Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  She knew then that she could walk away and he wouldn’t begrudge her. That he had no expectation of her.

  That he would love her always.

  There was still time. She could get him out. But that wasn’t his way, and she was here to follow him, not the other way around.

  She put one foot in front of the other until she’d passed through the gate and joined him.

  Overhead, the sky flashed, a white flicker of lightning against a black sky. Too silent.

  They made it all the way to the electrical plant, just north of the Authority of Passing, before Rom’s horse collapsed under him.

  Beast and rider crashed to the earth. Rom slid over the shuddering animal’s neck and slammed into the ground in front of it, scraping hair and skin from his chin. Ahead of him, Triphon jerked his mount to a halt. The horse began to buckle, but managed to recover as Triphon slid from the saddle.

  Rom shoved himself forward and scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain that shot up his leg. He glanced desperately at the heaving sides of the stallion on the ground and then in the direction of the garbage docks, and what he knew lay beyond.

  “Take mine!” Triphon said, thrusting the reins of his horse into his hand.

  He glanced at Triphon.

  “Go! I’m coming behind you!”

  Without another word, Rom leaped up onto the back of Triphon’s mount, the flanks of which were twitching with fatigue. And then he dug his heels in and took off, willing it to live just another moment longer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE SUN WAS HIGH, bright even through a scrim of shifting clouds, when Saric led his twelve divisions into the Seyala Valley. Where the Lucrine River meets the badlands, the Mortal scout had said.

  A broad green valley lay ahead, a half mile long before it narrowed into a canyon, lush and undisturbed by traffic—equine or human—or any other signs of passage. From here, the western slope rose sharply to the barren badlands, and the Lucrine River glinted with the occasional glimpse of sun. The forest hugged the opposite rise, typical of the patchwork greenery in these parts.

  Saric lifted a hand shoulder-high, signaled the halt, and brought his stallion to a heavy-footed stop. The thudding of hooves and feet resolved into the creak of saddles and snorting horses.

  He’d donned battle leathers only as a precaution, and now regretted doing so. They’d seen no sign of Mortals, no threat of any kind—only the occasional hare scurrying for cover as his army invaded a serene landscape most had never laid eyes on.

  Brack pulled his horse alongside him. On his other flank, Varus, ranking general of all twelve divisions, studied the landscape before them.

  “You’re sure this is it?” Saric asked.

  “The Seyala Valley isn’t marked on our maps, but there’s no mistaking the location,” Varus said. “Either he made it up or he gave us the wrong location.”

  “What about our scouts?”

  “The canyon narrows to a file. Smells like a trap.”

  “Clever. Clever Mortals, who mislead with a suicide scout,” Varus said, clicking his tongue.

  “Yes.”

  “Permission to speak?” Brack said. The captain of the elite guard held his lofty position directly under Saric in part because of his attention to the detail of loyalty. His devotion wasn’t necessarily greater than any of Saric’s other children, but he was an exceptionally refined man in all respects—strange, considering his violent nature. He was testament to the full power of the incubation chambers built by Pravus and perfected by Saric. They had indeed built a perfect species.

  “Speak freely.”

  “Even if the scout misled us, we can’t know that he did it under orders. He may have given false information on his own, to protect his people.”

  Saric scanned the top of the cliffs for the dozenth time. “If you’re wrong and the scout intended to be taken—even knowing he might die—it would mean these Mortals have deep loyalties indeed.”

  “We have to assume it’s a trap,” Varus said. “And that our entire army may be exposed.”

  “How could a trap make sense?” Brack said, as if speaking to himself. “If the scout was correct, there are only seven hundred of them. Any confrontation would end in their elimination. Why go to all the trouble to dispatch a scout to lure us here under such impossible odds?”

  “If the scout was correct,” the general said.

  Clearly there was more to the Mortals than Saric yet knew.

  The only thing worse than numerous enemies… was hidden enemies.

  And feeling made a fool of.

  But he, too, could play at any game. He had every confidence that his Dark Blood taken by the Mortals had not divulged their true numbers.

  He twisted in his saddle and surveyed his divisions. They’d marched through the night and morning in three wide columns, three thousand on horseback ahead of nine thousand infantry, stretching back half a mile. Twelve thousand in all.

  Warriors, erect on horseback, swords in scabbards by armored thighs, leather helmets donned over long dreadlocks that spread over their shoulders and chests like roots clawing for passage through the thick leather of their armor. Behind them the infantry stood tall, perfectly formed, heads fixed, forward and alert.

  The first army in nearly five hundred years.

  His.

  The technology and armaments of the armies during the age of Chaos may have been far more advanced, but history had never seen warriors with more discipline, speed or strength than these.

  And because of it, his power was without peer.

  Absolute.

  “Movement.”

  He turned at Brack’s word. Two horsemen had entered the valley from the canyons beyond. They rode abreast, slowly, without any sign of anxiety.

  Varus spat off his right side. “We were drawn,” he said with obvious disgust.

  “So it seems,” Saric said. “Do you see any danger? Either of you.”

  Silence for a moment.

