Key to All Doors

Book Two of the Aruvalia Chronicles

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When dark creatures awaken
A warrior must intercept
Even if the chances of victory are slim

The heir to Aruvalia’s throne has been kidnapped. The key to her recovery is a magical artifact that can open any lock. But in order to find it, Domerin must delve into the depths of a dungeon ordered sealed by the crown due to the dangerous nature of its contents.

Unable to open the path to the dungeon on his own, Domerin must first seek the aid of a powerful and deadly sorcerer known only as the Warden. But the favors of powerful mages are never cheap, and Domerin isn’t sure he’ll survive the request – let alone the path that comes after.

As Domerin and Clara embark on their perilous journey, they traverse landscapes both wondrous and dangerous. Each step is fraught with magical anomalies and creatures that challenge their resolve, testing the limits of even Domerin’s battle-hardened skills.

But the biggest threat to their success might come from an unanticipated source. For the moment Domerin opens the dungeon seal, he’ll be labeled a rogue agent – an outlaw. And when Domerin goes rogue, it will fall to his partner – the stalwart ex-military officer Gregory Barrow – to make him answer for his transgressions.

A Battle of Wills
The two men stared across the cell for several seconds, then the sorcerer turned toward Clara. “Cazella wants to speak with the girl.”

Domerin shot to his feet, positioning himself between Clara and the sorcerer as the Warden opened the creaky iron gate that blocked their prison. He fixed one sword at his hip while he moved, the motion so familiar he could have done it in his sleep. The other he left leaning against the wall.

“Sorry,” he barked without a hint of remorse, “but the girl is under my protection. If Cazella wants to talk to her, she can come down here. Or we’ll both go up there.” He jerked his head upward.

“No harm will come to the child while she is in my care,” the sorcerer replied. Based on the amusement tingeing his tone, Domerin assumed he was grinning beneath his mask. “Is that enough to satisfy you, warrior?”

“No, it is not,” Domerin snarled. He tightened his fingers around the hilt of his sword. If only he dared draw it! But he got the impression he’d be playing right into the sorcerer’s desires if he did.

“Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but we will not be doing things your way,” the sorcerer purred. “Move or I will move you.”

Domerin planted his feet and lifted his chin. If the adept was trying to cow him, he was going to be sorely disappointed. He’d faced his fair share of rogue sorcerers. Usually with backup, but he’d just have to make do. It didn’t matter that this man could probably make good on his threat. Domerin wanted him to know he wasn’t scared.

The glowing green eye twinkled behind the mask, and pressure descended on Domerin’s shoulders. It pressed downward and back, perhaps trying to push him onto the cot or knock him off his feet.

Instinctively, Domerin resisted that force and held his ground. He felt as though he was straining to push a boulder out of his way, but he refused to relent.

“Impressive,” the sorcerer murmured. And indeed, he sounded genuinely impressed. “Most men would be blabbering on their knees by now. But you must know this is not a fight you can win.”

The pressure increased.

Domerin released his sword and curled his hands into fists at his sides. He gritted his teeth, relentlessly resisting the pressure and refusing to be swept away. It was almost as if the ground were trying to suck him downward, threatening to crush him between two immovable, impenetrable walls.

But the sensation had to be fake. Had his body been exposed to such great pressure, he would have felt more than heavy weight. He’d be bleeding from the eyes and would probably have snapped a few bones. Which explained why he could resist the pressure at all; this was a battle of wills, an attempt to exert telepathic power over him, to make him feel puny and helpless.

“Stubborn must be in the air today,” the sorcerer grumbled, and the pressure increased again.

Domerin grunted as a small trickle of warmth escaped the base of one nostril. Had he been able to lift a hand, he suspected it would have come away smeared with blood. He trembled with the effort required to stay on his feet. But at this point, he simply didn’t want to grant his tormentor the joy of watching him fall.