His scales flickered over his face, all the way to his eyes, and he knew that his rage was written over his body for all to see.
He ached to rush to Nim. To pull her into his arms and carry her away. She had startled, whirling round to see him when he first spoke, and now she stood, eyes wide in her pale face, one arm wrapped around her ribs.
The other was held in front of her as if she had started to reach for him, recognized that it would be a bad idea, and stopped herself. But her eyes were soft with relief.
A deeply unsettling feeling filled him. The feeling that she was his, and she was hurt, and that he would tear down the world to save her. And that if he showed one iota of that, she would die.
He turned his back on her before he lost control and grabbed her, and arched an eyebrow at the soldier, face carefully blank.
The soldier continued with a sneer, “A few more to sleep at Gatehouse tonight. Thought we might take them now, maybe even take our payment while we’re there, if you know what I mean. You can join us if you like.”
Tristan hadn’t known that it was possible to reach a point of rage so potent that merely killing someone would never be enough. Or that it would be possible to stand still while the desire for violence raged through him and keep his voice calm enough to reply. “What the fuck did you just say, Corporal? Be very clear about what it is you think we’re going to do together.”
“I, uh…,” the soldier spluttered uncertainly.
Tristan took one threatening step forward, enjoying the way the soldiers flinched back.
“We didn’t mean nothing,” the man who’d kicked Nim said sullenly.
“Keep. Quiet.” Tristan lowered his voice to a menacing rumble, gratified to see the soldiers glancing at each other, smug looks morphing into uncertainty.
“And you?” Tristan turned his attention to the woman clutching a small child. “What is this all about?”
The woman whimpered and shook her head, refusing to speak.
He turned to Nim, wondering what she could read in his face, and demanded, “You, girl. What’s going on here?”
Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he would pay for the “girl” later. But she obviously understood what he was trying to do, because she answered in a soft, terrified voice that struck him to the core, “Please, sir. It was an accident, sir. Just a little dust on his boots when the boy dropped his apple, and he… he….” Her eyes darted down to where the loudest soldier’s belt still hung open, genuine fear in her eyes, and the iron control holding Tristan together almost cracked.
He took another step toward the three soldiers, now huddling together for support against the death showing in his eyes.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he asked again, voice so soft they had to strain to hear him. Garet and Jeremiel stepped up closer. They knew what that quiet voice meant.
“They got to learn respect. Captain says to keep them in line, show them who’s in charge,” the soldier with the bleeding nose answered in a surly voice.
Gods.
Tristan had known, intellectually, that after the Blues were decimated at the massacre of Ravenstone—and his small remaining squad was banished to the ass-end of nowhere—the entire company would be replaced.
And, if he’d thought about it, he might have considered the consequences of the new captain of the Palace Guard being one of King Ballanor’s cronies. Or what might happen if the new company was entirely filled with men who were only there as political favors and in recognition of the years that they’d spent carousing with the prince and Grendel. All under the leadership of two men who loved to play at sword-fighting but who had never spent even one day on campaign.
But he had been far away, licking his wounds, consumed with rage at how they’d been betrayed, and had never, not until that exact moment, truly imagined what would happen when men like Grendel were in charge.
“What’s he got to do with this?” He nodded toward Tor.
“I’m her brother, sir. It’s true, sir, what my sister said,” Tor answered, nodding toward Nim.
Tristan winced at Tor’s attempt to sound harmless not five minutes after he’d been beating three armed soldiers bloody. Hopefully, the assholes in front of him didn’t notice how ridiculous the massive Apollyon sounded.
Tristan looked around the silent, empty street. Shutters were down, stores had locked their doors, their owners watching warily from upstairs windows and behind curtains. This was what it had come to.
He turned to the shivering mother cuddling her son. “You learned respect today?”
“Yes. Sir. Please.” Her words were almost impossible to understand through her sniveling.
He gave her a brief nod. “Off with you.”
The soldiers twitched but stayed silent as she grabbed her son by the hand and the two ran as fast as they could, never looking back.
