Chapter One

Mephalus stood, the Guardian Sword in his hand, blood dripping from the sword’s edge. Power flooded through him as he gazed around at the slaughter that made the voices of the four souls trapped inside the Guardian Sword screech at him to halt the massacre. Mephalus only laughed at them, ignoring their attempts to control the sword’s path, preventing him from moving in the course he desired. With ease, the elf shrugged off their feeble attempts to halt his rampage. Yet, they persisted. What choice did they have?

Nothing, however, would stop him, no matter how many of those puny Sidhe Warrior Masters they sent to take him captive. They would all wind up just like the first batch of elven cronies they sent after him. Dead. Gutted like yesterday’s catch of fish.

“Mephalus, stop this foolishness,” Kendalais called out over the cries of the dying elves and men. “You are a Warrior of the Way. This destruction is not the path you chose.”

Mephalus laughed even harder, his head tilted to the sky, shouting his mirth to the gods, the gods he no longer cared for or even in which he believed. The night wind blew his hooded cape, whipping it around his thick shoulders. His dark hair flowed behind him, much like the cape, giving him a formidable presence as he stood there using his magic to pull power from the souls inside the Guardian Sword. When a Warrior died, their soul transferred to the sword, adding their experience and knowledge of battle and history to the magic of the Guardian Sword. The Warrior wielding the sword could then pull from their power to aid him in a fight. Mephalus didn’t need their assistance, however, only their energy.

He turned back to Kendalais, gripping his sword with white knuckles. “Oh, but this is the path I chose, the path of power. Not the path of servitude the Guardian thrust upon me. These poor souls don’t need protecting, Kendalais; they need guidance, lording over. They aren’t smart enough to forge their own path. They’ll only kill each other; those humans who think they’re powerful are doing a horrendous job of subjugating those they believe to be weaker than them. We’ve watched it for centuries, have we not?” Mephalus laughed again. “Now, I am the powerful one, and I will do the subjugating. They will bow to me, and you, Kendalais, you gave me the tool to do it.” He held the Guardian Sword up in the air in triumph, turning to the fortress behind him. He knew the townspeople stared out from atop the stone walls, watching how he decimated the Warriors who attempted to stop him from conquering the Irish water town. He gloried in it. It would only aid in his conquest of them later, as they recalled his power and quaked with fear.

Kendalais stood on a small knoll, his army of Warriors—those who were still alive, that is—standing behind him, their own Guardian Swords in their hands, ready to attack and join their brethren. They deserved it for being so foolish as to call Mephalus to be a Warrior, a position for which he had no aspirations. The others, oh they thought it a great honor to wage war on the Unseelie and protect the Guardian’s chosen creation. Not Mephalus. No, he thought it a disruption to his life when the Guardian chose him. While he followed their rules for a time, he merely waited for the opportunity to reveal itself, and it finally did in the small town behind him. They sent him to protect it, but instead, he subjugated the pathetic humans, making them serve him, their superior. Now, for the elves’ mistaken zeal, Mephalus would be glad to stack them up beside them.

“Mephalus, it is our duty to protect these people, a duty given to us by the Guardian himself. He chose you; handpicked you to carry out his wishes and commanded you to safeguard his creation.” Kendalais waved his free arm at the people behind Mephalus as they stood gawking from the parapets and walls at the spectacle below them. “These people should not even know of your existence. You are to protect them. Instead, you broke every rule of the Seelie. You must return with us and face the king and his judgment.”

Mephalus barked out his indignation. “Go with you? Go with you? And just how are you going to make me go with you? Most of your Warriors are now dead at my feet. Even now, the rest are up there with you, afraid like little boys hearing a ghost story, terrified to come down and face me. Are they shaking in their boots, Kendalais?”

The frosty night blew an icy wind over the valley that became a battlefield. The metallic scent of blood and death filled the air as well as the dying cries and whimpers of the fallen elves. Mephalus stood in the middle of the slaughter, the Guardian Sword dangling from his arm. He heard a whistle slice through the air, the sure sound of an arrow splitting the sky on its way to end him. He only laughed as he raised the sword to deflect it, breaking the stem in two. However, the arrowhead flicked end over end, gouging his right cheek. Blood, the first of his shed that night, gushed down his face to stain his jerkin. He growled at the array of elves above him. “From the distance? You fight with arrows? Cowards! Come and fight like Warriors, so you may die like Warriors.”

“We did not launch the arrow, Mephalus,” Kendalais said as he gestured to the hill to the south.