  “No.”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “So then, let’s go see what our clever enemy is made of, shall we?”

  Saric spurred his horse forward, ambling at the same pace of the two now approaching. Behind him, the army shuddered to life with precision. Two lines of horses broke to the flanks, marching as one so that the earth vibrated with each footfall as Saric’s captains emerged up through the corridor.

  The approaching Mortals stopped, still a hundred paces off.

  “Hold your riders back,” Saric said. “I don’t want to pursue a fleeing enemy in these parts. They’ll be prepared to ambush.”

  Almost immediately the cavalry on each side slowed their approach and settled into a cautious gait, wide but parallel with Saric.

  The two Nomads resumed their approach. They both rode stallions—bred for running long distances, according to lore. Their hair was long, braided, beaded, their clothing a blend of dark brown leathers with accents of red and metal painted or woven into the sleeves and breasts. Their boots were set in stirrups attached to light saddles.

  He’d never seen a Nomad apart from the scout they’d taken just two days ago. It made sense for Jonathan’s handlers to go after the disaffected tribespeople who’d always resisted Order, who survived without the facilities of cities. They could run and hide like jackals. They evidently could also hold their own in hand-to-hand combat and were no strangers to strategy. Because there could be no mistaking the matter: they’d lured him here with intent.

  Only when they were fifty paces off did Saric see that one of them was a woman. Haughty-chinned and steely-gazed.

  Exotic material for a concubine.

  Still no sign of additional warriors on the high ground.

  The horsemen stopped thirty paces off, steady and seemingly unconcerned. But Saric knew better than to underestimate them.

  “That’s far enough,” the man called out, voice firm.

  Who was this man who presumed to order him? Did two lone warr
iors command his path? What kind of enemy could approach such a crushing display of force and demand they move no further?

  Nomads.

  Saric’s hand went up. “Hold.”

  Immediately the columns behind him ceased marching on a single footfall. Silence filled the valley.

  It was the first time Saric had seen a Nomad Mortal outside of captivity, and for a moment he was captivated. Here was no cowering enemy, but a creature brimming with strange power. Power to equal his own. It came off the man in waves like heat. What kind of blood made a man so fearless? Even the woman stared him down with an audacity he found compelling. If what Rom had told Feyn was true, their veins ran with the natural blood of one child who’d been born without Legion to contend with. Pure, untouched by alchemy.

  A sudden, raw sensation sunk like razored talons into his heart. The moment he felt the savage emotion, he knew it for what it was.

  Jealousy.

  He immediately replaced it with another passion: rage.

  But neither would serve him. During the age of Chaos, humanity’s failure had been its inability to control such powerful sentiments. He was far more evolved.

  Indeed, he was master… and Maker.

  Even over such magnificent creatures as these two, seated on their horses, staring him down.

  They would soon see.

  Roland gazed out over Saric’s vast army, acutely aware of the nerves running on edge down his neck and arms. By his quick estimation, there were well over ten thousand of them. Far larger than they’d been led to believe.

  They smelled like a horde from hell. Even from a distance the stench was hardly bearable.

  Their formation was nearly perfect, three large blocks of three or four thousand each, one-fourth mounted, the rest on foot. Whatever discipline had gone into their training had been effective; they could hardly be more ordered or settled if they were mechanized.

  Two generals flanked the leader, half a horse length behind. Tall and thick, as certain of themselves as boulders in the face of a noon breeze. But Roland had met a few of these rocks before and he knew how quickly they could move.

  And then there was Saric in his black leather armor with its silver buckles and red piping—an exhibition of authority. Like the rest of the Dark Bloods, his skin was pale, nearly translucent beneath the intermittent sun. Even from here, Roland’s Mortal eyes could detect the dark lines of veins near the surface of Saric’s skin. The unblinking bore of his black eyes, like two coals in a sun-parched face.

  Deathly. And chillingly beautiful.

  “Are you sure, brother?” Michael breathed.

  “I am always and never sure.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Be ready to run if anything goes wrong. Through the canyons on the route I showed you. Don’t lead them to our camp. Head west and cut back—”

  “I know what to do. Be careful.”

  “Wait here.”

  He gave his mount a gentle nudge, guided it forward, and stopped fifteen paces from Saric.

  “I would speak to Saric, brother of the Sovereign,” he said, refusing him more title than that. “You have my word—I will not harm you. I have no intention of angering this machine of an army, only to speak terms.”

  Saric stared, unmoved. Not even the blink of an eye.

  “You must think it odd that two of my kind would face ten thousand of yours,” Roland said. “You ask yourself how I so easily lured your army with the word of a single man, one of my most humble warriors. And you wisely doubt that the warriors I command are only seven hundred, as he told you. Now you realize you know nothing of our true power. And so come closer and let me explain.”

  It was a long speech for Roland, but he was dealing with a man of the Order, given to such displays of power. So he let the words work their way into this pale overlord, this maker of Dark Bloods, content to know that despite appearances, he still held the upper ground. He had tricked them. He was also still beyond their reach, able to vanish into the canyons within seconds. No matter how fast the Dark Bloods themselves, their chargers could not outrun his stallion.

