Aldric's Oath (The Golden Bond Trilogy #2)
Prologue
They said the stranger came down from the mountains.
Rags clung to his body, threadbare and sun-bleached. A thick traveler’s cloak hung from his shoulders, heavy with dust and old rain. His beard was unkempt, dark with grime, his hair greasy and matted from weeks, perhaps months on the road.
The man had traveled far.
In Stonebrook, whispers spread quickly.
At first, some believed a demon had crossed the mountain pass.
Not unheard of.
Not impossible.
Yet when they saw him, doubt crept in.
He was imposing despite his ragged state. Broad shoulders beneath the cloak. A presence that pressed against the air itself. He did not slouch. Did not stumble. His steps were steady, deliberate, as though the long road had not worn him down at all.
When he entered the town, he did not beg.
He walked straight to the well at the center of the square and sat upon its stone rim, resting his hands on his knees.
Silent.
Waiting.
The villagers watched from doorways and stalls. Mothers pulled children closer. Men weighed courage against sense.
Finally, one brave soul approached.
“Traveler?” the man asked, voice cautious.
The stranger lifted his head. His hazel eyes were shadowed beneath the hood, but sharp. Alert.
“Pilgrim.”
His voice was calm.
“From?” the man pressed.
“Not this land,” the stranger replied.
There was an accent to his words. A distinct bite beneath the Imperial tongue. Something foreign. Something the villagers could not quite place and could not quite shake.
“I seek the capital of the Sanctified Empire of Isendor. The City of Light. I need to beg for redemption.”
At that, the tension eased.
Pilgrims were common.
Redemption more so.
The villagers nodded in quiet agreement. Some murmured blessings. Others crossed themselves. A woman brought water. Another offered a modest meal, bread, dried meat, a small bowl of stew.
The stranger accepted all of it.
He thanked each of them.
Every one.
He ate without haste, drank deeply, and said nothing more.
When the sun dipped low and shadows stretched across the square, the stone rim of the well stood empty, no farewell, no sound, no trace that he had ever been there at all…
“AND?”
The knight’s voice cracked through the silence like a blade.
The villagers flinched.
“Speak!”
“He—he bore no visible weapons, my lord.”
Another hurried to add, “No magic. No sword or armor, my lord.”
A pause.
“Did he touch any of you?” the voice demanded.
Silence.
The villagers shook their heads.
“He shied away from us, my lord,” one said quickly. “Said it would make our lives difficult.”
“Did you touch anything he came in contact with?”
Again, they shook their heads.
Off to the side a pair of green eyes watched the scene.
A small smile formed behind that gaze.
Good.
No delays, then.
“Your village can thank the gods,” a different voice said calmly. “There is no need to cleanse this place.”
That was when the village truly fell silent.
No one spoke.
Glances exchanged.
Fear behind everyone’s gaze.
Because the one who had spoken, the one with green eyes, who had remained still until now, rose.
Knights froze mid-breath and bowed their heads as one.
His gaze fixed on a point somewhere above them all.
Cold.
Listening.
One of only three who walked the lands as part of the Inquisitorial Arm of the Holy Order.
He was draped in blood-red armor, its surface etched with prayer-sigils and marks earned, not polished away. A massive tower shield rested beside the table, taller than a grown man, its surface scarred by claw and blade alike.
When he rose, he reached down and lifted it with one hand.
The other reached for a mace.
Heavy.
Brutal.
They only summoned for him when heresy walked openly or when a high demon dared tread the lands of Isendor.
The Inquisitors were chosen.
They never failed.
The man stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he stood before the trembling villager who had first spoken to the stranger.
“Tell me,” the Inquisitor said softly, his voice rough as iron dragged over gravel, “brave soul.”
The man’s knees nearly buckled.
“Where did the pilgrim go?”
The villager lifted a shaking hand and pointed.
Toward the lowlands.
Open terrain.
Nowhere to hide.
The Inquisitor smiled.
Green eyes remained cold.
“Good,” he murmured. “Captain. Gather your men. We leave at once.”
No one argued.
The hunt resumed.
They rode in silence long after the sun had set.
The road stretched ahead of them, swallowed by darkness. Hooves struck packed earth in a slow, steady rhythm. Armor creaked softly with each movement.
No one spoke.
At last, one of the knights, the younger one, leaned closer to the rider beside him.
“Have you ever served under an Inquisitor? I’ve never seen one in the flesh.”
The older knight shrugged, but the unease in his eyes betrayed him.
“No, I have not. He just… appeared at our garrison, tonight,” he said quietly.
“Took the ten best knights with him. No questions asked. My lord will probably get notified tomorrow morning.”
The younger one frowned.
“He can do that?”
The older knight exhaled heavily.
“An Inquisitor answers only to the Emperor. No lord. No knight. No priest. No king can command, or restrain him. And if you oppose him, he can kill you on the spot and no one will bat an eye.”
They rode on. The night pressed closer.
The younger knight swallowed and spoke again, voice lower now.
“Is it true?”
No answer.
He hesitated, then pushed on anyway.
“That to become an Inquisitor, you must undergo a ritual that sears your soul from this world? That you can actually reach…”
“…the heavens.”
