The sergeant gave him a push, and he staggered as they emerged onto the wide cobbled road. Two soldiers ripped away the net they’d captured him in and forced him to his knees just outside a small, open pavilion that had been set up on the side of the road.
In the near distance, probably no more than ten minutes away, he could see the walls of the Temple of the Nephilim at Eshcol. They had been so fucking close.
He turned his head away and focused on the pavilion. Ballanor sat beneath it surrounded by advisors and his cronies from the palace. The king was wearing a majestic purple tunic beneath a luxurious fur coat, topped with his heavy gold chains of office, glittering with rubies and onyx.
His face was pale and dark rings circled his eyes, but he seemed aloof and in control as he sipped from a silver goblet. Someone had cleaned him up since Val had seen him looking deranged and foul at Alanna’s execution.
More squads stepped out of the woods, and Val could see that they had captured Nim and Tristan, no doubt using the same net on her that had succeeded so brutally with him. Fuck, it hurt to see her trapped, his baby sister in danger yet again because of him.
Several soldiers appeared leading horses, including Garet’s stallion, Bayard, still limping. Mathos, Jos, Jeremiel, and Rafe followed, surly and bruised as one by one they were forced to kneel in the middle of the road.
But no Tor, Keely, or Garet. Thank the gods. There were survivors. People Alanna could stay with, who would love and protect her when this was over.
He watched the edges of the woods, scanning the trees and road as far as he could see, again and again. But no more squads emerged. No more whistles or trumpet calls rang through the forest.
There was a roar of outrage from the king as he flung his goblet at the messenger on his knees before the tent. Alanna had escaped.
Val allowed himself a moment of gratitude for that mercy, then twisted his head and made eye contact with Tristan, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod in return. Their focus was now entirely on Nim.
A new goblet was brought, and Ballanor sipped slowly, watching the Hawks and enjoying the demonstration of his power while they huddled, bedraggled and silent, soaked through and shivering in the bitter wind that gusted down the road.
Finally, the king put down his goblet and stepped out in front of them, looking them up and down with a sneer.
“Where are the others?”
A tall brown-haired soldier stepped forward, copper scales gleaming on his muscled arms as he folded them over his chest. Val recognized him immediately—Grendel’s favorite guard—Dornar. But what the hell was he doing with the king? Especially given that Alanna had mentioned seeing him imprisoned in the cells of the Constable’s Tower.
“You don’t need the others, Your Majesty,” Dornar said smoothly.
Gods. Even Val was taken aback. Who was this man that he felt comfortable challenging the king?
Ballanor turned on Dornar, his lips pulled back in a snarl that promised retribution. “Think carefully about how you speak to me.”
Dornar bowed low to the king. “Of course, Your Majesty, I meant no disrespect. Rather, I was suggesting that you have already won.”
Ballanor raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Continue.”
“I promised you the queen. And these people”—he looked them over dismissively—“will give her to you.”
Val stiffened but kept his mouth shut.
“But first….” Dornar chuckled maliciously. “A gift to lift their spirits.”
He kept his eyes on Dornar, but he heard Nim shuffle closer to Tristan. Whatever was coming, it was going to be bad.
Dornar waved to a group of soldiers behind him, and they picked up a rough bundle that had been lying still on the ground. Two of the guards swung it up onto their shoulders like a long bag of wheat and then marched onto the road and flung it to the ground.
In the second before it landed, Val realized with a sickening lurch what it was.
Reece.
Gods. Nim gasped and the Hawks muttered angrily as Dornar strode closer and pushed the sergeant over onto his back until he was sprawled brokenly in the road. Reece’s face was swollen and heavily bruised, one arm hanging at a horrific angle, bloodstains down the front of his tunic.
“Get Lanval over here,” Dornar ordered, and Val was hauled onto his feet and over to where Reece lay.
Dornar prodded Reece with a toe, and Val almost wept with relief when his friend moaned, low and helplessly. He was unconscious, but he was alive.
“You should know that he never gave you up.” Dornar almost sounded impressed. “But it didn’t matter, did it? Finding him drunk out of his mind and puking behind a roadside coaching inn proved that I was right. I knew you’d run west. All we had to do was catch you before you reached Eshcol.”
