He scrubbed a hand down his face, several weeks’ beard scratching against his palm, and rolled his tired shoulders to loosen them. If they had still been in the palace, he would have been disciplined by now. He would have disciplined himself.
He allowed himself a mirthless snort. The beard was the least of it.
The men should be waking soon, but he wanted to give them a chance to enjoy themselves. A night of hot food and too much ale followed by one moment of peace, lying wrapped up in a warm pair of arms and a willing body. It was the kind of luxury they had been dreaming of ever since they took this post, out in the ass-end of nowhere.
This squad of eight men that was all that was left of their original two-hundred-strong company. So many men from other squads had been slaughtered, but by some miracle the Hawks had survived. Thank the gods—he couldn’t have borne the loss of another of these men.
Well, nine of them had survived, the eight that were exiled and Lanval, imprisoned by the king. Not that Val would be alive much longer. but Tristan sure as fuck was not thinking about that.
A tiny dot flew into the air in the distance, and Tristan narrowed his eyes. It was far in the distance, over the top of the hill. He wouldn’t have seen it at all if it hadn’t caught a shaft of rising sunlight just as his eyes roamed over that spot. It looked like a bird, perhaps disturbed by some larger animal.
He sat absolutely still. Listening. The wind swirled, bringing with it the rich scent of autumn trees and damp forest earth. Nothing else moved.
Some unnamable sense got him up and striding down into the camp without any logical reason to do so.
His wrists burned, and he knew, without looking, that below his sleeveless jerkin a fine sheen of deep, emerald green and pewter scales would be flickering up his arms, his body preparing for a battle that his brain couldn’t yet identify.
“Up! Hawks. Up,” he roared as he walked. They were expecting a lie-in, but they were going to be disappointed.
Mathos stumbled out of his tent first, dark blond hair mussed, still pulling up his leather breeches as he threw a lazy salute. “Morning, Captain.”
Tristan grunted. He was no one’s captain now. But they point blank refused to call him sergeant. What was he supposed to do? Put them in stocks?
“Sergeant,” he reminded his second anyway. Then added, “Get them all up; something’s coming.”
It only took a few minutes to get the rest of the men out of bed and the group of grumbling, hastily dressed women dispatched back to the village. Everyone worked fast, quickly breaking camp and getting the tents rolled and onto the horses. Uniforms were straightened. Fires covered. Knives strapped, swords in scabbards, crossbows strapped to saddlebags.
Tristan pulled his hair into a tight queue and tucked it into his collar. It was too long, but there wasn’t time to deal with that now.
Nearby birds screeched in disgust at being disturbed as he called to the squad to fall in.
They did so immediately, moving efficiently into formation. Each man next to his horse, standing loosely at attention. Some had scales in different shades gleaming on their arms, their bodies reacting to the potential threat. Those who had wings had them tucked behind them, battle ready.
They stood silently, listening to the sounds of the forest around them. No one moved. They remained still, focused, even as the sound of hoofbeats began to emerge from the other forest sounds.
He stood in front of his men, legs braced. His massive stallion was held firmly by Tor behind him, ready.
Within minutes, a pair of grays thundered into the clearing, and he stiffened. It was worse than he thought. Dark blue tunics over gleaming silver mail. The locked fighting boars on their chests. Supercilious, arrogant, and pretentious. And he should know; he’d been one of them.
He took a step forward, arms clasped loosely behind his back, and nodded to the two men wearing his former uniform. He recognized them both but didn’t know them personally. He vaguely remembered that they had been amongst the new king’s advisors last time he’d been in the palace.
Not real soldiers, just spoilt rich boys with a whole lot of power.
The heavier of the two men slid off his horse and landed lightly on his feet despite his bulk. Not as tall as Tristan, but heavy with bulging muscles. Black eyes combined with a swathe of black and red tattoos swirling up his naked arms marked him as Apollyon. Tough to beat. But not impossible.
He flicked his eyes to the second man, taller but slightly less broad. The same dark eyes and tattooed skin.
The first Apollyon stepped forward, captain’s badge gleaming, and Tristan felt the shift behind him as the entire squad focused their attention on him.
The captain merely grinned, as if he would enjoy the challenge. He narrowed his eyes, lip curled in a supercilious sneer. “Sergeant Tristan of the,” his lip twitched, “forty-ninth Cavalry division?”
Tristan wasn’t taking the bait. He’d been in the military since he was seventeen, and he knew better. “Sir.”
“We have a commission for you.”
That didn’t make sense at all. You banish the handful of survivors of a shamed and decimated company to fuck around with no real duty, no supplies, no wages and no orders. Then you send two of the new palace guards with a commission?
But there was no way he was saying any of that.
