Page 44 of Unlikely Omega

“Hey!” I make a grab for the reins of my horse which have slipped out of my grasp, too, and fight to make my voice strong and steady. “What are you doing? I don’t know what you want, but be on your way. You don’t want to bother an acolyte of Holy Artume.”

They stay still, their horses stamping on the wet ground, huffing and chomping on their bits.

“And where might you be heading?” one of them finally says, “acolyte of the Holy Maiden? There’s no Temple nearby. The closest one is in the fort of Artare, up the main road.”

“I’m on a quest,” I say, scrambling for inspiration, “heading to the closest town by the river.” What was the name? “To Fragos.” When they stare at me in stony silence, I forge on. “I’m supposed to examine the silk and cotton they have on offer for the robes of the high clergy.”

The silence stretches.

Then another of the riders removes his helmet. His face is young, cheeks flushed from the cold wind, dark hair messy. His eyes, though, look cold and pale like ice. “An acolyte, on a quest?” He scoffs. “Why should we believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” I counter, gritting my teeth, but I already know the answer.

“We found a cart with an open cage,” he says. “Three guards hurt. You’re on Temple business, huh? Maybe you can tell me what happened there?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

Blood spraying. Grunts of pain. Bodies thudding to the ground.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you. You must have taken that road, coming from the Fort of Artare, though now you seem to have gone off-road, for some reason. Care to explain why?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to laymen.” I inject my voice and tone with all the disdain I’ve often heard from the high clergy. “This is Temple business, like I said.”

“Is it?” In a sudden move, the man drives his horse right forward, controlling the animal only with his knees, urging it into a dancing trot, delicate steps, and as my horse neighs and bucks, he’s right beside me.

He leans toward me, sliding his arm around me, and pulls me right out of my saddle and over to his.

That’s when I scream—as if that has ever helped—but terror grips me. Held against another strong, male body, I squirm and fight to get free, but his arm is like a steel band around my waist.

And then his scent hits me and I gasp, drawing it in deeper into my lungs—tobacco and woodsmoke, earthy and sexy.

No. No, body, not now. Good Goddess…

“Relax, little minx,” he growls in my ear. “We’re just going to take you back home, to the Temple where you belong.”

“Let me go! No!” I twist on the saddle, manage to get in a hit with my elbow, but he twists with me, a sound rumbling in his chest.

He’s laughing.

That bastard.

His arm only tightens around me, stifling my struggles, his laughter only growing louder, when one of the riders comes cantering toward us.

“Commander Krath,” he says, “there’s another one.”

“Get him,” my captor orders, his voice cracking like a whip, and I twist and turn, trying to see.

It’s Finnen.

After sending me away, now he’s back to try and save me once again. Can’t he see there are too many of them, that it’s impossible?

Wrong question. Of course he can’t see.

“Finn!” I yell. “No. There are too many of them! Go!”

If he hears me over the wind, he doesn’t show it or slow down. He comes galloping at us, his white hair escaping the topknot he’s tied it in, whipping behind him like the ribbons on the riders’ spears.

He looks scary and beautiful, like an avenging god, and he’s going to die trying to save me.

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