What the fuck…? Tybalt questioned irritably.

  His eyes were closed for the moment, but he was no longer asleep. No longer in bed with the alluring fox woman.

  Fuck. Fine. Something woke me… so I guess it’s time to get up.

  Tybalt blinked, shook his head sleepily, found that he had to cover up a raging erection before he could move—and then took new stock of his surroundings. He was still in the Army’s cart where he had laid down, but they were moving. Well, of course. They had just hit a bump.

  And he was no longer the only one in the cart. There were a dozen other men sitting or lying in various positions.

  When did they get here? I guess I was in pretty deep sleep there…

  Tybalt rose from his sleeping pose, his dream already slipping from his mind against his will, and looked at the soldiers walking alongside the cart.

  “Where are we?” he asked the nearest man, whose name escaped him for the moment. “Have watches been organized yet?”

  The squad was composed of just over three dozen people, including a few newer recruits who had been recently rotated in, such as Lieutenant Sperry. The man walking beside the cart was also on the newer side. He didn’t despise Tybalt as some of the Commander’s cronies did.

  “On the way back,” said the man in thickly accented South Nietian. “No watches organized. We camp in the desert tonight. We’ll be able to see any enemy coming from miles away. Not close to those mountains where they can hide so treacherously.”

  Right, of course, Tybalt thought, ignoring the silly phrasing the other man used—as if the people the Army regularly slaughtered posed any threat of sneak attack. More like they threaten to sneak away.

  “Thanks,” Tybalt said. “I guess, since our work in the Salt Waste is done, no sense in wasting time. It will take several days to get back anyway.”

  The middle of the desert was safer than being near the mountains, tactically speaking. It wasn’t true that the squad would be able to see any enemy coming—there were bandits who specialized in hiding their approach and operated out of this very desert—but this would not be a problem for a Royal Army squad that had not suffered any casualties on its mission.

  “Specialist Tybalt!” A voice broke into his thoughts. Tybalt quietly groaned.

  “What is it, Private Graven?” Tybalt asked, turning to face the sound of the other man’s voice. Tybalt allowed a note of peevishness into his tone.

  This twice-damned brown noser…

  The little Private was approaching him at a brisk pace, in no hurry, accosting him so that everyone around knew Tybalt was being singled out in some way, though they did not know the reason. It would spoil the newer people’s impression of him.

  Graven drew close enough to look up into Tybalt’s eyes, then lowered his voice so that only those in their immediate surroundings could hear what was said.

  “Commander wants to know your decision on reenlisting, soldier,” Graven said, his lips slowly spreading in a thin smile.

  Tybalt felt a slight twinge of unease at the other man’s smile. Not because Graven intimidated him at all, but because he felt some twisted intention in this question—and not from Graven himself.

  What are you going to do if I don’t reenlist, Commander? Tybalt thought. Lose me on the way back?

  Tybalt had been giving the question of reenlistment serious consideration in recent weeks. He would hit the end of his term of service in just over a month. The stint in the military had been worse than he had imagined, but his alternatives were not great either.

  I have saved up a little money. But he knew his coinpurse was barely heavier now than it had been when he started. Army pay was barely pay at all, unless you were crippled in the Kingdom’s service. Part of him wanted to just leave and go live with Brandy Sharsmith—the woman who had loved him, and who he had loved in turn.

  Brandy was a former courtesan, but after a handful of years in that line of work, she had acquired a fortune and gone into business as a high end bordello owner rather than working on staff. She and Tybalt had seriously discussed settling down together. She was still awaiting his answer, though she had warned him that she would not wait forever. He wrote to her whenever he was stationed in one place for any length of time. And she wrote back with consistency. Distance had not cooled their affections.

  But the idea of being a kept man, without any means of supporting himself except for Brandy, had rankled him. Still did. This was not the life he had envisioned for himself, and Tybalt was nothing if not determined and proud. He had little other than his pride.

  And he had yet to accomplish any of what he had set out to do by joining the Army. He had been determined to rise above his station, into the nobility—and, if at all possible, to seek revenge on a certain family.

