Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  A scream. “Triphon!”

  Rom spun to see Jordin at the gate, eyes wide. Starring past him.

  He jerked back around. Triphon lay on top of the Dark Blood, barely stirring. A chill washed down Rom’s neck.

  A shout cut through the rain from within the compound. “I bring you life not seen in this world. A new kingdom!”

  Rom heard each word as if cried from a separate disconnected reality. Life. But the scene before him whispered death.

  Triphon rolled over onto his back, fingers clawing at his chest. At the sword still protruding from it. Rom’s lungs seized. The Dark Blood lay still with Triphon’s sword buried in his throat.

  His friend coughed once. For a moment he looked to laugh up to the sky. Then his hand fell down to the earth. Still.

  The Dark Bloods in the train would swarm them at any moment.

  Jordin stood unmoving, staring at Triphon’s fallen form beyond the gate.

  “Jordin!” Rom was at the gate, turning the key. “They’re coming!”

  She twisted toward the compound behind her. “Jonathan! We have to go!”

  His head snapped toward her, braids sodden, clothes stuck to the hard panes of his chest.

  “Now!” she screamed.

  He dropped to his seat, skidded down the slope of the roof and emerged from around the end of the building with Kaya, who was wearing his coat. Together they tore down the broken walk, past a crowd of wide-eyed Corpses, not slowing until they reached the gate, just open enough against the bulk of three bodies to let them out one at a time.

  Jonathan faltered, staring at Rom as he knelt over Triphon’s fallen form, frantically checking for signs of life. If Triphon had been a Corpse, they would be able to smell the scent of death. Because he was Mortal, only breath or pulse would tell the truth.

  There was neither.

  Dark Bloods began to pile out of the train car. Rom jerked his head up, hesitated only a moment, then sprang to his feet. There was no time to take Triphon’s body as long as Jonathan was at risk.

  “The horses! Go!” he cried, urgently waving them on.

  Jordin grabbed Jonathan’s arm and tugged. “Run!”

  He scooped up Kaya and ran ahead of Jordin. They threw themselves into the saddles, Jordin behind Jonathan, Kaya and Rom on the other horse.

  Shouts from behind. A knife whisked harmlessly past Jordin’s head.

  And then they were riding in a full gallop through the veil of a heavy downpour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ROLAND KNEW FROM THE SLIGHT but immediate tic beneath Saric’s eye that he’d struck the right chord in offering up Jonathan. He pressed his advantage while it was still his.

  “And it’s not what you think,” he said.

  “You presume to know what I think,” Saric said.

  “You think I’m a man who would deceive you as I have. I would assume the same in your position.”

  The man was a column in black, tall in the saddle, fingers like claws and arms all too obviously corded with muscle beneath his tunic sleeves. A powerful man, no pretender, and no fool.

  A man of destiny like himself.

  Despite the tic, he listened in silence—a sign of surety and resolve.

  “What I have to say, you will want to hear,” Roland said. “All I ask is that you hear it alone.”

  Still no reaction. Just that dark stare, so like a vulture’s on a fresh piece of carrion. This was not turning into the kind of confrontation Roland had anticipated.

  “I have men in the trees above us. If I wanted to engage you, I would have without first exposing myself. I want no bloodshed. Only peace. But for that I must talk to you alone.”

  “Who are you to speak to me alone?”

  “Roland Akara. Prince of the Nomads.”

  Saric seemed unaffected by his name.

  “You see the man on my left?” Saric said. “His name is Brack. I am the kinder soul between us. I pity you if any harm were to come to me.”

  Roland gave the man a curt nod. “You see the woman behind me? Her name is Michael. She is one of a thousand like her. I pity you if any of them led our people in a mission to strike, unseen, like serpents when you least expected it.”

  Saric nodded slowly. “Brack, follow.”

  Saric flipped his reins and guided his mount forward, toward the barren land rising to the west, away from the trees. Brack fell in behind, eyes on Roland.

