Page 68 of Unlikely Omega

“Mount up!” The Commander comes out of a tent, already in full leather and steel armor, his breastplate gleaming in the early morning light, his helmet held under one arm. His greaves are polished to a shine, and his leather skirt flaps over his muscular thighs. “On your horses. We’re leaving.”

The men following him hurry to lead their horses out of the camp, and they take their places on either side of us. There are four riders, including him, and the coachman.

Five men guarding us. And a cage on wheels. A new lock on the door.

The odds of escape are diminishing.

Oh sure, they seem as bad as they were the first time we broke out of the cage. But this time the Commander will keep an eye on us, and he’s invested in taking us to the Summer Capital, so he can return to the army and be rid of us once and for all.

We ride a good distance over the morning. The shaking of the cart lulls me to sleep and at some point I find my head on Finnen’s shoulder and his arm around me, preventing me from falling and banging my face on the bars.

I like it, I like his arm around me, the scent of him seeping through the rough cloth, and pretend to stay asleep even as I slit my eyes open to catch glimpses of the road and the countryside.

The sky above us begins to darken as the day wears on, proving that Finnen’s sense of smell is supernatural. The clouds roll down from the mountains, jostling overhead, and more spring from the high passes, crowning the peaks and filling in the gorges.

The storm seems to be on its way.

We pass the village Finnen spoke of, the men munching on jerky and drinking water from their flasks. The Commander rides at the front, ignoring us. His profile, when I happen to catch a glimpse of it, is hard and unyielding.

By late afternoon, the day has turned to night, the clouds hanging low over us and distant rumbling sounding from the mountains.

Darkness is good for escaping.

Also good for falling and breaking your neck, a voice warns in the back of my mind. And that’s if you manage to escape.

Well, one worry at a time, right?

“Commander? We should make camp!” one of the guards calls out. “Find shelter before the storm hits.”

“It won’t hit yet,” the Commander says. “There’s a place about a mile away.”

“Yes, sir.”

But the Commander slows down and the rest of the riders follow suit. “Ah, fuck. Drakoryas.”

“Commander!” one of them calls out. “He’s heading this way.”

“Stand your ground,” the Commander says. “We don’t know if he’s in a frenzy. Maybe he just got lost in the dark.”

“A Drakoryas, sir? I doubt it. They never get lost.”

“They’re just men, soldier.” The Commander pulls on the reins, his horse dancing on the spot. “All men can get lost sometimes.”

“What is that?” I whisper, reluctantly pulling away from Finnen, looking around but seeing only darkness. “What’s a Drakoryas?”

“Berserker soldiers,” Finnen mutters. “Dragon-kin, they call themselves.”

“Who are they? What are they?”

“They live like animals on the land, in caves and groves, called upon by the Emperor in times of need. Wild men without taboos or ethics.”

“How are they expected to obey, then?”

“The Empire sends out recruiters to check on them, number them, tell them about the glory of the Empire. Making sure they will come along when called to fall on a spear for the good of the people. In return, they are told, they will receive a place back in society. All lies. Problem is, I doubt any among them retain any shred of sanity and humanity. They will be captured and unleashed on the enemy, as any wild animal would be. They won’t obey, only follow their instinct.”

“So are they men or animals?”

Finnen shrugs.

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