Tybalt returned to the cart the squad had brought for their supplies and placed Valmont back into the cage. The goshawk let out a little huffy breath, indignant at being confined to the small structure. The bird made eye contact with Tybalt, and he thought he could read Val’s thoughts for a moment.

  I only tolerate such indignity for the sake of our working relationship, you understand, the bird seemed to be trying to tell him. If something were to happen to you, and anyone else opened this cage door, I would be gone in a flash!

  At least that was how Tybalt read the look in the fiery black eyes.

  Either that, or he wants food.

  Tybalt cast his eyes around surreptitiously, looking to see if anyone was watching. The squad was thirty-seven men strong, and none of them would be happy if they saw Tybalt steal from their limited supply of meat to feed the animal many of them considered as his pet rather than a military asset. But a goshawk needed to eat…

  His eyes lit on an older soldier approaching. Oh, it was Baldwin. The older man smiled, nodded, and continued drawing closer.

  “Looking for something to feed that overgrown turkey?” he asked.

  Tybalt allowed his face to show the surprise he felt at being caught out.

  “You got me,” Tybalt said. “Bird’s got to eat! I trained him well, but I find it important to continue rewarding the bird for doing his job in order to reinforce loyalty to his trainer. My first bird stopped responding to commands and flew off on her own because I failed to keep up her conditioning.”

  It had happened years ago, when Tybalt first took up falconry, but it was a lesson not easily forgotten. He had loved that bird, almost as much as he had ever loved any human. Its name had been Cecile.

  The falcon bore his silent moodiness and occasional sharp commands with a patience no human would have demonstrated. And Cecile rewarded his provision of food with loyalty—until the meat supply dried up. Then the bird left the “Cecile” name behind and went off to hunt alone.

  In retrospect, he did not blame it. For a thirteen-year-old, it had been a harsh lesson, but it was not Cecile’s fault. A falcon needed meat. He simply had none.

  After the Baron cut us off, Tybalt remembered. Perhaps his whole life since then was a quest to have enough meat, figuratively speaking.

  “Not to worry,” Baldwin said. “I thought ahead for you. When I caught this little guy getting into the grain, I saved him.” He reached into the wagon and dug in between the sacks of grain until he pulled out the stiff corpse of a rat.

  That’s perfect!

  Tybalt smiled. “You are a true friend, Baldwin,” he said. He turned to Valmont. “Say thank you, Val!”

  The goshawk made a cooing noise, as it had when Tybalt stroked his feathers earlier.

  You really do understand me, eh, Val? Tybalt thought.

  He took the rat from Baldwin and fed it to Valmont using the same glove he used to handle the bird when he carried it around generally. It was important that Valmont associate it with sustenance and therefore survival. That was a key mechanism of control. Tybalt did not want to lose another bird.

  Val made satisfied noises as it consumed the rat, and Tybalt smiled again.

  He turned back to Baldwin and caught the man looking at him slyly before Baldwin managed to shift his face to a simple, amiable expression.

  Of course, Baldwin has some ulterior motive… No one in this crew has any good qualities worth noting. All we have are our spears and shields, the willingness to use them, and the deficit of good sense that gets one sent to a place like the Salt Waste. My ‘friend’ here probably heard the rumor that I’m a noble bastard, and he hopes he can use me to some advantage. In retrospect, Baldwin had been trying to get close to Tybalt for some weeks. Tybalt thought he could pinpoint the sudden interest to their stop in the frontier town of Sal.

  He must have spoken to one of the whores I bedded there. Need to resist telling them personal things, even if I know I’ll never see them again. But it was hard to think as clearly when Tybalt was—well, hard. It wasn’t as if he had some great secret he needed to protect. Though he was the Baron of Greentear’s bastard, he was fundamentally just as much of a loser as everyone else here.

  And Tybalt tended to enjoy associating with whores even when he wasn’t lying with them. They might not be good girls, per se, but they were interesting, often trained in the art of charm—and sometimes bastards too! Tybalt and the women could commiserate with each other’s suffering. Their lots had sometimes been even worse than Tybalt’s, which made him feel simultaneously sympathetic toward them and better about his own life. Plus, it sometimes paid to have friends in low places. They tended to know the best gossip.

  “Thank you from me as well,” Tybalt said, smiling at Baldwin. It was some time since he had last felt anything that could be called true happiness outside of dreams. Probably the last time he saw Brandy back in Verma. Even that happiness had been tainted by Tybalt’s feelings of unworthiness.

