And feeling made a fool of.
But he, too, could play at any game. He had every confidence that his Dark Blood taken by the Mortals had not divulged their true numbers.
He twisted in his saddle and surveyed his divisions. They’d marched through the night and morning in three wide columns, three thousand on horseback ahead of nine thousand infantry, stretching back half a mile. Twelve thousand in all.
Warriors, erect on horseback, swords in scabbards by armored thighs, leather helmets donned over long dreadlocks that spread over their shoulders and chests like roots clawing for passage through the thick leather of their armor. Behind them the infantry stood tall, perfectly formed, heads fixed, forward and alert.
The first army in nearly five hundred years.
His.
The technology and armaments of the armies during the age of Chaos may have been far more advanced, but history had never seen warriors with more discipline, speed or strength than these.
And because of it, his power was without peer.
Absolute.
“Movement.”
He turned at Brack’s word. Two horsemen had entered the valley from the canyons beyond. They rode abreast, slowly, without any sign of anxiety.
Varus spat off his right side. “We were drawn,” he said with obvious disgust.
“So it seems,” Saric said. “Do you see any danger? Either of you.”
Silence for a moment.
“No.”
“No, my Lord.”
“So then, let’s go see what our clever enemy is made of, shall we?”
Saric spurred his horse forward, ambling at the same pace of the two now approaching. Behind him, the army shuddered to life with precision. Two lines of horses broke to the flanks, marching as one so that the earth vibrated with each footfall as Saric’s captains emerged up through the corridor.
The approaching Mortals stopped, still a hundred paces off.
“Hold your riders back,” Saric said. “I don’t want to pursue a fleeing enemy in these parts. They’ll be prepared to ambush.”
Almost immediately the cavalry on each side slowed their approach and settled into a cautious gait, wide but parallel with Saric.
The two Nomads resumed their approach. They both rode stallions-bred for running long distances, according to lore. Their hair was long, braided, beaded, their clothing a blend of dark brown leathers with accents of red and metal painted or woven into the sleeves and breasts. Their boots were set in stirrups attached to light saddles.
He’d never seen a Nomad apart from the scout they’d taken just two days ago. It made sense for Jonathan’s handlers to go after the disaffected tribespeople who’d always resisted Order, who survived without the facilities of cities. They could run and hide like jackals. They evidently could also hold their own in hand-to-hand combat and were no strangers to strategy. Because there could be no mistaking the matter: they’d lured him here with intent.
Only when they were fifty paces off did Saric see that one of them was a woman. Haughty-chinned and steely- gazed.
Exotic material for a concubine.
Still no sign of additional warriors on the high ground.
The horsemen stopped thirty paces off, steady and seemingly unconcerned. But Saric knew better than to underestimate them.
“That’s far enough,” the man called out, voice firm.
Who was this man who presumed to order him? Did two lone warriors command his path? What kind of enemy could approach such a crushing display of force and demand they move no further?
Saric’s hand went up. “Hold.”
Immediately the columns behind him ceased marching on a single footfall. Silence filled the valley.
It was the first time Saric had seen a Nomad Mortal outside of captivity, and for a moment he was captivated. Here was no cowering enemy, but a creature brimming with strange power. Power to equal his own. It came off the man in waves like heat. What kind of blood made a man so fearless? Even the woman stared him down with an audacity he found compelling. If what Rom had told Feyn was true, their veins ran with the natural blood of one child who’d been born without Legion to contend with. Pure, untouched by alchemy.
A sudden, raw sensation sunk like razored talons into his heart. The moment he felt the savage emotion, he knew it for what it was.
Jealousy.
He immediately replaced it with another passion: rage.
But neither would serve him. During the age of Chaos, humanity’s failure had been its inability to control such powerful sentiments. He was far more evolved.
Indeed, he was master… and Maker.
Even over such magnificent creatures as these two, seated on their horses, staring him down.
They would soon see.
Roland gazed out over Saric’s vast army, acutely aware of the nerves running on edge down his neck and arms. By his quick estimation, there were well over ten thousand of them. Far larger than they’d been led to believe.
They smelled like a horde from hell. Even from a distance the stench was hardly bearable.
Their formation was nearly perfect, three large blocks of three or four thousand each, one-fourth mounted, the rest on foot. Whatever discipline had gone into their training had been effective; they could hardly be more ordered or settled if they were mechanized.
Two generals flanked the leader, half a horse length behind. Tall and thick, as certain of themselves as boulders in the face of a noon breeze. But Roland had met a few of these rocks before and he knew how quickly they could move.
And then there was Saric in his black leather armor with its silver buckles and red piping-an exhibition of authority. Like the rest of the Dark Bloods, his skin was pale, nearly translucent beneath the intermittent sun. Even from here, Roland’s Mortal eyes could detect the dark lines of veins near the surface of Saric’s skin. The unblinking bore of his black eyes, like two coals in a sun-parched face.
Deathly. And chillingly beautiful.
“Are you sure, brother?” Michael breathed.
“I am always and never sure.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Be ready to run if anything goes wrong. Through the canyons on the route I showed you. Don’t lead them to our camp. Head west and cut back-”
“I know what to do. Be careful.”
“Wait here.”
He gave his mount a gentle nudge, guided it forward, and stopped fifteen paces from Saric.
“I would speak to Saric, brother of the Sovereign,” he said, refusing him more title than that. “You have my word-I will not harm you. I have no intention of angering this machine of an army, only to speak terms.”
Saric stared, unmoved. Not even the blink of an eye.
“You must think it odd that two of my kind would face ten thousand of yours,” Roland said. “You ask yourself how I so easily lured your army with the word of a single man, one of my most humble warriors. And you wisely doubt that the warriors I command are only seven hundred, as he told you. Now you realize you know nothing of our true power. And so come closer and let me explain.”
It was a long speech for Roland, but he was dealing with a man of the Order, given to such displays of power. So he let the words work their way into this pale overlord, this maker of Dark Bloods, content to know that despite appearances, he still held the upper ground.
