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Chapter One
“Our men’s blood is falling like rain upon parched soil!” Reardon McAlator raised his sword, and iron clanged against iron as he fended off yet another opponent. The earth beneath his feet had soaked in too much of his army’s blood. Too much of his own blood. A gouge in his forearm burned as if it’d been seared with a heated blade. Normally, Reardon cut into other people. He wasn’t the one to be cut.
“We have no chance of winning this,” his brother, Jaemus, hollered, though his words could barely be heard over the battle cries, the moans of the wounded, and the crash of swords and shields.
Reardon slashed at the arm of an enemy soldier as he was about to gut Jaemus then swiveled around to stab his sword into the chest of another assailant. The strikes kept coming and, though his army was only outnumbered by a few, they were getting crushed. The Spanish king had hired Reardon and his company of warrior mercenaries to defend his lands. On most occasions this worked out to be a profitable deal for Reardon and his men. They fought mercilessly, dropping body after body, losing none of their own, then collected their payment. They’d become rich lads by killing—something each of them excelled at. They roamed from place to place, did as they pleased in between battles, and generally enjoyed their brutal way of life.
Until today when the tides had turned against them.
“If we don’t retreat now, there’ll be none of us left to bury our dead,” another of Reardon’s kin, a cousin, Kole McMannus, yelled as he cut into a man’s neck with his sword, blood spilling out in a warm, crimson wave.
“Aye!” Reardon held his sword up in the air and waved it around in a tight circle—his company’s signal for retreat. “To the woods, lads!”
As one, the army bolted for the forest past the river. They sloshed through the shallow water and stomped through the brush until they were far enough away from their opponents.
Spain’s opponents.
Reardon often forgot the enemies they fought were never trulytheirenemies, but other men they’d been paid to fight. That was what they did. Waged war for a price. A high price. Was it all worth it? He questioned that on a daily basis, but he and his men were only good at one thing.
If you didn’t count today, of course.
“They fight like beasts.” Shawn McMannus, Reardon’s other cousin and brother to Kole, bent in half, resting his palms on his knees and taking in a few deep breaths. His hands and muscled arms were bloody and bruised like everyone else’s, and his light brown hair was darkened by dirt, sweat, and more blood.
“Fighting like beasts is usually our job.” Erik Rheagan rested his sword against a tree and flexed his hands. Two of his fingers were definitely broken, bent at odd angles. His face was smudged with blood and his armor was dented in several places.
“I think we’ve finally met our match.” Jaemus gestured back to the battlefield where the sounds of the enemy’s rabblerousing carried to them on the wind.
Reardon let out a growl. His men had been sought after mercenaries since he’d assembled them. Legends were written about them. They never lost battles. They never retreated. Victory was always theirs.
Always.
Looking over his men now, his fists curled as he took in their injuries, their blood, their defeated expressions. No soldiers under his command should look like this.
“Get some sleep, brothers,” he said. “They have not claimed victory yet.”
The men broke off into smaller groups and settled in amongst the trees as the sun slid below the horizon to end their worst day. Reardon, however, went off on his own into the darkness. When he believed himself to be far enough away from the others, he glanced around and stripped off his clothes.
The change came so easily to him now. He’d lived with the ability for years and it was second nature. As normal as his heart beating, his lungs breathing, his eyes blinking. He didn’t have to think about it. In the early years, the transformation had been painful and scary. Today, it was neither of those. He simply closed his eyes and pictured his other form.
His wolf form.
Soon he was running on four huge paws, his fur as black as the night. His keen green-gold eyes saw everything from the tiniest waver in the leaves hanging from their branches to the miniscule insects crawling over tree bark. He smelled the moist earth, the other night creatures hiding in the dark, and sadly, the blood of his lost men, slain under his command.
Reardon wasn’t accustomed to feeling guilt. Victory did not bring on such an emotion. His men never appeared to regret their decision to join him because who would lament when the prizes were so vast, the glory so encompassing, the lasses so willing to please men who fought bravely? No one. He’d made legends of his men and himself. Every man wanted that.
Today had shown him the other side of the coin, however. He’d been responsible for losing a large part of his ranks by accepting this contract with the Spanish king. Right now, too many of his loyal soldiers lay in pools of their own blood, motionless, never to take another breath again. No more glory would come upon those men.
And who would mourn them? Only Reardon and the surviving men would, for each had turned their backs on their families, choosing fighting, fame, and riches over love. Reardon had his brother, his cousins, and a few of the other men who were kin in some way, but that wasn’t the same as true family—one that started with the soft curves of a woman and grew with heirs.
This army was the most family these men were going to get. The time had come to make their bond tighter, more powerful, and less susceptible to defeat. Reardon knew of only one way to do that.
He stopped running and meandered back toward where his men slumbered. Sniffing around until he found a patch of muddy earth, he pressed his front paw into the wet dirt. When he retracted the paw, a perfect print was left behind.
Reardon shifted back to human form in the shadows of the trees and quickly dressed. His armor was dented too, his garments torn and bloody.
That will only make us look fiercer in our new incarnation.
He took a cask to the river and filled it. After coming back to the paw print, he filled it with water and squeezed a few drops of his own blood from the nearly healed slash on his forearm into it. He mixed it with his index finger and chanted words, hoping they would achieve the desired result. He’d never done this before. He wasn’t sure anyone had done this before.