  But Val’s simple joy brought Tybalt close enough to the emotion to fool the other soldier. “You know, I never forget a favor or a friend,” he added, playing the part of noble brat whose favor has been successfully curried.

  Tybalt shut Valmont’s cage with only slight regret—I will let you out for a longer flight later, Val!—and armed himself. He replaced the shield that had been damaged with a new one from the Army’s stock, and he still had his spear and dagger.

  With spear and shield in hand, helmet firmly in place, dagger at his side, and the gambeson he always wore buttoned up, Tybalt was ready for battle—or ready to skirmish with whatever unfortunate demihumans were thought to be waiting in the valley ahead of them anyway. If the Nietian Royal Army command structure had anticipated real danger in this place, they would have sent a company or even a battalion, not a little squad. The rest of the company they had come from was only a week’s march away.

  This mission should just be mopping up a few more demihumans who had failed to take the memo that this land, crappy though it was, mountainous and sandy and unfit for agriculture as it was, had been claimed by a human kingdom.

  Yet as he looked around him, taking in the outlines of mountains barely visible through the wall of fog that obscured almost everything more than ten feet from Tybalt, he felt an inexplicable sense that this mission would be different.

  Maybe it was the shaman’s dying curse. Or maybe Tybalt could see, for one moment, a hint of the strings that dangle over men’s heads all through their lives, directing their fates.

  Tybalt shook his head and strode briskly forward, trying to ignore the momentary sense of foreboding. His footsteps assumed the rhythm of a march as he approached the Commander.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I am ready to lead the attack,” he told Volusia coldly, looking the man directly in the eyes.

  The Commander seemed a bit taken aback at the icy expression on Tybalt’s face but quickly recovered.

  “Right, go ahead,” he said brusquely. “Er, take point in the formation, there.” He pointed, unnecessarily, at where the rest of the advance body of soldiers was already assembled.

  This advance group consisted of the grizzled veterans of the squad. While twenty-five members of the squad, including all of the newer recruits, stood back with Volusia, Tybalt was to lead these hardened men into the unknown tactical situation of the village.

  He stepped in among them, and they seamlessly parted to let him through. Once he reached the front of the group, they formed an arrowhead formation of a dozen men with him at its tip.

  The most experienced men stood at the fore, making for an especially steady and intimidating front line. With shields and spears pointed outward, they would have looked like a very large, wooden and iron porcupine to any animal that happened to see them. The gray hair on the men directly beside Tybalt added to the intimidation factor; one didn’t survive to middle age in such a line of work if one was not dangerous. But even the younger, somewhat less experienced men in the arrowhead, standing behind Tybalt and the gray beards, were the best the squad had to offer.

  Three months of training and the subsequent two and a half years of engagements had brought all of these relative veterans of the squad, including Tybalt, a certain level of discipline. In that sense, Tybalt was not out of place here. Though the handful of gray-haired warriors beside him were older and more experienced, his level was on the higher end for a soldier of his relative youth, and there was not a hint of uncertainty in his body language.

  Tybalt called the advance, and the formation marched forward in lockstep, ready for anything.

  The firm, resolute figures of the Kingdom’s defenders cut through the fog, entered the village—and saw no one. Heard nothing.

  They looked around and saw ramshackle huts, but even as they proceeded through the village, not a single creature stirred.

  “Where in Kur are the devils?” muttered Severan, a soldier positioned just behind Tybalt.

  “Language!” hissed Lieutenant Sperry from much further back, with the main body of soldiers. Her voice sounded so far away that Tybalt was almost surprised she could hear Severan.

  Knowing Sperry could not see him, Tybalt rolled his eyes. Really? Now?

  The Lieutenant was very pleasant to look at, with long, flowing dark hair, a curvaceous yet athletic figure, and well defined high cheekbones, but she could be a stickler. She had a stick up her ass, to be blunt. Volusia had placed her in charge of managing supplies, to give her something to do, but she had taken it more seriously than any previous supply officer.

  Her rigid adherence to rules and command was the main trait Tybalt had observed in her since she joined the squad. That, and being powerful, of course. Of the squad, only she had a class, and it was even combat-oriented, so “powerful” relative to most people was a given. Still, at times like these, it was hard to believe she was in the military at all.

  She doesn’t curse? What the fuck does she say when she stubs her toe?

  The arrowhead of men advanced to the end of the village, then slowly rotated around and walked back to the village center. There was no one besides them anywhere in this little village, unless they were concealing themselves in one of the huts.

