Tristan cracked open an eye. He shook his head and peered through the hazy light. Slowly, he stood.

A single torch flame cast shadows across a floor littered with broken shell and rock. Stripped of his mail, the bone-chilling dampness clung to the air and seeped into his bare skin. He moved forward, but cold shackles held his wrists. With effort, he threw himself hard against the iron fetters. The chains held fast. Panting, he gathered what strength remained and grunted, pushing all of his weight against the bindings.

Blood pounded behind his eyes, his vision blurred. Rough stone wall caught his weight as he fell back, spent. His head hammered and his stomach rolled. The stench in the dank chamber threatened to make him lose what little remained in his stomach. He’d know that rancid smell anywhere.

‘Twas his own bloody dungeon.

A soft groan came from the corner. Squinting, he made out the slumped form of his youngest knight. Beside him, his captain. Both were tethered to the wall.

"Jason?" His voice cracked through the silence. "Kail? Answer me." Neither made a sound.

"Come forth!" Tristan’s bellowing command echoed off the stone walls. A warm stream trickled down his face and caught on his lip. The bitter taste of blood clung to his tongue and he spat it out. God’s teeth, he would kill whoever did this with his bare hands!

"Ahh, the notorious Dragonhawk." The calm, smooth voice scolded from the darkness. "Such an incorrigible temper. It seems to favor your family. Loud, disgusting heathens, the lot of you. No doubt your mother’s Scottish barbarian blood." A man emerged from the concealing shadows. "Whatever shall I do with you?"

The blood drained from Tristan’s face, a knot formed in the pit of stomach. The breath lodged in his lungs, choking him as he stared, disbelieving, at his foster father. "Erik, what is this?" He pulled at his restraints. "Remove these shackles!"

"Nay, my bound giant. I do believe I have you," he inclined his head toward Jason and Kail, "and them, exactly where I want you." Erik de Sabre reached for the scabbard strapped to his side and produced a sword--polished, gleaming, and lethal.

A sapphire stone in the hilt winked its apology at Tristan.

‘Twas his own sword.

His body shook, uncontrolled. "What is the meaning of this? Erik!" He threw himself at his foster father. "Erik!"

De Sabre closed his eyes and swayed. A soft, murmured chant rolled from his tongue.

Tristan stared in disbelief. A curse? "What has befallen you? Are you mad?" He bucked hard against his bindings. "Erik, cease!" God’s teeth, had he killed his men?

Erik de Sabre continued his chant, the strange words falling fast, slow, fast. Then with a jerk, he looked up. "I’ve waited years for this moment, de Barre. I gave you and those other scrawny lads twelve years of my life. I taught you everything." His eyes blazed. "I made you, Dragonhawk. You took my pride. You stole my life." A smile tipped his mouth. "And you and your pitiful knights shall give me no less in return." He lifted the sword, eyes fixed on the stone. "I have carefully practiced the verse taught to me. It will bind you, Tristan de Barre, to Dreadmoor Keep for eternity. Never to sleep, nor eat." He stroked his beard and turned, sinister eyes fixed, unblinking. "Never to draw your blade, nor ride a horse. Never again to taste the flesh of a woman. A most perfect plan, indeed. Do you not agree?"

Confusion mixed with hatred and churned low in his stomach as Tristan met de Sabre’s cold stare. How could this be? His own foster father. "Christ, Erik. What do you mean, I stole your life? We rode together. You were like a father to me. To all of us."

A brief flicker sparked in Erik’s eyes, but quickly extinguished. "You’ll never know my reasons, high and powerful Dragonhawk. You do not deserve an answer. And as long as I have this blade of yours, the curse will never be undone."

Tristan growled and stretched his iron fetters taut. "I don’t believe in curses."

One corner of de Sabre’s mouth lifted. "Ah, but you will. How does it feel, Dreadmoor, to know you are about to draw your last breath?" One eyebrow lifted. "And in the dungeon of your very own keep?" He took one step closer, just out of Tristan’s reach. "I do wish your beloved family could see you now. Bound, like a mad beast, begging, frothing at the mouth--"

Tristan lunged, but the chains snatched him back. Enraged, he pitched forward again, straining against the manacles. His roar filled the dank chamber as he cursed in his grandfather’s French-Norman tongue. "You will die by my hands, de Sabre. I vow it!"

De Sabre’s quiet laugh filled the chamber. "I think not.

Tristan held de Sabre’s unholy gaze as his once-foster father hefted the sword. Gritting his teeth, Tristan hissed as the cold steel of his own blade slid between his ribs. Erik’s face grew dark as he pushed the sword deeper.

He lowered his mouth to Tristan’s ear. "If you’re wondering where your mighty knights are, don’t. I’ve called for them. They’re rushing here at this very moment." He gave the sword a push. "They’ll be here to watch you die..."

Tristan sucked in an agonized breath. Pain ripped through his body but he forced his eyes to remain on the man he once trusted with his life. His words gasped from his lips. "I--will--not--yield."

De Sabre twisted the blade. "Aye. You will."

The chamber shifted and Tristan’s vision blurred, shapes and planes faded, losing their color, their rigidness, settling into distorted figures, shadows....and then darkness.