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PROLOGUE

The air was thick with dust and screams, flashing blades and blood. So much blood had already been spilled that in places the Disputed Lands had turned to red mud.

Kal-El had long since abandoned his shield and was now holding a sword in each hand, the weapons almost too heavy for the average man to lift with one hand, let alone wield.

He was of average height, though well-muscled. His tanned skin was flawless, completely lacking the battle scars and tattoos of his fellow soldiers. He kept his dark hair cut short, though single curled sweat-drenched hair hung loosely over his forehead.

Kal-El was the greatest warrior the Dothraki empire had ever seen, and today's battle was only serving to strengthen his reputation.

A desperate sellsword lunged at Kal-El with his spear, but Kal-El was faster; he was always faster. The blade in his left hand severed the spear's shaft, the tip of his right blade passed through the sellsword's neck.

Before the spearman's headless body collapsed to the ground, Kal-El sent another sellsword to whatever god they prayed to by slicing him cleanly in half at the waist. The four swordsmen left out of the half dozen that had first surrounded him, rushed with their shields raised, their weapons flailing. Kal-El charged at the closest man, ducked under his swinging sword, and crashed into the man's shield with such force that the sellswords feet left the ground.

It was a moment's work to cut the other three down. He sliced at the knees of the first, cut through the torso of the second, and cleaved off the head of the third.

Kal-El's hands and arms were covered in his enemies' blood. He dropped both swords and took a moment to flex his fists—the knuckles cracking loud enough to be heard over the roar of the battle—and wipe his hands on the tunic of a dead man.

There was a cut on the upper right arm of his tunic, a clean slice through the fabric. He didn't recall receiving it and didn't care. His skin was like armor. Not even Valyrian steel could hurt him.

From the east came a low rumbling. Kal-El didn't waste time looking to see what had caused the sound—it was all too familiar. He snatched up two of the dead sellsword's bodies and ducked down behind them.

Moments later the sky darkened. Like rain, ten thousand arrows fell on the battlefield.

Protected behind the flesh of his enemies', Kal-El grinned. Only a truly foolish or desperate leader would order his archers to take such action at this stage in the battle.

As the last of the arrows thudded into his shields, Kal-El dropped the bodies and began to run. For as far as a human eye could see, the bodies of the dead and dying littered the sand. The air was laced with the metallic tang of blood, and filled with screams and cries and panic-filled prayers.

He jumped over bodies, skirted around dead and dying War Elephants, and—without slowing—slaughtered every member of the Golden Company in his path, regardless of whether the man was fit enough to hold a weapon.

Kal-El knew that someone to the Golden Company Commander was watching. And he was sure that Homeless Harry Strickland was praying that Kal-El would be struck down before he got too close.

Another rumble, another barrage of arrows was loosed.

Kal-El took shelter behind the corpse of a half-dead elephant, tucking himself against its bronze armor-plating. The stench of the animal was almost strong enough to block out the smell of blood, and the ground shook from its desperate pain-filled roars.

Then the arrows fell, and the elephant shuddered, bellowed one last time, and was still.

Harry Strickland would be already planning the Golden Company's retreat, Kal-El knew. The coward would disappear across the Disputed Lands and hide behind the walls of a Free City.

In terms of numbers, the Golden Company had already won. They were remarkable warriors, highly trained and well-equipped. Kal-El's khalasar had excellent fighters, but they had been greatly outnumbered and lacked the discipline to fight against superior numbers.

Kal-El didn't know for certain how many of his men had fallen, but he strongly suspected that by now almost all one thousand of them had walked the short agonizing path to the afterlife.

But whatever Gods ruled the afterlife—if they existed at all—would have to wait a long time before they greeted Kal-El at their gates. He would not die this day.

And the Golden Company would not survive to fight another day, not under Harry Strickland's command.

Kal-El broke covered and raced to the enemy's encampment. A frenzied cry rose over their ranks, and their archers began to shoot at will, no longer waiting for orders.

Again, this was a good sign. An arrow whipped toward his face. Kal-El smiled, and still running picked it out of the air with ease.

Less than a minute later he was too close to the Golden Company's pikemen for their archers to fire.

A dozen or more pikemen rushed at him at once. Kal-El ran, tensed his muscles, and dove over their heads. He spun and twisted in the air, lashing out with his fists, crushing the heads of four pikemen before he touched the ground.