Both knights straightened.
The voice came from behind them.
The one in red armor rode closer, his presence cutting through the darkness like a drawn blade. He sat astride a single horse. Another followed just behind, burdened with his massive tower shield and the mace.
“Yes,” the Inquisitor said calmly. “That part is true.”
Silence fell like a held breath.
“The Inquisitorial Rite is performed when you are at the height of your physical ability. After you’ve proven yourself in battle.” A pause. “Nearly all who are chosen and step into the light die. They cross the veil and never come back.” His tone did not change. “A necessary sacrifice.”
The younger knight bowed his head.
“My apologies, my lord,” he said quickly. “I spoke out of turn.”
The Inquisitor glanced at him sideways.
“Good.Then don’t. Keep up.” He urged his horse forward. “The man we are after is difficult to catch.”
The younger knight hesitated.
“My lord?”
The Inquisitor’s gaze never left the road ahead.
“He has traveled within Isendor for some time. We do not yet know why. What we do know is that he serves the enemy. He has the brand. He must be cleansed.”
The knight said nothing more.
They saw the city before midnight.
A human city.
Crown’s Reach.
One of the largest strongholds in the region, pressed into a natural choke point where jagged cliffs rose like broken teeth on either side. Stone walls clung to the narrow pass, towers embedded directly into the rock. No river to cross. No forest to vanish into.
If the bastard had not learned how to fly, there was only one way through.
Green eyes narrowed.
Then smiled.
He might still be there.
The Inquisitor slowed his horse and dismounted in a single smooth motion. Without ceremony, he handed the reins of the second horse, along with the massive tower shield and heavy mace to a nearby knight.
He pulled a thick traveler’s cloak from his saddle and drew it over his armor, the blood-red metal vanishing beneath coarse fabric and shadow.
Before mounting his horse again, he spoke once.
“Get to the garrison.”
The knights bowed their heads as one.
“It will be done, my lord.”
The Inquisitor studied them for a brief moment.
Then, almost pleasantly, he added, “If anything happens to my shield, my mace, or my horse… I will make sure you never walk again.”
He did not wait for a response.
He swung into the saddle and urged his horse forward, cloak snapping once in the night air before settling around him like a second skin.
The city gates of Crown’s Reach loomed ahead.
Lights flickered along the walls. Guards moved. Life went on unaware.
The Inquisitor rode harder.
Toward the city.
The cloak concealing his armor.
He got in through the gate without a problem.
He moved quick.
Efficient.
With purpose.
Three conversations were enough.
A merchant near the northern gate.
A watchman pretending not to notice too much.
A tavern boy who talked far more than he should have.
By the time he reached the inner streets, he knew the rough number.
Fifty men had entered the city that day through the northern gate.
Fifty.
Laborers. Traders. Pilgrims. Mercenaries. One deserter. Two wounded. Seven alone. Others in pairs.
He needed only to find one.
He nodded to himself.
No lockdown. No panic.
The man he was hunting was intelligent. Desperate enough to hide, but proud enough to choose where.
What would be the last place one would search for a branded heretic?
He caught a passing knight by the collar of his armor and hauled him forward with brutal ease.
The man stumbled.
“Oi—what the fu—”
The words died in his throat when he saw what lurked beneath the traveler’s cloak.
“How many temples does this city have?” he asked calmly.
“T—Three, my lord,” the knight stammered. “The Ascendant Hall near the eastern wall, the Sunward Chapel by the market, and the Stoneward Shrine near the cliffs.”
“Good. Go to the garrison. Prepare the Rite of Cendaris.”
The knight swallowed.
“What is needed for it, my lord? Who do I need to talk to about—”
The green eyes sharpened.
“Move.”
He released the collar.
The man ran, nearly tripping over his own cape as he fled.
He did not watch him go.
His gaze fixed instead on the path ahead.
The first temple was empty.
Candles burned low. Incense lingered, stale and unattended. The Inquisitor walked its halls without slowing, footsteps echoing softly against polished stone.
No sign.
The second temple was quieter still.
No priests. No worshippers. Only hollow silence and the faint hum of old wards etched into the walls.
He turned to leave.
Then he stopped.
A shape.
Before the altar.
Sitting.
Still.
Hood drawn low.
He did not rush.
His armor clanged softly as he stepped forward, deliberate, unhurried and lowered himself onto the stone bench directly behind the figure.
Close enough to hear breathing.
He sat there in silence.
Waiting.
Like judgment itself.
The man at the altar spoke without turning.
“Took you long enough,” he said quietly. “I was hoping they would send you. Let’s talk before this gets ugly.”
The Inquisitor leaned back slightly.
Then he surged forward, brutally twisting the cloaked man around.
His gauntlet closed around the man’s throat and lifted him from the stone in one smooth motion. Fabric tore. Breath cut short.
The hood fell back.
Dark hazel eyes met piercing green ones.
The Inquisitor drove his forehead forward.
Bone struck bone.
The impact echoed through the empty hall as the man went limp, body slack in Inquisitor’s grasp.
He held him there for a moment longer.
Just to be sure.
“Welcome home, Aldric.”