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A young boy’s prophetic visions.
Blind at birth, Daemus Alaric is blessed with the gift of prophetic Sight. Now, as a Keeper of the Forbidden, he must use his powers of the Sight to foil the plans of a fallen Keeper, Graytorris the Mad.
An elven Princess with a horrifying secret.
Princess Addilyn Elspeth travels from Eldwal, the magically hidden home of the Vermilion elves, to begin her life as a diplomat to the human capital of Castleshire. During her journey, she stumbles upon a mystical creature foretelling ill tidings. A terrifying force of evil.
Daemus’ recurring nightmare vision threatens to catapult him into a terrifying struggle that will leave the fate of the Keepers—and the realm—hanging in the balance. Daemus and Princess Addilyn must set out to face the menace that threatens their very existence. Will the entire realm fall to its knees?
The Last Keeper is the first book in The Warminster Series. With gripping, epic action and heart-pounding adventure, you’ll love this new adventure series.
Read an Excerpt
The dust of one hundred horsehounds spread across the base of Homm Hill, their riders staring at the aging gates of the abandoned fortress. Misael dismounted and walked ahead of the horde. With a powerful swing, he planted the feathered flag of Clan Blood Axe into the ground as his followers cheered and hollered, the bloodlust high and the adrenaline rising. The flag, tattered by the winds of the plains and the bustle of a dozen battles, featured the faded symbol of a bloody battleaxe.
Misael’s keen eyes surveyed Blood Ridge. Fort Homm looked abandoned to the untrained eye, but Misael knew better. Appearances could be deceiving.
“We know you’re there,” he shouted, his powerful voice echoing off the imposing rocks. “We can smell your fear.”
“Ah-ooh!” The clan cried it out as one, banging their weapons rhythmically against their shields as their mounts sounded off with howls and growls like a pack of wolves on the path of a rabbit.
Misael surveyed his troops with approval and then lifted his fearsome battleaxe. The chants behind him ceased as quickly as they’d started. Misael tilted his head back and drew a protracted breath into his trollborn nose. He smiled at the result.
“Is that you I smell, Arjun Ezekyle?” he shouted. The taunt in his voice was obvious. Misael waited a few seconds, hoping for a response that never came, before he spoke again. “Your woman isn’t here to protect you this time, Ezekyle.”
The silence continued. It was a heavy, oppressive kind of silence, the kind that hung heavy in the air like when the great crowds gathered in the courtyard of Castle Thronehelm to honor the dead on the anniversary of the Battle of the Bridge. Even twenty years on, there was power in that silence.
But here, the silence was also tinged with an unspoken, underlying threat, as well as the panting of five score impatient horsehounds.
“I don’t want to kill you, Ezekyle,” Misael yelled. “Give us the boy or we’ll take him by force.”
A few moments of silence passed between predator and prey. Then Misael saw a trapdoor open at the base of the fortress. A human figure stepped through to face its aggressor, and Misael saw the familiar but aged face of Arjun Ezekyle looking down at him. Misael smiled and waited for Arjun to surrender.
He was disappointed.
Arjun drew his sword, a blade that Misael knew far too well. Arjun had taken it from the High Aldin when he’d left their service. Unlike the ruggedly forged swords of Clan Blood Axe, Arjun’s shining katana had been crafted by the master smithies of Abacus. Misael could see its keen red edge glinting in the sun, even from a distance. It was a weapon that would be the envy of any swordsman.
It was Misael’s turn to stand in silence as Arjun surveyed the trollborn from his vantage point on the edge of Fort Homm. Arjun took his katana and patiently scored a line on the ground with the edge of his sword. Then he turned slowly, never taking his gaze off the trollborn, and disappeared back into the fortress.
Misael cracked a half-smile and growled to himself at the gesture. He promised himself that Arjun’s sword would be his when the battle was over. But first, the battle must begin.
About the Author:
His father, a peasant twerg, toiled away in industries of honest labor and instilled in him a work ethic that would shape his destiny. His mother, a local healer, cared for his elders and his warrior uncle, who helped to raise him during his formative years. His genius brother, whose wizardly prowess allowed him to master the art of the abacus and his own quill, trained with him for battles on fields of green and sheets of ice.
Hilliard’s earliest education took place in his warrior uncle’s tower, where he learned his first words. HIs uncle helped him to learn the basics of life—and, most importantly, creative writing.
Hilliard’s training and education readied him to lift a quill that would scribe the tale of the realm of Warminster, filled with brave knights, harrowing adventure and legendary struggles. He lives in the city of silver cups, hypocycloids and golden triangles with his wife, a ranger of the diamond. They built their castle not far into the countryside, guarded by his own two horsehounds, Thor and MacLeod, and resides there to this day.
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