  He turned his horse and rode parallel to them until Saric pulled up and faced him, fifty paces from the others. Michael held her position, along with the entire Dark Blood army. The breeze had fallen off—they were no doubt stifling and sweating in their armor, but black granite would have moved more.

  “You have your audience,” Saric said. “Speak.”

  “You are aware of the Nomads.”

  Saric didn’t respond.

  “For generations we resisted Order. Our breeding runs deep and our purpose is simple. We would survive outside of this religion that holds the dead hostage to lies. We want one thing: freedom. And we want it without any harm to others.”

  “What does this have to do with Jonathan?”

  “We have no ambition for power. Our joining with Jonathan was only done in service to a Sovereign who promised to unveil the truth once he came into office. What that meant for us is that as a people we would no longer have to live out of Order. We would pursue life in peace. But that has changed. You changed it. Feyn is Sovereign, and because of that Jonathan can never be. Any struggle for his claim now would be futile.”

  Saric nodded. “Go on.”

  “I find myself between two enemies. You, who would protect Feyn’s Sovereignty, and Jonathan, whom others hope will seize it from her. My duty is to protect my people. As their prince, I would pay any price to ensure their safety.”

  He let the statement stand.

  “You are offering to give me the boy,” Saric said.

  “I am offering to save both of us limitless bloodshed and ensure the future of my people. If one man must die to that end, so be it. Many thousands of lives will be saved.”

  “I’m to believe you have both the means and the will to betray the one you have sworn to protect? I see no gain for you. I could take Jonathan and still hunt your kind down.”

  “I have the means but my delivery of him will be my proof. And my gain would be this: an irrevocable mandate passed by the senate and ratified by Feyn giving Nomads the freedom to live out of Order and suffer whatever destiny the Maker sees fit to grant us in return.”

  Saric’s lips twisted slightly. “Surely you don’t believe in the Maker’s end.”

  “I believe in life, now, as it was meant to be lived. And so your senate would offer me full authority to rule my people as I see fit, with our own government, recognized by Order. And I will be welcome at the Citadel as a foreign ruler as long as my people pose no threat to peace.”

  Saric studied him for several seconds. Whether or not the Overlord trusted him, he couldn’t tell, but he seemed to be pleased. Or at least, he smelled like it, assuming Roland had correctly identified the scent.

  Roland waited.

  “I find your proposal absurd,” Saric said at last. “Order cannot be turned on its head at the whim of one Nomad. What assurance would I have that you would give me the boy?”

  “Then you admit acquiring him is in your interest?”

  “Anyone who poses a threat to the legitimate Sovereign is a person of interest to me.”

  “And yet you yourself pose a threat to her office and the Order it serves by building an army prohibited by Order. You have your purpose; I have mine. We are not so different.”

  “You are too bold, Nomad.”

  “I am the seventeenth prince to rule my people. We have always been bold. But not once has our purpose diverted from our sacred calling to be separate. I have no intention of allowing that purpose to fail us now. I went to great lengths to bring you here.”

  “You could have come
to me.”

  “It was necessary that you understood our commitment and strength. We want peace, but not enough to die quietly.”

  “Assuming I granted this freedom, you might still rise against me one day.”

  “To what end?”

  “To rule more than your own.”

  “At the expense of my people? You don’t know as much as you assume.”

  Saric’s horse pawed the earth beneath him. The Dark Blood tilted his head.

  “They say you believe yourselves to have found life. Is it true?”

  “Yes,” Roland said. “And we aim to keep that life, not shed it in a war that isn’t our own.”

  “Assuming I were to agree, how would you deliver the boy?”

  “You will push the mandate through the senate immediately. Once it is ratified by the Sovereign, I will lead you to him. Not just to him—but also to the Keepers who have vowed to see him in power.”

  “And if the Sovereign fails to sign?”

  Roland shrugged. “Then you would have an enemy you don’t care to have.”

