When he saw Nim fling herself from the tree, wings arrowed as if she was a Hawk herself, or perhaps an avenging angel, he thought his heart would stop.
She fell fearlessly from above, smashed into a shocked Grendel with brutal force, and ripped him right out of his saddle, their momentum taking them both crashing to the stony ground.
Hard behind her came Jos and Garet, wings beating in huge sweeps as they hurled themselves at the soldiers that surrounded him.
A wild roar erupted, and Tristan vaguely realized that it was his own fierce howl of outraged fury as he threw himself into battle.
His chains were wrapped around the leg of the soldier next to him, and the man’s shin shattered before he knew what he was doing. He hauled the soldier down from his horse and threw him bodily toward the melee as he screamed.
Stallions reared and neighed loudly as men bellowed, suddenly unseated. Somehow, in the chaos, his chain came free of the saddle horn it had been tied to and he was free to move.
He swung it in a wide loop, building up power as a massive Apollyon soldier stepped up in front of him. The guard’s red and black tattoos rippled as he drew his sword, and his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction at Tristan’s bloodied face and battered body.
But he didn’t know that Tristan had trained with Tor nearly every day for years. Or that he stood between Tristan and his woman.
It was brutal and bloodthirsty, but the Apollyon didn’t stand a chance. Tristan used his chain to whip and crush, dancing away from sword and fists, ignoring the grunting, clashing battle around him.
The guard swung hard, and Tristan jumped back as the sword whistled past him. Then, taking advantage of his attacker’s moment of imbalance, he flung the heavy chain at the man’s unprotected face, hearing the crunch of facial bones, the soldier’s scream of agony as he collapsed. Good.
He spun back to see Jos deliver a brutal strike, almost decapitating the guard he’d been battling.
Garet’s opponent turned and ran, throwing himself into the saddle of the nearest warhorse and fleeing in a cloud of dust and flying hooves.
Garet took one step toward the fleeing man and then stopped, the color draining from his face.
Tristan gripped his chain and whirled to see what Garet was looking at just in time to see Dornar violently shoving Nim to the ground with a wicked blade pressed against her throat, forcing her to kneel in the dust. Beside them, Grendel heaved himself back to standing, face mottled puce with rage.
There was no way Tristan could attack either of them without risking Nim. One glance at Jos and Garet’s horrified faces showed they knew it too.
Dornar narrowed his eyes, gripping his sword in one hand, the dagger against Nim’s throat in the other. “Don’t move or she dies.”
They all froze. So close that Tristan could almost touch her. But still too far away.
Dorner gestured with his head. “Drop your swords, then get on your knees next to her. Hands behind your heads.”
They dropped their weapons and slowly lowered themselves to the ground just a few feet from Nim. Tristan’s chain dragged brutally as he linked his bleeding hands behind his head.
Dornar circled Nim, his dagger teasing a line around her slim throat as he pointed his sword at Tristan. Then, with one smooth step, he shifted his weight behind the men, pulling his dagger blade from Nim to Tristan’s jugular, his sword still held high.
Grendel stepped up in front of them. He was covered in the dust of the road, his clothes ripped, a dark graze marring his temple where he’d fallen, insane with rage.
Grendel nodded to Dornar. “Keep them still.”
Tristan’s scales flickered in a roiling wave, and his hands throbbed where his claws had unsheathed, but Dornar had his blade pressed tight against his jugular, his sword arm extended toward Jos and Garet.
Grendel stepped in front of Nim and gripped her face, his fingers pressing brutally into her pale skin as he tipped her head back. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Tristan could see a tear rolling slowly down Nim’s face as Grendel reached down with his free hand and started to loosen his belt.
Gods. There was no way he could watch this. He would rather die.
He slowly unlaced his fingers, tensing, as the beast inside him howled and Dornar pressed his dagger harder against his throat.
“Tris,” Nim whispered, her eyes fixed on Grendel as he pulled his belt free. “Now!”
Tristan didn’t think to question. He simply launched himself up and back, cracking his head back into Dornar’s face as brutally hard as he could.
Dornar grunted in agony, rearing back enough to allow Tristan to duck and spin under his arm. He used his momentum to rip Dornar’s knife hand around behind his back and force it up high between his shoulder blades.
