“More are coming,” Varus said. “Reserves.”
Dust a mile south.
“They intend to enter the canyons knowing we’ll be eager to pursue,” Saric said.
“And so we hold here.”
“No. They’ll advance slowly in order to draw us in. And so we will take the battle to them in the valley, but hold by the ruins and wear them thin. Patience will win this war. Give the signal. We descend in full pursuit.”
Varus hesitated only a moment, then spun and issued the command. A horn blast and Dark Bloods from across the plateau broke into a fast run for their position as Varus issued a string of commands that quickly translated to the flags. And then he turned the army south at a fast jog as those behind fell in line. Like a black river, his vast army spilled over the hill and angled toward the valley.
Overhead, clouds had cut off the sun. Saric scanned the heavens, momentarily struck by the movement in the sky, like ghosts rushing to meet an unheard call. A storm was gathering with astonishing speed, hastened by a strengthening wind. The Mortals’ archers would be compromised. Rain would slow their horses.
The sudden turn was a good omen.
Dust rose to the south, trailing a visible gathering of horses racing to reach the valley’s wide mouth before his Dark Bloods could block their entrance. If the Mortals could be divided, half of his children could engage those caught outside the valley while the rest of his forces fought the Nomads inside. The Nomad prince would be far less likely to flee into the canyons while some of their own remained outside.
“Varus, take a division at full sprint!” He rose in his stirrups, as he plunged down the hill. Thrust his arm forward. “Cut them off!”
Varus roared the order to one of the division commanders. His men rapidly broke ahead of the main body. Like a cluster of black hornets, they swarmed down the hill and cut east, passing through the river as if it were made of fog. They were moving at only half the speed of the mounted Nomads but then, they had only half the distance to cover.
Ahead of them, Roland glanced back at the pursing Dark Bloods, motioning frantically at the approaching Mortals to speed.
It would be close.
The arrows came from the riders then, fired into his sprinting division. Not in massive waves as in the Nomad’s first attacks on the plateau, and not with the same accuracy in the face of the wind. Several of his men went down, forcing those behind to leap over their bodies. But the swarming horde did not falter or slow.
“Varus! The rest! Full sprint!”
Barked orders. The flags went up. The rest of his army tripled its pace and flooded the low ground.
Saric gave his horse its head as the two armies angled for the valley’s mouth at breakneck speed, each vying for first position. His blood ran cold as anticipation flooded his veins.
His Dark Bloods were going to reach the valley first.
And they did, surging across the mouth of the valley in a long thick line. The Mortal riders thundered forward then veered east as more of his army swarmed in behind the ranks already in position.
Saric’s mount leapt into the river, splashed through the water and tore up the far bank, barely breaking pace. He pulled north along the river, digging his heels into the flanks of his mount. A small hill rose a hundred paces ahead.
“To the hill!”
Varus and five hundred of his children shifted and angled for the rise.
Saric pulled the steed to a sharp halt at the mound’s crest and wheeled it around to give him full view of the valley.
What he saw below filled him with dark satisfaction.
Triphon, the slain Mortal, hung from his pole alone before the temple ruins, head sagging in death, portending the fate of all who’d once celebrated so-called life with him. Roland stood in his saddle a hundred strides north of the dead Mortal, joined by two hundred of his fighters, eyes fixed on the battle erupting at the valley mouth beyond.
Saric had divided the Nomad’s forces.
He’d been correct: the prince would not retreat into the canyons before the rest of his warriors fought their way through the Dark Bloods to join him.
Beyond the ruins a steep cliff cut off any hope of escape to the east. The hills behind him rose to more cliffs, blocking any ascent to the west. There were only two ways out of the valley: past his army now positioned at the mouth, or into the canyons at the far end.
For the first time, the battle had taken a decided turn in Saric’s favor. The din of combat grew as riders braved his front lines in a desperate attempt to pass to safety. Steel clashed against steel; hooves pounded the earth. Cries and shouts of warning…
Groans of death.
In his ears the sound was nothing less than a siren song, beckoning all to follow a new master: Saric, who would usher in new life and protect it with an iron fist.
“Half, in deeper after the prince!” he cried.
Varus gave the order and his page issued the signal. Two flags lowered toward the Mortals in the valley.
Three thousand Dark Bloods turned, took up rank, and began marching toward Roland’s two hundred Nomads, just now surging forward to attack. They clashed just north of the ruins, this time in closer quarters than on the plateau above.
Now the battle was fought on two distinct fronts: one at the mouth of the valley, one in the valley itself. Had the Mortals been less determined, they would have the sense to cut off their assault and flee. But Saric knew running wasn’t in Roland’s blood.
Beyond the ruins, a Mortal rider raced behind the main battle, arms waving frantically, yelling retreat. It took only a moment for Saric to recognize the man as Rom Sebastian.
Two leaders with two minds. One cried retreat, the other attack.
Now Saric knew: only time stood between himself and full victory. The battle was his. If his army didn’t annihilate the entire Mortal force, there would only be enough left to run and tell the tale later.
Feyn would die for her betrayal.
There would be no army left to usher Jonathan in as Sovereign.
Saric would rule without challenge.
Rom tore down the line behind the Mortals fighting in the valley, heart hammering with panic. Roland’s plan was unraveling. By the minute more Nomads desperate to break through the heavy Dark Blood ranks took spears in their chests and fell. He couldn’t see the extent of what was unfolding on the far side, but he imagined the casualty rate was no less.
And yet to a man, the fighters followed Roland’s lead, determined to prove the Nomad’s cry for victory.
Triphon’s bloodied body hung from the pole in the wide swath of bare ground between the two battlefronts. His friend had paid for Rom’s failure with his life. Now the rest of them would follow that death and leave Jonathan with no hope.
“Michael!” he screamed. “It’s too much!”
She ducked to avoid a hurled spear and veered toward the Dark Blood who’d hurled it. If she’d heard Rom, she gave no sign of it.
He spun his head to the left. “Roland!”
The cry fell on deaf ears.
They had begun the day with seven hundred Mortals, primed to change the world. They’d lost nearly a third on the plateau. Here in the valley, they might lose far more… Surely Roland could accept defeat to fight another day!
But no. The Nomads had lost their minds to their own need for supremacy.
Just beyond the reach of the Dark Bloods, Roland paced, daring them to approach. Mind welling with rage, Rom spurred his horse into a tear straight toward Roland.
He would run the man down if he had to.
He had made it halfway to the Nomad Prince when the lone cry-unmistakable to Mortal ears-reached him. He glanced back, to the west.