The Golden Company came at him with swords, and he attacked them with a speed and fury they could have never imagined.

Now desperate and mindless of their own men, the archers unleashed another thick cloud of arrows, and Kal-El dodged or shattered everyone. They launched spears and tridents and nets. He moved so fast that nothing could touch him.

An enormous, enraged, armored elephant was set loose. Kal-El stood his ground, waiting until the beast was almost on him, then dodged to his right. His fist slammed into its armor-plated headgear and the elephant crashed roaring to the ground.

Kal-El vaulted onto the beast's back and jerked the shortsword from its half-crushed rider. The sellswords of the Golden Company—with their "word as good as gold"—launched themselves at him with swords and spears. Kal-El knew that they were almost broken. They were tired, terrified, and weak. He could have disarmed them without issuing a single fatal wound.

Still, Kal-El killed them all.

Then a loud voice bellowed, "Enough!"

Kal-El stopped. His breathing even now, his body drenched in sweat and spattered with blood.

The voice boomed out once more. "We yield, Dothraki! Enough!"

Kal-El turned in a slow circle. There was so much destruction and death around him that the Disputed Lands looked like a dense field of scarlet flowers.

The remaining sellswords encircled him, their weapons at the ready. They were out of reach of his swords, four or five men deep.

Kal-El knew they would not attack. If they did, they would die. He knew it, and more importantly, they knew it.

Then a parting appeared in the crowd, and a portly man, with a big round head, grey eyes, and thinning grey hair brushed sideways to cover up a bald spot strode through.

"I am Harry Strickland, captain-general of the Golden Company—"

"Kneel," Kal-El said, his teeth bared. "Kneel before the might of this khalasar."

With only a moment of hesitation, the leader of the Golden Company dropped to his knees and lowered his head. Then Kal-El looked around at the company's men.

"Drop your weapons."

The sound of spears and swords hitting the ground was almost deafening. Kal-El pointed to one man at random, an archer.

"You. Water. Now."

The archer stumbled backward into his colleagues, then pushed through them and ran.

"Raise your right hand, sellsword," Kal-El said to Strickland. "Spread your fingers."

Trembling, the leader of the Golden Company did as he was told. Kal-El's stolen sword flashed, and Strickland's right thumb fell to the ground. The man screamed and doubled over, cradling his wounded hand to his chest. A red stain appeared on his tunic and grew rapidly.

The archer pushed his way through his fellow sellswords, carrying a skin of water. He slowed almost to a crawl as he approached Kal-El.

Kal-El snatched the skin from his hands and pulled the stopper from the skin. He grabbed Strickland's jaw and held it open. "You will drink first so that I know it is not poisoned."

He poured the water down Strickland's throat. After watching for a moment, he nodded satisfied and pushed the coughing sellsword away. He took a long drink from the skin, thin streams of water spilling from the corners of his mouth.

"You are mine," Kal-El said, when the water skin was dry. "All of you. Every sword in the Golden Company now belongs to my khalasar. You will move through the battlefield. Scavenge the dead for weapons and supplies. Any man too badly wounded to march, you will kill."

Half-whimpering, Strickland asked, "You...you would take us to the Dothraki Sea?"

"No. We will march on Pentos. Your Prince will be put to the sword, Pentosi vaults plundered." Kal-El leaned closer. "And you will burn their crops, kill their men and rape their women. Before the week is out, Pentos will be mine. This is the price you pay for standing against my khalasar."

Slowly, awkwardly, Strickland climbed to his feet. "This will not happen."

Kal-El grinned. "I had heard tale that you were a coward. But...you are not a coward, Strickland. You stand up to me even though you have seen me devastate your army. There are many I would call brave, but surely you are among the bravest."

He raised his sword and pressed its point against Strickland's throat.

"Or the most stupid."

"Then strike me down, Dothraki. I have lived well and served the Golden Company with unwavering loyalty, and I am ready to meet the Stranger. But before you extinguish my light, tell me your name that I might warn the Father and Warrior of your eventual coming."

"Your gods have no need to fear me, Strickland, for I cannot die," Kal-El stopped grinning and pressed his sword hard enough to draw blood. "Remember this, Strickland, wherever you go. I may lead a Dothraki khalasar, but make no mistake. I am no Dothraki."

"You...you are a god?"

"No. I am not a god. Nor am I human."