  Will I have to reenlist? he thought. As much as the idea of continuing in this work disgusted him, there might not be any other way to accomplish his objectives.

  Tybalt realized that the Private was still standing there, expecting an answer.

  “I’ll give Volusia my answer when we get back,” Tybalt said, waving his hand impatiently.

  Get lost, he thought.

  “The Commander wants to—”

  Another soldier came shuffling quickly up. It was Corporal Dickon, one of Baldwin’s friends. The big, bluff man rushed past Graven and Tybalt and seemed to deliberately knock into Graven as he passed, cutting the Private off.

  Graven twisted his thin worm lips in a frown. Then both Tybalt and Graven turned to observe what was happening as Dickon approached the driver.

  “We’ve just had a runner from back at the mining camp,” Dickon said breathlessly, yet somehow in a loud, clear voice that carried. “We got the wrong village—er, more accurate to say that we missed another tribe of the furballs.”

  Tybalt grimaced. So they were turning around.

  Then his expression froze. He remembered what had happened before. Specifically, the curse that the beastfolk shaman—or whatever he was—had laid on him.

  We’re going back. A chill ran down his spine.

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  The old beastman had prayed they would not leave the desert alive. Now they were turning around. Potentially walking into danger. Was that “Lord Mudo” intervening somehow?

  Tybalt shook his head.

  Ridiculous… right?

  He felt silly even thinking about it. He wasn’t one of those men who worried about the evil eye or such superstitions. But then, he also understood that minor gods did exist, not just the big two that everyone worshiped, Vika and Astara.

  There was nearly irrefutable proof of that, as discussed in the histories Tybalt had read. Who was to say that one of those lesser gods had not put a finger on the scales? Decided to teach Tybalt and his squad some sort of lesson?

  This would not be the first time a dying man had wished them ill, but it might be the first time a religious official had done so.

  As the cart slowly wheeled around, Private Graven frowned and looked at Tybalt, the Private’s mind clearly turned to another subject now.

  “The Commander will want you to use that bird of yours and do some reconnaissance,” Graven muttered. “He’ll probably be content to get his answer later.”

  “That’s great,” Tybalt said sarcastically, no longer in the state of mind to pretend to be polite. “But Volusia should probably give me orders himself, rather than sending someone junior who has to guess what he’ll ‘probably’ want.”

  Graven flushed, narrowed his eyes, and then stalked off without a word.

  Tybalt shook his head. Damn it. I just pissed him off more than I needed to, didn’t I? Need to learn to keep my big mouth shut…

  The brown-noser would chew Commander Volusia’s ear off about Tybalt now. It wasn’t as if the Commander needed encouragement for the contempt he nurtured for Tybalt.

  Perversely, Tybalt felt a little pleased at annoying the Commander by proxy.

  And as he thought about it, turning around wasn’t all bad.

  It certainly increased the odds that Tybalt or other squad members would get hurt or killed, but with the fog that was rolling in over the mountains, Graven was correct. Tybalt would be needed to perform scouting work with his partner. He looked to the cage that sat in the corner of the cart, where ‘his’ bird rested.

  It will be good to let you get out and stretch your wings, he thought. And at least this place isn’t ugly.

  The Salt Waste was hopeless, barren—but not ugly. It had an austere beauty.

  The thought came to him unbidden: It’s a magnificent place to die.

  —

  Tybalt whistled his command, his pitch low and confident.

  Cutting through the dense fog that filled the evening sky, Valmont wheeled in a wide arc before landing on Tybalt’s outstretched leather gloved right fist.

  Tybalt smiled with both his lips and his hard green eyes, for once made soft and gentle as he enjoyed both the beauty of the goshawk and the little gust of crisp evening air the bird brought with it.

  “Nothing out there, eh, Val?” he murmured, stroking the goshawk’s elegant gray plumage with his pale, ungloved left hand.

  Tybalt himself could only see the outlines of small, rough buildings ahead of him, before everything disappeared in a wall of fog. But he trusted Valmont’s eyes. He had trained the goshawk thoroughly in spotting armed enemies over the last couple of years. He continued quietly cooing praise to the bird and stroking it.

