Mortal

seconds. No matter how fast the Dark Bloods themselves, their chargers could not outrun his stallion.

But there was more here that Roland could not easily dismiss. As much as Saric must even now reevaluate all he knew about the Mortal force, Roland must do the same of him. He could smell the anger and ambition wafting from the sea of humanity, nearly as strong as the scent of death.

But was it truly the scent of death? It wasn’t the same as the Corpses; the powerful overtones of what he might place as loyalty and affection were as thick as a low fog in the valley. Affection. Perhaps even love.

Was it possible Saric had actually found a way to create life in as much as Jonathan had? Full life, vivid with emotion?

There sat a powerful man upon his charger-a warrior Roland acknowledged as majestic. Who else could have orchestrated the defeat of Order and the raising of an army such as this but a singularly potent man who was born to rule?

The desire to subdue a foe of equal strength wrestled with simple admiration within him, and it occurred to Roland then that one day he would indeed either kill this man or join him. There could be no in between.

Still no response from Saric.

“Come now. Do two of us frighten you so easily?”

“Do I look like a fool to you?” Saric said at last. The man’s voice held not a shred of concern.

“Definitely not.”

“Then you come closer.”

Roland considered the request, judging the likelihood of a personal attack. Saric had little to gain by killing him. It was Jonathan who threatened his power, not one or two lone warriors. In any case, he had challenged Saric, and he was now compelled to accept that same challenge. Anything less would be a show of weakness.

He cut the distance between them in half.

“You should not fear one who has come to give you the keys to your kingdom,” Roland said.

A wry smile twisted Saric’s mouth. “I’m not sure you understand your position.”

“I understand it very well. Order two of your men to kill me and you will as well.”

No one moved. Those dark eyes studied him, devoid of emotion. The scent of him, however, was saturated with anger… and strange eagerness.

“You seem quite confident,” Saric said.

“I would know my enemy. Make it three men if you wish.”

Saric dipped his head. “As you wish. Varus, humor the man.”

The Dark Blood to Saric’s right turned and barked out an order. Without hesitation, three horses broke from the ranks behind and trotted forward.

Roland pointed to a slight rise, twenty paces to Michael’s left. “On foot.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his horse, rode to where Michael waited, and dismounted, handing her the reins.

“Remember, the canyon. Have my horse ready.”

He started to walk for the rise.

Only then did the three warriors dismount. They came for him at a run, three abreast, spreading out as they approached.

Twenty paces…

But Roland wanted the rise, so he continued on and stopped only when he was atop it, staring at the onrush of Dark Bloods.

Ten paces…

He took a deep breath, spread his arms by his waist, and tilted his head down. In the next moment, he saw.

Time slowed to a drip.

The Dark Bloods were running but in his sight they plodded through tacky mud. Their dreadlocks flailed behind them like black smoke in a dream. Every ounce of their bulk fighting gravity, the viscosity of time itself, to get to him. Their size so cumbersome that he might run up and tap each of them and jink away before they could even react.

That was wrong, of course. They were fast-he already knew that. Too fast to risk their closing in, or fighting them three-on-one. But their movement would work against them.

He swiped a blade from the sheath on his hip and flung it backhanded at the closest of the three, the one on his left. The blade sailed through the air and smacked home, deep in the eye socket.

The man’s head snapped back. His feet flew off the ground and he landed solidly on his back with a grunt. Dead.

Five paces…

Two left, one in midswing of a three-foot, double-edged sword. It flashed toward Roland like a glinting saucer, cutting for his torso.

No way to avoid the sword. Only to step into it as one edge passed and before the second rounded and caught him.

The blades slowed to a whirr, and then to the lazy turn of a two-spoked wheel. He chose his time, threw himself forward. When he did, his shoulder crashed into the handle at its center. The sword careened off harmlessly.

He dropped, rolled forward. He had two more knives out and slashing upward as they leaped to avoid him. His blade connected with a leg bone, the impact jarred him to his shoulder. The warrior roared with pain and sprawled forward.

Roland came to his feet behind them, but the third man had already spun and was in full swing.

“Roland!” Michael’s cry cut the air.

Once again, their speed surprised him. He was too late to avoid the blade. Too off balance to lunge into it. So he turned into the blow to catch it squarely on his chest where his leather was the thickest, taking the blade’s full length to disperse the force of the strike along as much of the edge as possible.

The blade smacked into the leather. Cut through it and into his chest with a sharp sting.

But not to the bone.

It was all Roland needed to know. His threw all of his weight into a blow to the other man’s face, dead center. The Dark Blood’s nose caved-loudly-against his knuckles.

He twisted the man’s sword from his grasp, whipped it around like a sling and buried the blade in the warrior’s exposed neck. Spun to the second Dark Blood staggering to his feet with one of Roland’s knives sticking out of his leg.

“Enough!” Roland cried. He jabbed the bloody sword in his hand toward the army. “Go! While you still live.”

But the warrior didn’t appear interested in running for cover. He jerked a long knife from his belt and circled, cautiously, to the left.

“Where did you learn to fight, Nomad?”

He hadn’t expected such a typical question from the Dark Blood. Not under the scrutiny of his superiors. Neither did he see any reason to respond.

“Call your man back,” he said, jabbing his chin in Saric’s direction. “Or I’ll kill him.”

“I don’t run,” the warrior said.

“Mather! Back!”

The Dark Blood immediately straightened. Then he was up and jogging for his ranks, order unquestioned.

Roland walked to his horse, swung into the saddle, and wheeled around.

Michael glanced at his chest. “You’re all right?”

“Just a cut.”

He trotted back toward Saric and stopped. Only ten paces separated them. Other than the three Bloods who’d been sent to fight him, not a soul appeared to have moved. The army was extraordinarily disciplined. Machinelike… and unnervingly alive.

Roland knew then that there was no way his Nomads would survive a head-to-head battle with the Dark Bloods. They would have to think through their strategy very carefully.

“Impressive,” Saric said. “Your point?”

“Where is Pasha?”