She turned slowly, making eye contact with all of them. “As far as Grendel’s concerned, the Hawks just died in a fire. This is your chance, your only chance, to get out of this. If you go back and are seen, they’ll be coming after you for the rest of your lives. And anyway, someone needs to stay here to take care of Val. And Keely.”
“We can’t let—”
Nim raised a dirty eyebrow—no one “let” her do things, not anymore.
“Fuck. You really are just like each other,” Mathos grumbled.
“I’m better on my own anyway,” Nim added. “They’ll see a squadron a mile off. But the last thing they’ll expect is me on my own.”
“No, I still can’t accept this.” Jos had his wings folded back rigidly; his teeth gritted, the consummate big brother. “Tristan would never forgive us. Honestly, I wouldn’t forgive myself. And if you do rescue the captain, well, then we’ll all be hunted along with him anyway.”
Damn. He had a point. If she got Tristan free, soldiers would come back. They’d see that there were no bodies in the ruined farmhouse, and then they would all be hunted anyway. And the king would never stop looking for Val, whatever happened. She had wanted to keep them safe, but they would be better off working together.
She looked around the squad. “What if I go ahead with Garet and Jos? We’ll make good time in the air. The rest of you can help Keely and Val and then follow.”
Jeremiel nodded. “It makes sense. Grendel only brought Apollyon and Tarasque soldiers. If anything goes wrong, they can’t follow you into the trees.”
The men were silent as they all turned to look at Mathos.
Mathos nodded slowly. “Okay. You go ahead, and we’ll follow.”
She gave him a two-fingered salute that was only very slightly sarcastic.
“But you better fucking stay alive or the captain will kill all of us himself.”
Nim dipped her chin. He didn’t need to worry. She had every intention of staying alive and bringing Tristan back safely.
“Keely, pass me that bag.”
Keely handed over the bulging satchel that Rafe had packed, and she rifled through it to find the small pot she knew was somewhere at the bottom. Then she pulled out Tristan’s slim dagger and started to prepare.
She knew exactly what she had to do.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tristan stumbled again.The last kick had caught him right on the knee, and he was struggling to bend it. It didn’t help that he almost certainly had at least one broken rib. His shoulder throbbed where the previous night’s gashes had reopened, while the long chain wrapped around his wrists and tied to the horse in front of him had rubbed his skin raw within the first few minutes of this hellish forced march.
But the pain in his body was nothing compared to the agony of seeing those flames licking the thatch on the farmhouse roof.
Grendel hadn’t waited to see the end, and Tristan couldn’t decide which was worse. To stand helplessly watching while his friends died—knowing that he had sent them to their death—or to be dragged away, leaving them to their fate.
At least Nim was free. And Val. Keely too. Although how long that would last was impossible to guess. An apothecary, an injured personal maid, and a half-dead former soldier with nowhere to go, and the might of the kingdom arrayed against them.
The broken boat they’d abandoned in the rapids during the night, crashed into a rock and smeared with blood, might fool the soldiers into thinking they were drowned. But more likely not. At best it bought them a few hours.
He tried to remind himself that Nim was strong and intelligent, and she was absolutely devoted to Val. She would always prioritize him. If nothing else, her need to save her brother would drive her.
It gave him a slim hope.
That, and the fact that Grendel had no idea how to lead an army.
Take something as simple as leaving the burning farmhouse. If he had ever sunk so low as to set fire to unarmed men, Tristan would have stayed and made damn sure that they were dead.
Not Grendel; no, he wanted to get back to his palace comforts. He had been so quick to leave that he hadn’t even sent anyone to look for the horses, barely hidden in the small woods behind the farmhouse.
Never mind that he and Ballanor had filled the palace guard with so many of their cronies that they’d completely forgotten about looking at anyone’s actual abilities or skills.
Tristan had been able to send his Mabin flyers down the Tamasa, but Grendel didn’t have any. He’d had to split his force and send riders to try and follow the river as it became narrower and faster, increasingly difficult and dangerous to ride alongside. They might take hours.
