Page 70 of Unlikely Omega

I grew up with zero interest in sex and now I seem to get wet and aroused from a mere change in the wind.

That’s when something else moves in the shadows, close to the Commander. A slide of darkness, a shift of gray shades against the black shape of the hill.

“I can hear something,” Finnen mutters, leaning forward, “Ari—”

“Commander,” I yell, “watch out!”

He whirls about, reaching for his sword, shoves sideways into the blur that leaps on him, then turns and follows through with an uppercut, using his open hand as a blade.

Moves worthy of a ritual for the gods.

The blur coalesces into the shape of a man, and pale flashes might be his skin, his hands, his face. He falls on the Commander, tearing at him, and there’s a shout and a ripping sound.

The Commander finally manages to pull out his blade—and it’s all snatches of images, bathed in the brief white flashes of lightning in the storm that’s creeping closer.

He raises the long blade and brings it down.

The world sinks back into darkness before I can see if he hit or missed.

“He flashed with colors,” Finnen whispers next to me, some sort of awe in his low voice. “What is he…?”

“The Commander?”

“The Berserker. The Commander only flashes gold.”

“Gold?” I turn to him, trying to see his face, but it’s no use.

“Commander! Commander Krath, are you all right?” The guards are returning and this time the lightning strikes so close I flinch. It’s a branching light, like a tree, covering the entire sky, and the deafening boom follows close on its heels, shaking me.

But what shakes me more is the sight of the Commander swinging his sword wildly in a circle, his breastplate hanging off one shoulder, his shirt torn and hanging off him in shreds. Dark streaks of what has to be blood mark his neck and arms.

And as he turns, I see patterns on his back, through his shredded shirt. Diamond patterns that gleam and shimmer.

I open my mouth to say something, but Finnen claps a hand over my mouth. “Commander, your back is exposed!” he shouts. “Commander, cover yourself up right now!”

What is this about? What’s so special about his back?

The Commander recoils, glancing our way, then backs away as his men approach, lifting a hand. “I’m fine. The Drakoryas was here. But I’m good.”

“Commander, are you sure?” The men hesitate, glancing around. “Bad place for a camp, then, Commander? Should we move?”

“There’s nowhere to go. The storm is upon us. Get inside the hut and start the fire. I’ll come in a moment.”

“Won’t you let us out to relieve ourselves?” I gaze at him through the bars. “You’re not a cruel man, Commander. Surely you will let us stretch our legs at least, have some water, sleep under a roof?”

“Commander—” one of the guards starts.

“You’re not a beast like that berserker,” I say. “Where would we go, out in the wilderness, with a storm coming and that creature out there? Let us out of the cage. You want to deliver us alive, not present the Temple at the Summer Capital with two frozen-stiff corpses.”

“But the Drakoryas,” the guard starts again.

“Give me the key to the lock and go tend to the horses,” the Commander says.

“But—”

“Now!” He grabs the key from the man and comes forward. The lock jingles, then clacks as it opens. The door whines when he pulls on it. “Come on out.”

“Why, how kind of you, Commander,” Finnen mutters snidely and slides out of the cage.

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