And it also meant that of the ten men that had arrived at the farmhouse, only Grendel and five others remained. And of them, only one seemed to be at all disciplined and well trained. Pity it had to be the grim-faced Tarasque from the bottom of the palace stairs, Dornar, who did not look at all pleased about their previous meeting.
Grendel wasn’t just a sadistic tyrant, he was a fucking poor leader, incapable of putting together a decent squadron even for his own protection.
It was profoundly disturbing. This was the man that, with Ballanor, was taking the country to war.
A war that should have already been over. Was already over. Treaty signed. Marriage vows spoken.
Except that Ballanor had obviously never had any intention of keeping to the treaty. The whole thing had been a lie while he waited for the perfect moment to rid himself of King Geraint and take power for himself.
What a fuckup.
Tristan stumbled again and silently cursed bloody Val’s hard head. If his friend had just confided in him, shared whatever it was that he had known, maybe they would have had some idea of what was coming. Been able to prepare for the lies that Ballanor and Grendel told.
He wished he’d known. Wished that he could go back in time to that terrible night and wait long enough to speak to Val, force him to tell him the truth about what the hell was going on.
Not that it changed anything. He still should have trusted his friend. At least he’d made it right before the end.
And Nim had forgiven him. Nim had loved him.
The chains around his wrist tugged hard, breaking into his thoughts as he almost fell. He only just managed to stumble into a lopsided jog, fast enough to almost reach the horse in front of him and gain some slack.
He tried to angle himself closer to Grendel. If there was a chance, anything at all, to take the bastard down, he would do it. He had nothing left to lose.
But Grendel side-stepped his horse and nodded to a nearby soldier, someone Tristan didn’t recognize, who rode up beside him and whipped him hard across the shoulders with his riding crop while Grendel chuckled.
Fuck, he hated these men.
He looked at the smirking Apollyon soldier brandishing the crop and considered using his chain, wrapping it around the man’s leg and pulling. It would break the soldier’s leg at the very least. His beast rumbled in approval.
It was damn tempting. But it wouldn’t be Grendel’s leg. He’d rather wait. He looked away and tried to distract himself.
He didn’t have long left, and he wanted to spend it remembering exactly what Nim’s skin tasted like. What she smelled like. Her face as he sank into her. Those soft little husky whimpers.
The crop lashed him again, but he hardly felt it. He was imagining the feeling of her hair in his fingers. The warmth of her soft body pressed against his. The way she looked at him when she told him that she loved him.
Nothing else mattered.
They had almost reached the main road when Tristan began to feel an ominous prickle in his gut. His scales had covered him at the first sign of Grendel and his men, but now his new claws lengthened and the fine hairs on the back of his neck lifted.
He ran his gaze carefully up and down the dirt road but saw nothing.
Birds still sang. The wind rustled through the autumn leaves. But some deep part of himself knew that something was coming.
He let his eyes wander, slowly, over the surrounding woods, all while jogging relentlessly forward. Then immediately dropped his gaze and focused on his feet, anxiously hoping that no one was looking at him.
He lifted his eyes long enough to cast a quick look around the soldiers. Dornar watched him intently, eyes appraising.
Tristan blanked his face and looked toward the horse in front of him.
Don’t look up. Don’t look up. He repeated the litany in his head as if he could somehow force the soldier to keep his eyes away from the trees. Away from shivering branches of the massive beech tree near the road.
The perfect spot for a Mabin hunter. Surrounded by the last red-gold leaves of autumn. Difficult to see into from the ground unless you knew what you were looking for. And, for the hunter, no telltale noise of horses on the road, no suspect shadow to give them away.
Was it possible that Garet or Jos had made it out of the flames? Was there any chance that his friends could be alive?
It was almost too much, the bright torture of hope. He felt his breath catching on his broken ribs and tried to prepare himself. Whatever came next, he had to be ready.
But he was not ready. Not in any way.