  Valmont had not made a sound while it flew or when it landed, meaning it had seen nothing to be afraid of in the valley. Good news for the Commander. It would be embarrassing to lose men in a backwater like the Salt Waste.

  But that also meant no chance for glory. The Commander could take this as good or bad depending on his humor of the moment.

  “Well done, my friend, you kept us safe again…”

  One of Tybalt’s fellow soldiers gave him an odd, mistrusting look, apparently in response to him talking to the bird. Tybalt pointedly ignored the man, as was his custom. He felt it when the other soldier looked away.

  You make much better company than any human out here, Val, Tybalt thought. He included himself in that judgment. If I were truly worthwhile, I would not have landed myself in such dismal surroundings. The Salt Waste. This shitty squad.

  There was nothing to see in this place but low, craggy mountains, the mining camp somewhere hidden in the far distance, and the salt soil at his feet. The austere beauty of the desert was shrouded in fog. The sea was on the other side of the mountain range, so it was unlikely they would see it during this journey. Not unless this group of demihumans had been determined to get as far from the Kingdom’s enforcers as they could while staying within the Kingdom.

  Tybalt thought he should go and report Val’s lack of findings, but then he saw his commanding officer approaching. Tybalt simply waited in place, faking a friendly smile at the Commander.

  When the two men stood toe to toe, Tybalt had a good view of the Commander’s chainmail shirt. Not because Tybalt was short—he was slightly taller than Commander Volusia—but because Tybalt had not raised his eyes from the goshawk he held. A part of him wished to loose Valmont on Volusia and watch the bird rake the man’s face with those long talons that nature had gifted it with—but that would violate the King’s Code. Sadly.

  I would probably be executed for it, Tybalt thought.

  There were occasions where violence was permitted within the ranks—duels by mutual consent, mainly—but they were specific, limited situations. Matters of so-called honor, subject to “squad code,” their informal norms. Letting a military bird attack your commanding officer without warning was not such a circumstance.

  “Well? What intelligence from your pet, Soldier Tybalt?” Commander Volusia asked, almost spitting the words, instantly hostile.

  Tybalt forced himself to look up from Valmont for just long enough to give his answer.

  “No threats visible in the immediate vicinity,” he replied.

  The bird cooed quietly as Tybalt returned to caressing it.

  “You will remember to address me as sir, soldier,” Volusia growled. He lowered his voice. “Do be careful not to let your Baron’s blood make you arrogant, bastard. The men can smell that shit, and believe me, it reeks.”

  “I will be sure to remember my lowly station, sir,” Tybalt replied, saluting sharply, face carefully blank.

  Dumb son of a bitch, he thought. If the Baron gave two damns about me, I would have the command here, assuming I was still fool enough to join the army. Instead, he threw me away—the same as he’s done with other bastards, or so I imagine. All I get for my ‘noble blood’ is resentment from guys like you who think I grew up with some advantages.

  “You will take point as the squad advances,” Volusia said, smiling viciously.

  Tybalt glanced up at the other man, who looked eager for his reaction. Ecstatic at any pretense to inflict some punishment on the Baron’s bastard.

  “If you believe that placing a scout at the front is the best use of your resources, I am happy to lead the way, sir,” he responded carefully.

  Nothing in that for you to misconstrue. Just the implication that I think you have shit where brains should be.

  “Put the bird away, then, and move!” Volusia snapped, angry at the absence of anything overt to be angry about.

  He knew what Tybalt was getting at, of course. Volusia was not stupid.

  Tybalt didn’t know if the Commander had any real reason to act as he did. He didn’t think he had ever given Volusia cause to hate him, but who could say? The nature of authority was to be arbitrary.

  He stood up straight, saluted again, and this time allowed a silent fart to escape his body. Then he walked away, taking a path directly upwind of Volusia.

  Eat my dust, Tybalt thought. He looked down at Valmont once more. If I could fly, you would never catch me in a place like this. You are far too good for this squad, my feathered friend.

  Tybalt was already wondering why he had considered reenlisting, now that he was back out here.

  I need to be out of this place, Tybalt thought. Even if I liked the work instead of loathing it, Volusia will get me killed if he can.