  He could see the man’s mind at work, searching for any weakness in the agreement.

  “Brack?”

  Saric’s man hesitated only a moment before speaking. “I see no challenge to your purpose, my Lord.”

  Naturally. They were both fully aware that any law passed by the senate would not stand in Saric’s way if he chose to force his hand. He could and would come after any Nomad if he saw any threat in them… at any time.

  “I will agree to your terms,” Saric said. “But if you do not give me the boy before his eighteenth birthday, I withdraw my agreement.”

  He started to turn his mount.

  “There is but one more thing,” Roland said. “A guarantee.”

  Saric paused, arched a brow at him.

  “You will give us Feyn to hold until the exchange is made.”

  A smile slowly distorted his face. “Feyn?”

  “I am no more a fool than you. I will care for her as one of my own. No harm will come to her.”

  “Only a fool would demand the Sovereign as surety.”

  “You say this, but you already know that we won’t hurt her. If Feyn were to die, you would be Sovereign. You have nothing to lose.”

  “You know more than you let on, Nomad. Perhaps I underestimated you.”

  “Our resolve to be left alone in peace has been bred in us for centuries. I do what is necessary to that end.”

  “I will present this to my Sovereign,” Saric said.

  “I assumed she served you, my Lord.”

  Saric gave him a bland look. “Then you assume too much.”

  “Either way.”

  “Either way, you have your agreement. If Feyn is not here, in this valley, in two days’ time consider that agreement cancelled.”

  He started to turn.

  “Tomorrow,” Roland said. “If you require the boy before he comes of age, we have little time.”

  Saric glanced at him for a long moment, then kicked his horse.

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THEY RODE HARD FOR AN HOUR, glancing back frequently to be certain they weren’t being followed, expecting to see Dark Bloods in pursuit at any moment. But there was no sign of them.

  As long as they were in motion, Rom was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that he’d saved Jonathan from what would have been certain death. Every step was another toward safety, but the truth of the matter dug incessantly into his mind like a tick burrowing for blood. Nothing was safe. Nothing was right, nothing made sense. He might have saved the boy for now, but the world was collapsing around them.

  Divisions were mounting among the Mortals. Saric had raised an army to destroy them all. Feyn had given her allegiance to Saric. Jonathan seemed to have lost his mind. Triphon was dead.

  Rom led them into a wash to rest the horses and gather himself.

  Triphon. Dead.

  It was unfathomable. The bull of a man who had been Rom’s second-in-command was impervious to threat, fear, or injury. His closest friend from those first days when they’d both drunk the Keeper’s blood and committed themselves to its implicit charge could not die.

  And yet he had. The image haunted him. Triphon, rolling off the Dark Blood and onto his back, hand grasping the sword in his chest. The same bloodied hand, falling to the earth.

  More than once, Rom thought of sending the others on and going back. To be certain, just in case. But he already knew what he would find. He’d found no pulse and no breath. If there’d been any trace of life left in the man, it was now gone—the Dark Bloods would have made certain of that in short order. There’d been no way to recover his body without suffering further casualties.

  Still, the fact that they’d left their comrade on the ground hounded him. Triphon had given his life to buy their escape. The best thing Rom could do now was to honor his friend by fulfilling their charge to see Jonathan to power.

  “We stop here for a few minutes,” he said, when they reached the wash. But he didn’t immediately dismount. Thoughts flooded his mind like a deluge.

  Roland had sent a volunteer as a spy to be captured by Saric. If the mission was successful, the prince might even now be meeting with Saric himself. If so, they had a chance to salvage everything. But acquiring Feyn was only the beginning. Rom still had the herculean task of persuading her to see the truth and recognize Jonathan as rightful Sovereign. He’d helped her find life once, a lifetime ago, but she was in Saric’s clutches now.

  If he failed to persuade Feyn… Maker help them. The zealots might demand a far more assertive approach. War and death would overtake them all.

