“They call themselves that because they feel they are the only people. The rest of us are lesser mortals,” Lamar said.
“The People have ranks,” Stoyan said. “They start as apprentices, then become journeymen, then finally they get to be Masters of the Dead. The best one hundred Masters make up the Golden Legion. The Legion is led by the Legatus, the prick we’re riding to meet. Each Master of the Dead in the Legion can pilot more than one vampire. A Master of the Dead can wipe out a US Army platoon with one undead.”
“Depending on how big the platoon is,” Lamar said. “Regulation size for a platoon is between sixteen and forty soldiers. Forty would be pushing it for one bloodsucker. The Legion would need at least two, maybe three if the platoon is well trained.”
“The point is,” Bale said, “when we meet the Legatus, you’ll be deaf and dumb, Sam, you get me? If I hear one squeak out of you, you’ll wish you were back on the ranch getting strung up by that sheriff your daddy is so afraid of.”
“How will I know if he’s the Legatus?” Sam asked.
Hugh thought about turning around and knocking him off his horse to shut him up, but it would take too much effort.
“Because he’ll look like the rest of the People,” Stoyan said. “Like a dickhead in an investment banker’s suit.”
“That’s redundant,” Lamar pointed out.
“Who’s Roland?” Sam asked.
“Someone you need to steer clear of,” Stoyan said.
“An immortal wizard with a megalomaniac complex who wants to rule the world,” Lamar said.
“Why does he want us dead?” Sam asked.
“All you need to know is that he does,” Bale growled. “Now shut the fuck up, or I’ll count your teeth with my fist and then you’ll be busy picking them up out of the dirt.”
The path turned. Ahead, on the left, a Viking mead hall stood on the corner. Built with thick timber, with a roof of wooden shingles, the mead hall resembled an upside-down longboat. A sign on the side proclaimed, “Welcome to Valhalla.”
On the side, a low deck offered several wooden tables, flanked by short benches. Landon Nez sat at the corner table, in plain view of the street.
There you are.
Nez hadn’t changed in the past few months. Still lean, like he was twisted together from steel wire. Same sharp eyes. His dark hair fell loose around his face. He wore a tailored charcoal suit. Good fabric, no padding on the shoulders, fitted through the waist, the English cut. About three grand, Hugh decided.
The Legatus of the Golden Legion. The most powerful Master of the Dead Roland could find besides himself or his daughter.
Nez nodded to him. Hugh nodded back. They’d been trying to kill each other for most of the last decade. The urge to borrow Stoyan’s sword and ride Landon down was almost too much.
“Is he Native?” Sam asked quietly.
“Navajo,” Stoyan said under his breath. “They kicked him out for piloting vampires.”
Hugh altered course, aiming for Landon. Bucky obliged.
“Join me?” Nez raised a cup of coffee.
“Why not?” Hugh swung from his saddle, tossed the reins on the hook in the rail, walked up the two short steps, and landed on a bench opposite Nez.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stoyan and the rest of his people turn and park themselves across the street at a breakfast taco hole-in-the-wall.
“Coffee?” Nez asked.
“Nah. Trying to quit.”
“What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”
“Have I told you you’re lousy at sounding folksy?”
Folksy didn’t come naturally to Nez, and he did it in a trained bear fashion, like a circus animal forced to perform against his will. If you decided to go that route, you had to mean it and sound genuine. Landon Nez had walked out of the Navajo Nation with nothing and climbed his way to a Harvard Ph.D. and the top of the People’s food chain. The man would stab himself in the eye rather than be confused with common rabble.
Nez raised his eyebrows.
“It’s just us.” Hugh hit him with a broad grin. “Just go ahead and be the snobby prick you are.”
“Why are you here, d’Ambray?”
“Came to see a man about a horse.”
Nez glanced at Bucky. “Your horses do seem to be getting bigger and bigger. But white? Don’t you think it’s a bit on the nose?”
“Felt like it was time for a change. How’s life been treating you?”
Nez gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Same as always. Research. Management. Undeath is a demanding mistress.”
It would only take a second. Reach across, snap his neck. End all his earthly burdens.
Hugh wouldn’t make it. Nez would never come here unprotected.
“What about you?” Landon asked. “Planning new campaigns?”
Here it was, probing for weaknesses. “Settling down,” Hugh said.
“You?”
“There is a time and place for everything.” Hugh leaned back. “I’ve got a nice place picked out. Good supply, good defenses. Trees.”
“Trees?” Nez blinked.
Hugh nodded. “Eventually a man’s got to put down roots. Looking forward to sitting on my porch, drinking a cold beer.”
Nez stared at him a second too long. Got you.
The Legatus drank his coffee. “Have you heard any odd news from the North?”
Odd. “There is always odd news from the North.”
A shadow of alarm flickered through Nez’s eyes. The Legatus grimaced and nodded. “That’s the truth.”
They stared at each other in silence.
“Do you miss him?” Nez asked quietly.
The void yawned in his face. Missed? The memories alone tore Hugh apart. The clarity of purpose, the warm glow of approval, the flow of magic between them... The certainty.
“There’s more to life than being a dog on a leash.” Hugh rose. “Got to leave you now. Places to be, people to kill.”
“Always a pleasure, Preceptor.”
Hugh grabbed the reins, hopped over the wooden rail, mounted his horse, and started down the street. A few moments later his people caught up with him. They rode in silence for another ten minutes.
“How did it go?” Lamar asked.
“He’ll attack us the first chance he gets,” Hugh said. “He would’ve done it already, but something in the North has him worried. He’s a careful asshole, who likes to know every card his opponent is holding. I put a doubt in his head. Right now, he isn’t sure if we have a permanent position or not, so he figures we can wait. We’re easy to find and we’re not going anywhere.”
He would have to tell Felix to send some scouts north when they got back, to look for anything strange that would give Nez pause.
The headache was returning, threatening to split his skull. A reminder of too many weeks spent drinking. Hugh gritted his teeth. “Find me a base, Lamar. Someone somewhere needs something protected or something killed.”
“It all depends on the price we’d be willing to pay,” Lamar said.
“I don’t care about the price. Do whatever you have to do. We secure a base, or the Legion slaughters us like pigs come winter.”
The mutter came from the center of the column. “I’m fucking done running.”
Hugh stopped and turned.
“Century, halt!” Lamar roared.
Beside Hugh the long column of the Iron Dogs came to a stop, huffing and puffing, eighty soldiers arranged in two lines. When he’d arrived to Split Rock, where Felix had pulled together the remaining Iron Dogs, he found three hundred and thirty-three people who used to be soldiers. They were ragged, tired, hungry, and their morale was shit.