Page 23 of Wings of Destruction

Tristan lifts his index and middle fingers to his face, pointing them at his eyes and then at mine. What an insufferable nettle-spine.

The woods thin out the further up the crest of the hill we traverse. A rocky trail meanders through patches of green and purple flowers with their blossoms tilting toward the sky. We’ve tainted this place with our presence and the thought turns my insides into mush.

A sharp scream sounds from my left and I jerk back in time to see Tristan slice his blade across the neck of a man attempting to run. The metal cuts deep, the cut clean, and the man lets out a wet gargle before falling on his stomach.

The man must have been a farmer. His shirt and pants are streaked with mud, the same as his boots, and small bits of hay cling to the dried areas.

Tristan sneers and wipes the blood on the back of the man’s tunic before he slides the blade back into his holster.

“This is what happens when you try to run,” he tells the others. “Do not hesitate if they try to attack.”

One soldier simply stares at my cousin. “I thought you said we were keeping them alive, sir.”

“This one would have made a poor servant. Can you imagine someone like him serving roast boar at one of the state dinners?” Apparently, the image is too ludicrous for Tristan, and he grips his stomach against a roaring belly laugh.

The sound of it hounds me up the side of the hill. Okay, maybe nettle-spine is an understatement. Maybe sadistic maniac is a better description for my cousin because no one should delight in death the way he does.

Ignore him?

Mozi prowls the skies above us.

He makes it impossible to ignore.

Which is why, back at our castle, I try to keep my distance from Tristan. It will be impossible once we both move into DragonSpear in a scant week.

I pick up the pace to separate myself from the rest of the group, my attention on the uneven ground. General Ryson won’t be satisfied if we come back empty handed, and we all know it. There’s a difference between turning a purposeful blind eye and not trying.

Resigned, I force my vertebrae straight, working my neck from side to side against the throbbing ache in my neck and arms.

I stop long enough to glance over my shoulder, a mistake as soon as I do it. From this vantage point, the killing field spreads out like an unraveled tablecloth. The entire plain burns steadily. Ether take me.

I drag my fingers across my scalp until the slight pain brings me back into my body. An hour ago, I’d been out there.

It’s a steady march upward and, around a corner, the land opens up enough to grant me a glimpse of a dark opening at the side of the mountain. A flash of red flickers ahead. My nerves fire as the red solidifies into auburn braids trailing across the spine of a beautiful girl.

The beauty ducks back inside the cave but not fast enough.

Ah, dragon dung, this is a fracking mess, isn’t it?

Indecision tears me in two pieces. The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone. Instinct turns me in the opposite direction.

I see nothing.

She’s a lone spark of life in an otherwise dismal day.

“Kieran!” Tristan calls out to me. “Having any luck up there?”

“Nothing here.” My voice holds firm.

“Are you sure? Seems to me like you found the perfect spot for us to survey our quarry. Or maybe you’ve identified the perfect place for survivors to hide.”

Tristan widens his stance, his hands on his hips, our men gathering behind him. He is the brute image of leadership, and they follow him without question. They would even if he weren’t the right hand to the General.

“Sorry to disappoint you. I know you were getting worked up at the thought of hunting practice,” I reply in quiet threat. “But there’s nothing to see.”

Tristan chuckles, casting a glance at the men before gripping his weapon hilt suggestively. “There’s time for that later.”

I’ll lead the party in the other direction, away from the cave. If Tristan gets so much as a whiff of survivors, he’ll clamp down, more stubborn than a starving dog.