BANSCHBACH
Crosshair Press LLC
P.O. Box 154
Haven, KS 67543
www.CrosshairPress.com
Copyright © 2019 C.M. Banschbach
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior
written permission.
First edition July 2019
CROSSHAIR PRESS brand and logo
are trademarks of Crosshair Press LLC
Interior design by Studio 1212 (www.studio1212.us)
Cover design by Magpie Designs, Ltd.
To the lost, the lonely,
the dispossessed
Other Works
C.M Banschbach (New Adult)
The Dragon Keep Chronicles series
Oath of the Outcast
Blood of the Seer (Coming Soon!)
Claire M. Banschbach (Middle Grade/Young Adult)
The Rise of Aredor series
The Rise of Aredor
The Wildcat of Braeton
The Faeries of Myrnius series
Adela’s Curse
The Wolf Prince
Winter Spell (Coming Soon!)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Coming Soon
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Other Titles from Crosshair Press
About the Author
About Crosshair Press
Chapter 1
MacDuffy’s Seer has been taken.
Gloomy fog clung to the mountain’s slope, obscuring the Mountain Baron’s vision past twenty yards. Rocks and desperate shrubs loomed before him only to fade away as quickly as they had appeared. Draco’s thick hooves echoed dully off the mountain path. The leathers, protected by oil, beaded with moisture. There were no spare bits of harness to make extra noise, but even if there were, he didn’t fear an attack here.
He adjusted his seat as the shaggy, black mountain horse slid a step down an incline and snorted in irritation at losing his footing. The clustering pines and spruce began to spread further from the path, another reminder that the highlands were behind them. A glimmer of sunlight broke through the fog before it was swallowed back up, the way life seemed to allow a glimpse of hope before concealing it yet again.
He tugged at the high collar of his leather jerkin. Seven years he’d been content to remain in the mountains, carving out his own form of justice. But the summons had upset the fragile balance he’d maintained over the memories of his past. Draco jerked at the sudden tightness of the reins, and he apologized with a light tap to its neck.
“MacDuffy’s Seer has been taken.”
The words taunted him. The chieftain of the seven northern clans was playing a dangerous game sending a message to him of all people. The one person in Alsaya who couldn’t do anything.
“Chieftain MacTavish requests you return to speak with Laird MacDuffy and gives you permission to return to the Seer’s family.”
That last part of the message might have been a peace offering. Visiting the Seer’s family, being able to see them all again—he wasn’t ready. Even if he were, they might not be.
This is a mistake. He rubbed at the scar that ran a jagged line from below his right eye to his jawline.
He reined in, and half turned Draco back up the path toward the mountains, where the Dragon Keep kept stately watch over the barren highlands.
But Sean’s been taken.
Sean, Seer of Clan MacDuffy, once his closest friend. His—
No, not my brother. Not anymore.
Draco shook his coarse mane in the damp, still air, snorting impatiently. Return to the clan or return to the keep, the horse didn’t care as long as they moved.
Brother or not, outcast or not, the only way left was forward.
Sean might not be his brother anymore, but he would still do anything for him, whether it meant returning to the Clan or facing the rest of his—no, Sean’s—family.
The Mountain Baron directed his horse down the trail to the lowlands, nudging him up to a walk with a muttered curse.
By the time the mountain trail ended and the road to the lowlands of Alsaya had begun, the fog had lifted, slowly, grudgingly as though nature were determined to keep him in the dark. The sun hovered well into the sky. Draco shook any remaining moisture out of his mane and obediently increased his pace to a trot.
The light had begun to fade into the long shadows of evening when he came to the edge of the farmlands he remembered. A tall hill covered in tumbled chunks of granite— once perfect for children to wage mock-battles— rose up in the distance. Low wooden fences branded with the crest of Dermot, the Seer’s father, ran alongside the road, separating the dirt path from lush fields and farmhouses. The brand’s inlaid circles, cut through with a vertical line, had once been stamped on the Baron’s own gear, but that had been seven years ago before his exile.
The hills, the farmland, the mark—they used to be his whole world. Not anymore.
Now, a brand like a coiled dragon marked his armor and tack, a symbol all of Alsaya had come to know. The mark of the Dragon Keep, the mark of the Mountain Baron.
A young boy playing on the side of the road watched him as he rode up the path. A knot formed in the Baron’s chest at the sight of the unruly thatch of hair, the narrow features that promised mischief. Sean had looked like that as a child.
The Baron pulled Draco to a halt, and the small boy ran toward the straw-thatched farm buildings, shouting for his mother.
A dark-haired woman emerged from the barn with a pail in her hand. “What is it, Art?” Her tired voice rang against the darkening sky, still beautiful even in weariness.