  “Soldiers, split up and secure all buildings in raindrop formations now!” Commander Volusia’s voice carried, sharp and crisp, from the edge of the village.

  The advance group instantly scattered into smaller, prearranged units, while the main body of soldiers rushed up to join in, also subdivided into similar small groups.

  Tybalt was grouped with Baldwin and two other men, and along with the other eight units in the raindrop groupings, they scoured each of the flimsy mud huts. They found little evidence of life.

  There were some rickety items of furniture. A chair of wood and reeds here, a low wooden table there. Occasionally someone found a pot or a pan, which Tybalt supposed meant that contrary to appearances, there must be a water source nearby.

  But it looked like whoever had lived here had cleared out completely. Probably quickly.

  “It seems almost as if they had some word that we were coming,” Volusia mused once the units had regrouped and reported in. He gave Tybalt a sharp look, as if he thought the bastard might have passed along some warning.

  Just because of the stereotypes about bastards, Tybalt thought. As if I had not mindlessly, slavishly killed every goblin, dwarf, gnome, and beastman he pointed us at on the way here. And as if I had some opportunity to sneak away and warn these beastfolk! The nerve of him to question my honor… This last was a bit facetious. Tybalt took no pride in foolish honor.

  “You—” Volusia pointed at Tybalt.

  “Me what, sir?” Tybalt said.

  “You and your lover there—” Volusia gestured at Baldwin, to scattered laughter by the other men—“go and scout ahead. I intend for us to use our targets’ own huts while we rest and prepare to pursue them. Make certain the enemy did not retreat further into the valley to catch us in our sleep. The hour is drawing late, and we must make camp.”

  Tybalt reddened slightly—his tastes did not, in fact, incline toward other men!—but only for a moment. He didn’t care what anyone thought about his sexuality. His thoughts were pulled to the task he had been assigned.

  Baldwin and I could easily fall into a trap if we have to scout in this fog. Easy prey. I could not spot a dragon in this weather, except from the air! Tybalt needed Valmont if he was to be effective in this task.

  But Volusia had not offered Tybalt the use of his bird. He would doubtless raise a stink if Tybalt employed Valmont without permission—might even allow the men to turn the goshawk into stew as a way of punishing Tybalt. The idea was idiotic, but perhaps not beyond the pale.

  Tybalt wondered if the fog was natural or magical.

  That would make it all but a guarantee we walk into a bunch of enemies, armed to the teeth, with some sort of weather-manipulating mage, he thought. Then the squad would be down two men without even the benefit of any new intelligence. Except the information that, ‘Oh, there’s something horrible out there, we might be fucked!’

  Sending a larger group would be smarter. Or retreating out of the fog that might have been conjured by our enemy in the unlikely event they have a mage. Even simply leaving this twice-damned desert and declaring our mission accomplished. No one will know we turned tail. Beastfolk settlements are regularly discovered in these parts. Marching through the night would get us away safely. None of us have done any real work today. It’s not as if we are really tired.

  But Tybalt could not say any of this. Commander Volusia already despised him enough without Tybalt arguing against direct orders when Volusia had already made up his mind. Especially when those arguments could be construed as cowardice.

  “Well, come on then, lover,” Tybalt said, trying to sound sarcastic—and as amused as he could muster, for Volusia’s benefit. He grabbed Baldwin by the shoulder and pulled him away from the group.

  The two men, still armed and ready for a fight, marched further into the valley until they were out of sight of the squad—it happened almost instantly in that eerie fog—and just as immediately, they found that they could not hear the squad either. The dense fog acted like a magic curtain that blocked all sound.

  The effect was eerie, like moving into a different world.

  Partial deprivation of two of Tybalt’s senses sharpened his focus on his surroundings. He took in features of the valley he might not otherwise have noticed. He looked out for any sign of threat, moving in as close to silence as he could manage. Baldwin seemed to share his perception and did the same.

  If Tybalt had entertained the idea that this fog was unnatural before, now he felt a stark premonition that it must be. The dense, moist air hid some dreadful secret.

  But the minutes ticked by. The two men kept walking. No enemy confronted them.

  Tybalt was almost ready to let down his guard.

  Then they stepped across some invisible threshold. A massive, spire shape loomed up at them suddenly through the gray curtain, and both men fell silent almost in the same instant.

  The next moment, a text display appeared before Tybalt’s eyes.

  What? The Tower of Death?! What an evil-sounding name…

  He thought of the beastfolk shaman’s dying words one last time, and his heart began to race. Whether for good or ill, something unprecedented was happening. Something that would change Tybalt’s life forever.