Honestly, they should have killed him already. What could he say to convince them? He cast his mind for a sensible lie but couldn’t find one. He only had the truth. And a threat of his own. “You have taken someone that belongs to me, and I will pay to get her back. Tell your leader that I can make him extremely wealthy. Or go and tell him you killed the man offering riches for a chance to talk.”
There was a muttered conversation from high among the trees, and then a short, spiky-haired Mabin flew down to land a little way further down the path.
Seconds later, a Tarasque with amethyst scales banding his wrists jumped down to join him.
A Mabin and a Tarasque using Verturian arrows? What the fuck was going on?
“Here—” The Mabin held out his hand. “We’ll take the crossbow and sword. And all those knives.”
He’d known that if he survived for any length of time, he’d have to give up his weapons, but it still burned. These men had Keely, and now they wanted his sword. But he would never get anywhere near her if he refused.
He lifted his crossbow over his head and handed it to the Mabin, followed by the knives, then slowly drew out his greatsword and dumped it into the Tarasque’s hand, gratified when the man dipped heavily, struggling with the weight. “Look after that. It was my grandfather’s.”
Finally convinced that he had handed over everything, they led him silently down the steep gully to the lake, and then along the damp, marsh-like banks.
The Tarasque jogged swiftly beside him as the Mabin flew ahead to confer with someone at the camp, and then returned to fly above him, watching him like a cat watching a rat as the spiked wooden palisades drew nearer.
Every second that passed lay heavily on his soul. What was happening to Keely while they meandered along the bleak, rocky lakefront?
The sun dipped behind the mountain peaks, throwing them into a deep shadow. Clouds built in the small amount of sky visible above them as icy mists from the lake spread up the shore, cold as the horror seething in his gut. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. Not even when his father threatened to call the guards.
It all took too long. The Tarasque leading the way was too slow. The infernal, never-ending trotting grated against his nerves as his entire being screamed to spur the horse on and gallop as fast as he could. The only thing that held him back was the certainty that he would be shot down within seconds of attempting to storm that lurking encampment.
By the time they reached the gate, he was ready to explode, and he had to force down the violence simmering through him to concentrate.
The orderly rows of tents he’d seen from the ridge were hidden behind a high wooden palisade of sharp stakes embedded into a low rampart. The uniform row of stakes was tall and formidable, broken only by a narrow gate flanked by two wooden guard towers. It would be extraordinarily difficult to breach, whether from the outside or the inside.
It was exactly the kind of encampment he had overseen during the northern campaigns. A Brythorian military encampment. And yet, here were the Verturian guards he’d been expecting since he’d seen that arrow. Men with bare arms and twining green tattoos around their biceps were watching from the towers.
But then two large Apollyon soldiers stepped through the gate, nodding at the sentries that had escorted him and ordering them back to their posts. Not just any Apollyon soldiers. He knew these men. Caius and Usna.
“What the actual fuck?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Caius, the leaner of the two, slightly shorter and more likely to smile, leaned back, arms folded over his chest, and raised his brows. “Tor, Grandson of the Bar-Ulf.”
Tor slid down from his horse and patted the steaming animal. No longer of the Bar-Ulf, or any ancestral house for that matter. But he wasn’t discussing that with these men. Men he hadn’t seen in months. Men he had thought were long dead.
Usna stepped forward, his lip twitching up. “Apparently you have riches you want to trade.”
Tor folded his arms over his chest, mirroring them as he looked them up and down. They were obviously senior here. But if they had come to the gate to meet him, they weren’t who he wanted to see.
He dipped his chin. “I’ll trade with whoever’s in charge.”
Usna took another step forward. “How do you know that I’m not in charge?”
Caius and Usna had come up through the ranks of the Black Guards—the cavalry—making their way into the Wraiths. Highly mobile, famous for their fast horses and their heavy weaponry, they had always been the first in any skirmish. And had been richly rewarded for it by Geraint. Land, power, prestige had poured over them. And then Ballanor had claimed them as his own and elevated them even higher.
The Wraiths had offered him a place in their squad—only extremely well-connected Apollyon were ever considered—and his parents had been ecstatic. Until he’d turned it down.
Even in their last conversation, they had still been reminding him that they had wanted him to take the glory he’d been offered. Reminding him that they had wished he had died with the Wraiths rather than lived with the Hawks.
But he hadn’t regretted his choice to stay with Tristan, Mathos, and their squad. Men he respected, admired, and trusted. And he still didn’t regret that decision.
Yes, the Wraiths had been rich and powerful. But they were also merciless. Their decisions sometimes questionable. And he’d had no desire to serve under their captain. A man who was fearless, tactically brilliant, and utterly ruthless—the kind of man who would set up this camp. A man Tor had thought had died in the massacre of Ravenstone.
“I’ll only speak to Andred,” Tor replied.
Caius’s eyes narrowed, and Tor knew he was right.