The boy clung to her skirts and pointed at him, chewing his lip nervously, and the woman froze with white-knuckled hands on the pail.
The Baron dismounted and strode toward them, reins in one hand, the other hand resting against the hilt of his sword.
The woman pushed the boy behind her. “Who are you? What do you—?” She trailed off, her gaze sweeping up over the Baron. A gasp escaped her lips, and the bucket clattered to the ground, spilling water across the dirt. “Rhys? Is that you?” Her wide eyes filled with shock and a touch of fear.
He halted at the name. It had been years since he’d heard it.
“Sarah
.” His voice rasped. The scar that traced the left half of his throat had long ago stolen any softness from his voice. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
The woman stooped slowly to retrieve her pail. “That is has. Why are you here?” A bit of hardness edged her voice as she darted a glance around as if making sure she hadn’t been caught saying his name or speaking to him.
Another child tottered out of the barn to grab hold of her skirts—blue eyed, with a headful of dusky red curls. There was only one place she could have gotten that hair. The knot in his chest wound tighter, blocking his breath for a moment. I should have known. He nodded at the girl.
“You and—Sean then?” He forced the words past the deeper rasp in his throat.
“Yes, we married about six years back.” She crossed her arms, the hardness settling across her shoulders. “You didn’t seem to care enough to make it to the wedding, so why are you here now?”
His jaw clenched. She knew why he couldn’t come. “I’m here about Sean.”
“What, you think you can get him back? What makes you think you can?” Despair leached into her sarcastic laugh.
The sound stirred unease in his heart. How powerful is this lord that took him? And how long has Sean been gone?
“You know what I’ll do for him,” he said.
She looked away, lips pressed together as she rested a hand on her daughter’s head. He caught an extra blink in her eyes before she nodded and met his gaze again, a bit of relief lingering in her expression. They’d grown up together. She’d remember the bond between him and Sean, the people they’d been before the Sea Wars had begun and taken Rhys away.
“They won’t welcome you back here.” Her hand flicked up the path.
“They sent for me,” he said. “Looks like they’ll have to invite me back under the roof for one night at least.”
Sarah softened a fraction, a bit of pity glimmering in her eyes. “It’s almost time for supper. We’ll walk you up there.”
He inclined his head in acceptance and waited while she ushered the children toward the farmhouse. They spilled back out moments later, faces wiped clean, and cloaks tucked around them. Sarah firmly shut the door of the farmhouse and wrapped the blue-and-yellow checkered cloak of MacDuffy around her shoulders. It seemed out of place on her. His last memories of her were in the green-and-red checkered cloth of MacGaffrey.
Sarah’s children clung to her hands as they turned back onto the road.
“We’ve eaten at the Talam’s house most nights since Sean’s been gone,” she said.
“How long since he was taken?”
“Almost two months now.” Her voice caught.
He clenched a fist. Two months and they’re only just now doing something?
“When’s Dada coming home?” The girl turned her face up at Sarah and tugged at her fingers.
“Your uncle has come to see about bringing him home.” Sarah squeezed her hand.
At the word uncle, the boy turned a quick, inquisitive look up at Rhys. Rhys cleared his throat in remonstrance at the title. Sarah sent him a frigid glare, daring him to correct her.
The girl sighed and looked down at her small feet. “I miss him.”
“I know you do, darling. We all do.” Sarah lifted her daughter into her arms.
The girl regarded Rhys with solemn blue eyes. “Can you bring him home soon?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” For once he was glad of the rasp in his voice. “What happened, Sarah?”
She stared ahead, her jaw tensing slightly. “Sean had gone out early that morning to tend to the animals. I was gathering eggs from the coops behind the barn when I heard hoofbeats and shouts.” Her voice shook. “I ran around to see some strangers trying to take Sean. He—he was fighting back as well as he could, but there were too many of them. The lads that had been helping us with the spring planting weren’t there yet. I tried to get to him, but they shoved me away. The children woke up with the noise, and I had to try and keep them inside.” She pressed a hand against her stomach, steadying herself again. “There was nothing I could do by myself.”
“What do they know?” Rhys gestured to the children.
“I just told them that Sean had to leave for a while. I didn’t want to scare them more than they already were.”
The steep path leveled off, and the boy ran ahead to the two-storied wooden house that rose at the end. Dermot, the man Rhys had once called father, was the Talam of these lands, a steward to the Laird. He oversaw the farmers who housed on the land. But that was nothing to who he’d once been to Rhys. A firm, guiding hand. Advice when he was troubled. Quiet, unspoken pride in a task he’d done well. Pride, even when he’d taken up the sword and put aside the plough.
