The Last Keeper
by J.V. Hilliard

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.

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The Last Keeper by J V Hillard

(C) J V Hillard

For Incanus Dru’Waith, the Dragon’s Breath Mountains held no terrors. He was a skillful traveler, one who knew how to traverse different landscapes with a near-elven stealth and avoid the dangers of its trollborn tribes. As he rode, the Bone elf left little or no trace of his passage. 

His journey wasn’t long in miles from Foghaven Vale, but it had taken him only a few days to cover the broken grounds of the northernmost reaches of the mountain’s foothills and then disappear along a back stretch of Ravenwood. When he’d reached the outskirts of the bandit camp, one of the camouflaged sentries approached him.

“Yer too quiet,” the man announced, revealing himself from perch behind a fallen tree. “you must be him.”

Incanus wasted little time on pleasantries. “Take me to the Cloak.”

“Come,” the brigand waved, and he began to lead Dru’Waith through the camp. Hidden well within the colored leaves of a copse of trees rose a row of tents, one of which was bigger than the others.  “There,” the man pointed. 

Both dismounted and the sentry announced the Bone elf’s arrival at the entrance to the tent and then silently withdrew. Incanus walked in and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light.

“So, the Black Rose arrives,” Veldrin Nightcloak announced with an exaggerated gesture, his arms lifting wide in greeting. His scarred face was cast into shadow by the flickering light from a small bronze brazier. He was alone in the room, sitting on an ornate chair and sharpening his weapons at a whetstone. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Skullam was here?” Incanus asked.

“Indeed,” the Cloak nodded. “I tasked him with watching over the battlefield to ensure that the trap worked and to ensure the knights took the bait.”

“Good. Von Lormarck will be pleased. Tell me, what news is there since my last visit?”

“We’ve found a suitable clearing,” Veldrin motioned, drawing an imaginary half-circle with one hand. “We’ll lead the knights there and then trap them with a river in front of them and the two hills to their sides. Once they’re betwixt the three, we’ll attack from the rear and box them in. The trail is fresh and should be easy for them to follow.”

“What of the Longmarchers?”

“What of them?” Veldrin scoffed. “If Valkeneer dispatches the Longmarchers, our task will be made even easier. They’re real woodsmen, not the idiots from Castle Thronehelm, and the trail we left could be followed by a novice. And besides, we let the girl live so that she might take news of us to the enemy. They should find us in short order. Until then, let us eat.”

As if on cue, four of Veldrin’s men entered, bearing all manner of foodstuffs.

“Eat,” the Nightcloak pointed, and he slid to the table in the middle of the tent. “We’ve been blessed by recovering some delicacies from as far east as Connor Bray and as far south as the Sylvan Valley. The men collected them from our raids of merchant caravans in the last few days.” 

Incanus didn’t recognize many of the roasted meats and fruits, and the smell of rare spices hung in the air. It seemed to Incanus that Veldrin had forgotten where he’d come from. He was living more like a noble than a common thug by forgoing the usual robber steak for a more exotic smorgasbord. 

The four brigands bowed awkwardly and left the tent, and Incanus sat down at the table by the brazier and started to eat.

“What does Von Lormarck hope to achieve?” Veldrin asked, his voice muffled with a mouthful of peppered mutton.

“He wants the knights to be slaughtered and the princes’ heads to be delivered to him on a silver platter. There are to be no survivors.”

“Ah,” the Cloak replied. “The old family vendetta.”

“Precisely.” Incanus shifted position slightly to be better positioned for the warmth of the fire. “He believes it’s time for House Thorhauer to fall and for the Von Lormarcks to take their place. The deaths of the Thorhauer princes will send a powerful message and destabilize the baronies. It will show that Godwin no longer has control.”

“And what of me and my men?”

“Your men will get their share of the spoils,” Incanus promised. “Pillage and burn the northern hamlets, as you did with Ralswiek and Vendal. That will enrage the norsemen of Rijkstag and arouse their suspicions.”

“Their suspicions of what?”

“That King Godwin no longer maintains an iron grip over his realm,” Incanus smiled. “Norsemen can smell weakness from afar. And this uneasy peace between Warminster and Rijkstag will become short-lived. They’re always looking for a reason to fight. And from these actions, chaos will be born.”

Veldrin grunted his agreement and fell silent. The only sound was the crackling of the coals in the brazier and the gnashing of teeth as the two men ate the food in front of them. Incanus studied the Cloak in profile and saw something there, some hint of reserve or deceit.

“What are you keeping from me, Nightcloak?” 

Veldrin shifted uncomfortably and wrestled with his tongue. When he did speak, he spoke slowly and deliberately, as though he was picking out each word with the skill and patience of a master bard.

“We’ve made contact with the Moor Bog,” he said, at length. “Against my better judgement, I might add. When you see Von Lormarck, tell him that they’ve agreed to help but that they have a list of demands. Here, take this.”

Veldrin stopped eating for a moment and wiped his hands on the hessian cloth over the table, then withdrew a small necklace from beneath the folds of his cloak. The size of a large palmette coin, the necklace opened out to reveal a small scroll engraved with a message, one that was barely visible to the naked eye. Then he handed it to Incanus, who put it around his own neck for safekeeping.

The Nightcloak sighed. “I hate the Moor Bog. They’re untrustworthy, for a start. No, worse than that. They’re extremists, superstitious cultists who want to see the world burn. I resent being forced to work with them.”

“They serve a purpose,” Incanus assured him. “Just give it some time. When their role has been played, you may think different.”

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Born of steel, fire and black wind, J.V. Hilliard was raised as a highlander in the foothills of a once-great mountain chain on the confluence of the three mighty rivers that forged his realm’s wealth and power for generations.

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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