Metal and Flesh (The Rohvim, Book 1)

Prologue

   

  

HE LOOKED DOWN AT the hand at the end of the arm connected to his body-a hand that had healed hundreds of the sick and maimed, a hand whose still youthful pink skin now trembled slightly as he held the knife up to a fingertip. A thought entered his mind, unbidden:

   I wonder if it will hurt?

   He pressed the blade into the skin as he methodically removed the final inch of flesh that covered the shining metal bone underneath.

   Curious. There is pain. But I don't care.

   As the first finger oozed blood, he proceeded to repeat the process on the remaining nine fingers. Finished, he then held all ten fingertips over the nearby torch, scorching the flesh until it sealed shut and bled no more. The metal protruding out from his finger stumps was rounded at the tips, and so he picked up a metal file on the table next to him and set to work grinding them down to sharp points. Great splatters of rain soon washed the hand clean as he held it up and nodded his approval. The grizzly work now complete, he looked out over the edge of the second floor portico.

   Lightning surged across the sky-a storm rising up out of the great western ocean lashed the low foothills of the distant coast. Here, further inland, the storm intensified until by the time it raged overhead, the man could hardly hear his attendants over the howling wind as he looked out over his masterpiece. There was little to hear, really. The hooded man stood near the edge of the second floor portico of a large stone building, looking out over the drab plain before shifting his gaze back to his fingers. He motioned to an attendant-a middle aged woman with an expressionless face.

   "Stand there."

   He indicated a spot near the wall. She trudged to where he pointed, and he stood near the opposite wall some twenty feet away. He aimed his now steel-clawed hand at her, and shafts of blinding white energy leapt out like lightning from the sharpened tips, instantly striking the woman who crumpled without a noise into a smoking, bleeding corpse.

   A thought echoed through the man's mind: A wonderful innovation, I should have done it earlier. He looked out again over the dark plain, dotted with hundreds of shacks caked with mud from the driving rain. Lightning flashed overhead once more, illuminating the scene before him-an army of thousands stood at attention-men and women, all equipped with swords, armor, and slight provisions. The raging storm overhead belied the mood of the huge crowd. They stared ahead dispassionately, unblinking, displaying no reaction to the deluge pouring onto them. They neither spoke, nor looked at their neighbors, but stood before the man, patiently (if one could call it that) awaiting his word with faces like stone.

   How long have I labored? How many trials passed? Enemies secretly subdued? How long and deeply have I planned? And now, it begins.

   His gaze focused on a tall man at the head of the army-his lieutenant and most trusted champion, who, unlike the others surrounding him, grinned slightly and squinted his eyes against the driving rain. On the portico, an attendant approached the hooded figure from behind and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and lifted one hand into the air. There was no fiery speech. No passionate plea for bravery and valor. None was needed. The man simply raised his voice and shouted, "Begin!" Without so much as a murmur, the vast army turned to the south and started running.

   The world will change.