What will he think of me now? What have they heard about me? The thought was enough to kill the faint hope that whatever lay beyond the doors would be anything other than rejection.
Rhys took his time tethering Draco at the hitching post, studying the familiar barn and open fields. He’d once known every corner, every inch of the place.
I’m not supposed to be here. He angrily shoved childhood memories away and followed Sarah inside.
He stopped just over the threshold, fighting to keep more memories at bay. A large common room took up most of the house. A staircase rose against the wall opposite the door, leading to an upper loft and family bedrooms. Heavy beams held up the thatched roof, the wood darkened with age and smoke.
A long table stretched the length of the room, filled with tenants from the farms. There had always been guests at the Talam’s table. The evening meal was just being laid out. Rhys recognized most of the farmers sitting around the table. But no one had yet noticed him as he remained frozen in the doorway. Sarah paused at the head of the table to kiss Dermot’s cheek as Lomán, the Talam’s brother, helped settle the children into chairs.
Rhys forced himself a step forward and flinched as the one loose floorboard creaked under his boot. Heads turned and conversations trickled to a halt. Eyes widened in recognition, most expressions turning then to surprise or disgust. They saw him as a shame upon their Talam.
The Talam’s eyes widened in shock, and he stared at Rhys for a long moment. Rhys stared back in something like desperation, fear pulsing in his chest that they’d turn on him with hate and cast him out again.
“What are you doing here?” Dermot growled as he set his beaker down with a thump. He hadn’t changed very much over the years, maybe a little bit more grey in his hair, but the same gruff voice and sharp brown eyes that caught every detail.
Rhys tensed his jaw as the response stabbed through him. “Ask yourself that. You summoned me.”
“I didn’t want you here. MacTavish ordered it. He wanted you to go after Sean instead of sending his warriors. Said it’ll cause war if we ride after him.” Dermot clenched and unclenched his hand, a little of the loss and betrayal that Rhys knew all too well in his voice. “That dialan outsider rode in here and stole him as if he were free for the taking!”
Rhys’s anger flared up again, at the Talam’s rejection, at the clan for waiting to even try to rescue Sean. “Do you want me to find your son, or would you rather I start a war to prove a point?”
“He’s still your blood!” Dermot slammed his palm against the table.
“If it comes to war, the MacDuffys have always known how to fight,” Lomán spoke up.
“We don’t need a war,” Dermot said. “Apparently our sons can only coat themselves in dishonor in wars.” He stared at Rhys who clenched his fist in anger.
Does he truly believe the stories?
“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” Rhys said. “You wanted me, and here I am.”
“You have no home here. You can bring my son back without shattering the country. That’s all I have to say to you. Go meet with Laird Brogan and plan with him. You can leave now.” Dermot drank again, looking away from Rhys, not quite disguising the sudden brightness in his eyes or the way his jaw clenched a
s if to hold back more words.
“He’s not leaving yet.” A woman’s voice, quiet, but firm, interrupted from the door to the kitchens. “I want a few words with my son.”
A new lump rose in his throat at the sight of the woman. Ciara MacDuffy, the Talam’s wife, hadn’t changed much in the seven years since he’d last seen her. She stood as strong and tall as ever, greying hair swept into a loose braid. Her hands clutched the apron tied around her waist. A faint quiver of her chin belied the previous calmness of her words.
“You’ll not call him that!” Dermot growled, still looking down at the table. “You know the laws, Ciara.” His gaze flicked up enough to reveal the pain that laced his voice, enough to show that maybe he didn’t truly mean his harsh words. Rhys’s heart twisted, and he shoved away the hope. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t staying.
Ciara beckoned to Rhys, and he strode towards her. She took his arm and led him into the kitchens. Behind him, Dermot roughly called for more ale.
Ciara indicated a low table, and the maids made themselves scarce. He remembered the look in her eyes—kindness, compassion, love. A mother’s look.
He hadn’t had a mother in so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
Her gaze lingered on his scarred face, cataloguing every change and every mark.
“How did it happen?” She briefly touched her own throat as she took a chair.
“Shaving accident.” He sat opposite her.
A smile flickered across her face. “You’re going to lie to me?”
He shrugged slightly. “It sounds better that way.” He didn’t want her to know how it really happened.
“You are a true MacDuffy.”
“Not anymore.” His voice hardened. “I’ve been dishonored. The clan can’t have anything to do with me.”
“There are some who don’t believe the stories or fear the legends of the Mountain Baron. Someday the clans will realize the truth too and let those of us proud enough, call you family again.” She tilted her chin up, but the defiance wasn’t enough to hide the sadness in her eyes.
Oath of the Outcast Page 1