For a full minute, the formation of Dark Bloods remained perfectly still. A thousand on horse, the rest heavy infantry. Part of Saric’s cavalry would be farther west, awaiting the signal for a flanking maneuver. If the Dark Blood had considered every option, he had also sent another division north to cut off any retreat-they had the numbers to spare, and they knew that running had always been the most refined skill of any Nomad.
Not today.
The Dark Bloods’ serpentine banner flapped lazily in the breeze next to another: the compass of Sirin, the standard of Order-but this time it was set, like the dragon, against a red background. If Saric intended the red background of his flags to symbolize blood, Roland vowed plenty of it would be spilled by sunset today.
The Dark Bloods hadn’t moved. Saric, in conference with his generals, didn’t bother turning his head to address him. Time stretched, filling the distance between them as the clouds shifted overhead.
He waited.
Finally, the general named Brack broke from his guard and trotted his horse forward alone. Saric had wisely decided not to place himself in direct contact with an enemy who might slay him where he stood. Wise. A show of confidence could go only so far. For a moment, Roland wondered if his own had gone too far already.
Only when Brack was within fifty paces could Roland distinguish his scent from the overwhelming odor of the horde behind him. A tinge of what he took to be apprehension, but no fear.
The general stopped ten paces away but Roland had no intention of speaking. They were posturing and they both knew it, each waiting for the other to move.
They faced off for a full minute. Twice the general’s mount snorted and shifted impatiently. Never once did the general break his steely glare.
“If you have something to say, speak,” Brack finally said, voice gruff. He was at the disadvantage in this standoff and he knew it, because his master would expect a report.
Roland only stared. Sweat snaked down his back. Out in the wind it normally dried before it could soak through his clothing. Not today. His men crouched in hiding would be soaked from pit to waist by now. Few of them could yet see the full scope of the vast enemy who’d come to snuff them out, but to a man and woman they knew that survival today would come only through inhuman feats of skill, strength, and desire.
Then again, Mortals
Three hundred Nomads waited in hiding two miles to the south behind the Dark Blood army. Another three hundred to the west waited in oil-soaked trenches, armed with crossbows modified to send three arrows with each pull. Only a hundred were stretched across the plateau to Roland’s rear, mounted just over the slight rise, hidden from view.
Each of them knew the critical mission facing them at the onset of battle: fell the cavalry first. Only then would their mounts give them any significant advantage.
“You mistake your foolishness for bravery,” Brack said. “I will tell my Maker that you wish us to place your head next to the one above you.”
He gave Roland a parting glare and jerked on the reins to turn his mount.
“Ask your Maker how long Nomads have lived,” Roland said.
The general held up, and Roland continued.
“Ask him how so many generations of humans with a considerable appetite for breeding could produce only a thousand children. Then you will know why I stand here today, unconcerned. Your forces are matched in number. You’ve been drawn into a trap envisioned by the Sovereigns. If you retreat now and surrender Saric to die beneath my sword, we will allow your army safe passage. Refuse, and not one of your dead will walk away.”
A new scent edged into Roland’s heightened perception. Curiosity. Possibly confusion.
“There is one true Sovereign and his name is Saric,” the general said. “He prefers sharpened steel over flimsy words.”
“No, Brack.” Roland nudged his horse left, drawing the man to face east so that his back was to the western edge of the plateau. “My Sovereign is called Feyn. She meets with the Seventh called Jonathan. Together they plot the demise of any Dark Blood to escape slaughter on this field. Tell Saric when he hears the sky screaming he will know that Feyn has betrayed him.”
The general sat unmoving on his mount, unimpressed, by all appearances, even as his scent turned decidedly acidic.
“One nod from me, and you will be dead where you sit,” Roland said. “Or I could have one of my men give you a gentle warning and spare your life. Tell me which you prefer.”
For the first time, Brack’s eyes narrowed. Roland turned his horse back to the pole and gave a short whistle.
The single arrow came from the east where Morinda, second only to Michael among all the archers, had been waiting over the lip of the cliff, head and bow hidden below a tuft of grass. The missile sped silently through the air, faster than any untrained eye could follow. Before the general could move, the projectile hissed by, a bare inch from his right ear, and embedded itself in the ground as though it had been there all along.
Brack did not flinch. He could not, however, mask the surge of concern betrayed by his scent. They both knew that unlike Dark Bloods, master archers were trained from childhood. They could not be bred in a laboratory or created with only a few years’ practice-or else Saric would have his own. Now they had seen the true threat of Mortal archers.
“Consider that your warning,” Roland said. “Stay and die. Leave and live.”
He turned his horse north and galloped toward his line without looking back.
Saric heard the soft whoosh of the arrow before he saw the shaft cut across the plateau, narrowly missing his man. A glance in the direction of the cliffs failed to reveal the source of it. They had known that archers would be a challenge but had not known to expect such accuracy.
But in truth, it was the audacity of the direct challenge that bothered him more than anything.
“Hold!” he said.
His line held without the slightest twitch. Brack might have been caught unaware by the first shot, but now that he knew the direction of the archer, he would have no trouble avoiding a second.
But a second one did not come. And then Roland was retreating at full speed and Brack was returning at a trot. So then the shot had been a warning? What did they even hope to accomplish? Surely no show of individual bravado could be expected to shake his army.
“Well?” he snapped, as Brack pulled up.
The general hesitated only a moment. “He says to ask you how so many generations of Nomads could produce only a thousand children,” the general said.
The question had already been asked and answered. The Nomads lost most of their numbers to attrition, leaving only the most dedicated to carry on their hard life. Now Roland wanted them to think they had many more. A pathetic ploy.
“And?”
“He said you would know your end when the sky begins to scream. He claims that Feyn has led you into a trap. The rest is utter nonsense.”
The image of Feyn cut through his mind at mention of her name and in that instant he considered the logic of such reasoning. In one fell swoop she could rid herself of all threats to her rule by pitting Mortals against Dark Bloods.
What if it were true?
His eyes flashed across the plateau, searching for any sign that there were more than the seven hundred they’d come expecting.
Nothing. The Nomadic Prince had vanished from sight over a slight rise. How many had hidden there beyond their line of sight?
His scouts had reported only seven hundred.
“Tell me the rest,” he said.
“My Lord-”
“Speak!”
The man dipped his head quickly. “He offers to spare the army if you surrender yourself.”
