Warlord by Tasha Temple Read Free Book Online

mixture of surprise and fury darkening his expression.
    He knew what drawing a sword meant and in the next half-second leaped toward the bench, intent on seizing Sara. But her mind was running on automatic and she sensed somehow that was what he would do. As he leapt, so did she, except for the back of the tent, the sword raised above her head, stabbing the razor-sharp blade through the thick skins and placing all of her weight on the sword as it slid down, slitting the hides open cleanly. Without looking back, she darted through, running through a conglomeration of smaller tents, barefoot over the hard, snowy ground. Arystan clearly had the largest dwelling in the encampment. It was dark and she heard snatches of indistinct conversations, both inside and outside of the tents as she ran, but no one tried to stop her.
    She made it to the edge of the camp, pulled herself onto the back of a large, black horse and hit it hard on the flank with the broad side of the small sword, kicking it with her heels as she did so. It whinnied and reared and she barely hung on to its mane, but then it jumped from a cold start into a fast gallop. Sara took one last look behind her, her hair streaming over her back, and saw Arystan silhouetted against the split in the tent, watching her flee, not chasing her. Then his image seemed to ripple and she twisted forward again, panic rising in her throat as the dark landscape shimmered and dissolved and she blacked out.

    * * * * *
The mists watched Sara ride off on the dark horse, enthralled. If they could pant, they would have been doing so now, tongues lolling out of ephemeral mouths. They watched the vapor curl up in the corners of the dream and the landscape fold in on itself, sucking the mortal back into the chamber. This mortal was different. She seemed to have no idea what she would face in each pool, and when confronted by her fear and desire, seemed hardly to recognize it. In fact, it seemed as if this mortal hardly knew her own life.
    But the setting had been exciting to watch – better than most. True, there had been a bit of grumbling among the other mists when the woman escaped, just as the scene had been getting good. At least with the desire scenarios, they frequently were able to watch the mortals fuck each other. And what fucking it usually was, being the product of the greatest desire of one, or sometimes both, mortals involved in the scene. Of course, once they physically engaged, no one, absolutely no one, ever stopped, and so they all died rather quickly, albeit painfully. It was not known whether the mortals experienced climax before they died. It might have softened the blow of death.
    This mist had been certain when the woman had climaxed that she had succumbed and was the walking dead. But when the setting continued, the mist was forced to concede that the initial release with the man must not have been her greatest desire. It could feel the mutual surprise emanating from the other mists as well. It had never watched someone climax before actual penetration. What a scenario this had been.
    Ah well, it didn’t matter now. They had one. A living, breathing mortal who had passed through both pools. And if she could just make it out of the chamber, she would be theirs. Of course, it was another matter entirely to escape the chamber. That required a bit more . . . physical talent. It was forbidden to interfere. They would watch and be patient, even if it meant waiting two hundred years for another.

CHAPTER 6 The River of Blood
    “They have arrived, my lord. They set up camp in the valley, next to the river.” The man’s hands were on his knees, breath misting from his panting form in the chill, autumn air.
    Arystan eyed the soldier from the low bench where he sat. He set his cup slowly down on the wooden table, steam rising from it. “How many strong?”
    “Eighteen thousand, my lord. Six thousand on horseback.”
    Arystan’s brought his hand to his chin, rubbing it