  Even if they did gain Feyn’s support, there was still Jonathan’s state, both physical and mental, to consider.

  What did it mean that his blood was reverting, and so quickly? According to the Keeper, Jonathan might have the same blood as a Corpse in a matter of weeks, maybe days. How was it possible that the boy who’d been born to bring life was apparently dying?

  In two days’ time all Mortals would light the celebration fires of the Gathering. They would sing and drink and dance in Nomadic fashion in celebration of the life awakened by Jonathan’s blood. Little did they know that the very fountain that had first given them that life was drying up.

  Or was the boy’s blood only reverting momentarily, gathering for its final push to full maturity? The Keeper had suggested this possibility, and Rom had chosen to embrace it. Nothing else made sense.

  But Jonathan’s blood wasn’t the only problem. Even if the regression was a temporary set back, there was the matter of Jonathan’s psychological well-being. Instead of preparing for rulership, he was courting an obsessive fascination with Corpses, willing to risk the lives of millions who might find life for the sake of one child.

  Rom finally slid of his horse and glanced at Jonathan. Perhaps he was too young. What childhood had he ever known, this future Sovereign raised in secret and coveted for his blood? Was this fascination with this Corpse girl a simple need for the company of those who demanded or asked nothing of him?

  Had they all failed him in such a basic way that his loneliness drove him to risk his entire destiny to satisfy some deep-seated need? His frustration with the boy eased.

  He reached for Kaya and lowered her to the ground. The girl had been pointing at the sky, blinking into the rain as they rode, occasionally closing her eyes as it washed away the grime-streaked tears on her face.

  More than once he had found her fingering the beaded cuff of his sleeve. She had almost fallen from the horse completely when she had stretched out over the pommel to lay her hand against the horse’s neck, to touch the braids of its mane, feel the bristle of that short equine hair against her palm.

  Any Corpse might have wondered what was wrong with her, but Rom knew exactly the cause of her rapt fascination. She was in the throes of new life.

  So then… at least his blood was
still strong enough to make other Mortals. Perhaps it was regaining strength. Perhaps…

  Rom squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt.

  Kaya had fallen down to the ground to grab up a handful of earth. An instant later, she was sobbing, her wet hair clinging to her cheek, hands dug into the dirt. Jonathan hurried over, knelt beside her on one knee and whispered in her ear.

  Rom glanced over at Jordin, just returned from a cursory circle of the area. She was as soaked as were they all, though the ground here was dry.

  “We aren’t being followed,” she said. She glanced back at the storm clouds just now breaking over the southeast corner of the city. “Not even by the storm.”

  He knew what she was thinking, despite her aversion to superstition. The Maker’s Hand. Nature itself seemed to have gathered to join Jonathan in protest over the Authority of Passing. But there had been nothing supernatural in this. Triphon was dead! They had barely gotten out alive.

  He left Jonathan with the girl and stalked over to her. “A word, Jordin.”

  She dismounted and followed him to a small rise beyond Jonathan’s hearing.

  “What were you thinking?”

  Jordin looked off in the direction of the abating storm. Her resolve surprised him.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “I was protecting my Sovereign,” she said in a low, steely tone.

  Frustration, anger… admiration… all welled up within him at once.

  “Protecting? This is your idea of keeping him from harm?”

  “He doesn’t take orders from me,” she said, still not looking him in the eye.

  “But you take orders from me. You will never allow Jonathan to leave camp again without my knowledge or permission.”

  “I can’t promise that,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  She hadn’t even blinked. “I can’t.” Now she looked at him. “He’s my Sovereign. I serve you, but I serve him first. If what he says contradicts you, I will follow him.”

  For an instant he flashed back to Roland questioning Jonathan’s ability to inspire confidence—or to lead at all. And yet Jordin was following him without question. There was something in his way that inspired. But was it true leadership on his part or simply devotion on hers?