  But there was more here that Roland could not easily dismiss. As much as Saric must even now reevaluate all he knew about the Mortal force, Roland must do the same of him. He could smell the anger and ambition wafting from the sea of humanity, nearly as strong as the scent of death.

  But was it truly the scent of death? It wasn’t the same as the Corpses; the powerful overtones of what he might place as loyalty and affection were as thick as a low fog in the valley. Affection. Perhaps even love.

  Was it possible Saric had actually found a way to create life in as much as Jonathan had? Full life, vivid with emotion?

  There sat a powerful man upon his charger—a warrior Roland acknowledged as majestic. Who else could have orchestrated the defeat of Order and the raising of an army such as this but a singularly potent man who was born to rule?

  The desire to subdue a foe of equal strength wrestled with simple admiration within him, and it occurred to Roland then that one day he would indeed either kill this man or join him. There could be no in between.

  Still no response from Saric.

  “Come now. Do two of us frighten you so easily?”

  “Do I look like a fool to you?” Saric said at last. The man’s voice held not a shred of concern.

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then you come closer.”

  Roland considered the request, judging the likelihood of a personal attack. Saric had little to gain by killing him. It was Jonathan who threatened his power, not one or two lone warriors. In any case, he had challenged Saric, and he was now compelled to accept that same challenge. Anything less would be a show of weakness.

  He cut the distance between them in half.

  “You should not fear one who has come to give you the keys to your kingdom,” Roland said.

  A wry smile twisted Saric’s mouth. “I’m not sure you understand your position.”

  “I understand it very well. Order two of your men to kill me and you will as well.”

  No one moved. Those dark eyes studied him, devoid of emotion. The scent of him, however, was saturated with anger… and strange eagerness.

  “You seem quite confident,” Saric said.

  “I would know my enemy. Make it three men if you wish.”

  Saric dipped his head. “As you wish. Varus, humor the man.”

  The Dark Blood to Saric’s right turned and barked out an order. Without hesitation, three horses broke from the ranks behind and trotted forward.

  Roland pointed to a slight rise, twenty paces to Michael’s left. “On foot.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his horse, rode to where Michael waited, and dismounted, handing her the reins.

  “Remember, the canyon. Have my horse ready.”

  He started to walk for the rise.

  Only then did the three warriors dismount. They came for him at a run, three abreast, spreading out as they approached.

  Twenty paces…

  But Roland wanted the rise, so he continued on and stopped only when he was atop it, staring at the onrush of Dark Bloods.

  Ten paces…

  He took a deep breath, spread his arms by his waist, and tilted his head down. In the next moment, he saw.

  Time slowed to a drip.

  The Dark Bloods were running but in his sight they plodded through tacky mud. Their dreadlocks flailed behind them like black smoke in a dream. Every ounce of their bulk fighting gravity, the viscosity of time itself, to get to him. Their size so cumbersome that he might run up and tap each of them and jink away before they could even react.

  That was wrong, of course. They were fast—he already knew that. Too fast to risk their closing in, or fighting them three-on-one. But their movement would work against them.

  He swiped a blade from the sheath on his hip and flung it backhanded at the closest of the three, the one on his left. The blade sailed through the air and smacked home, deep in the e
ye socket.

  The man’s head snapped back. His feet flew off the ground and he landed solidly on his back with a grunt. Dead.

  Five paces…

  Two left, one in midswing of a three-foot, double-edged sword. It flashed toward Roland like a glinting saucer, cutting for his torso.

  No way to avoid the sword. Only to step into it as one edge passed and before the second rounded and caught him.

  The blades slowed to a whirr, and then to the lazy turn of a two-spoked wheel. He chose his time, threw himself forward. When he did, his shoulder crashed into the handle at its center. The sword careened off harmlessly.

  He dropped, rolled forward. He had two more knives out and slashing upward as they leaped to avoid him. His blade connected with a leg bone, the impact jarred him to his shoulder. The warrior roared with pain and sprawled forward.

  Roland came to his feet behind them, but the third man had already spun and was in full swing.

  “Roland!” Michael’s cry cut the air.

  Once again, their speed surprised him. He was too late to avoid the blade. Too off balance to lunge into it. So he turned into the blow to catch it squarely on his chest where his leather was the thickest, taking the blade’s full length to disperse the force of the strike along as much of the edge as possible.

  The blade smacked into the leather. Cut through it and into his chest with a sharp sting.

  But not to the bone.

  It was all Roland needed to know. His threw all of his weight into a blow to the other man’s face, dead center. The Dark Blood’s nose caved—loudly—against his knuckles.

  He twisted the man’s sword from his grasp, whipped it around like a sling and buried the blade in the warrior’s exposed neck. Spun to the second Dark Blood staggering to his feet with one of Roland’s knives sticking out of his leg.

  “Enough!” Roland cried. He jabbed the bloody sword in his hand toward the army. “Go! While you still live.”

  But the warrior didn’t appear interested in running for cover. He jerked a long knife from his belt and circled, cautiously, to the left.

  “Where did you learn to fight, Nomad?”