The Immortal Chronicles | | b o o k 2

1. preferably alive

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IMMORTAL CHRONICLES : BOOK ONE : beck dedrick

. . .

If there was such a thing as a man perfectly at ease with his life, Beck Dedrick considered himself as such. He couldn't have asked for anything more in life—always having a woman to warm his bed at night, the rough life of a comrade in war, and the perfect job. Gods, did he love his job.

The carnage was something Beck favored most—to step out onto the battle field after the enemies were plucked off one by one, and see the grass soaked through to the dirt, slick with blood, so much blood. If it wasn't so socially unacceptable, he'd bathe in it. He would, truly.

As of right now, though, he was content with observing the post-bloodbath with the curve of a smile on his lips. It was the type of smile that men shuddered at and women swooned over. He took a deep breath in, and the air smelled pungent and raw, and unmistakably gruesome.

The men were poking and prodding around the dead, scourging for any enemy survivors. Those were the ones Beck loved—the ones who could fake being a corpse for as long as possible, hold their breaths when someone passed, don a blurry, cloudy expression in their eyes. It rarely ever worked, but he enjoyed to see them try. And when they caught them, he couldn't help but-

"Found one, sir!"

Oh goodie, Beck mused in a drawling purr. "Bring 'im here!"

They were over the forest hill, just their heads visible until they mounted it and came over the other side, stepping around a fallen horse splayed bloody and broken where an arrow pierced it's chest. The North Rat was struggling and tripping all over himself while Beck's man tugged him over the field, straight to where Beck stood, flanked on his right by his steed—a heavy-weight destrier by the loyal name of Eton.

The Rat fell when he attempted to run, but Beck's man threw him down at his feet. He landed face-first, and it was at that moment Beck caught sight of the man's armor—soaked through on his right rib where an arrow must have nicked him. The man should have known better than to dislodge an arrow from flesh.

Beck stepped away from his horse to stand a mere step away from the Rat. He had the Northern symbol etched onto the sleeve of his under armor, which was torn away at his shoulder. There was a heavy slice there, but Beck dismissed this detail as he pressed the heel of his riding boot against it.

The man screeched in pain, and when he attempted to pull himself up, Beck dug his boot further into the cut and forced him back to the ground. "State your name," he demanded, his voice maintaining it's cool exterior that always seemed to seep into the skin of those he spoke it. It settled there and seized their chests in cold ice.

It took a moment for the Rat to gather his bearings—just barely, though. "Richard, sir, of-of Arion."

If Beck had the ability to genuinely smile, he would have. He turned his eyes up to his soldier, who had his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on Beck. "Well, isn't this a gift from the heavens," Beck cheered sarcastically, removing his boot from the Rat's shoulder. "The general will be pleased to hear this—I'll put in a good word for you, hm?"

"That's kind of you to say, sir," the soldier said, expression stoic and stance just as brittle as all the others around Beck. Always on edge.

Beck's smirk only increased, his eyes alight as he reached down, and flipped the man—Richard—onto his back. He groaned in agony, and seemed to care little, now that he was under Beck's custody. Beck seized the man by the straps of his armor and heaved him up in one swift movement. The Rat landed unsteady on his feet, and stumbled forward when he was shoved between the shoulder blades by Beck's gloved hand.