Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  They rode hard, rarely speaking except to affirm what the other had already seen. Two hours, the guard had said. Even riding at twice the Dark Bloods’ speed they would require two hours to catch them. Any slower and Feyn would reach the city before they could stop her.

  The sun was high when they crested a hill and first sighted the two Dark Bloods watering their horses by a stream.

  With a click of his tongue, Roland signaled stop and dropped from his mount. Leaving it to Michael to secure the mounts, he released the reins and crouched behind a low boulder.

  Feyn stood by her horse, gazing toward the south. Her escort was on one knee, inspecting the right hoof of his mount.

  Michael lowered herself beside Roland, breathing steadily. For a moment neither spoke. They hadn’t been seen and the wind was in their faces, filling their nostrils with the stench of death. Roland had never expected to so welcome such a putrid odor.

  “Less than a hundred paces,” she whispered.

  “I need to talk to the woman,” he said. “They’re fast, remember that. Don’t expect a second shot. The wind—”

  “I was shooting into the wind when I was five, brother.” Her bow was already in her hands. She notched her first arrow. “Just to be clear, you want the warrior dead—”

  “—and Feyn’s horse. We may need the other.”

  Michael gave him a casual nod, lifted her bow, drew the string back to her cheek, and sighted. She pulled in a long breath, adjusted for both wind and distance, then released her fingers.

  A soft twang and the arrow flew into the wash with blazing speed. In the space of an instant it buried itself in the Dark Blood’s ear with a distinct thunk. The warrior jerked and then dropped to his side as though clubbed. The moment he did, his horse reared back from the stream.

  “Her horse!” Roland snapped, and launched himself forward, over the crest and down the hill.

  Feyn was spinning, looking frantically for the source of the attack until she saw him closing and froze, eyes wide.

  Michael’s second arrow whipped overhead, narrowly missed the Sovereign, and sunk into her horse’s neck, just behind its jawbone. The animal bolted into the stream, whinnying as it fled into the brush beyond, leaving Feyn abandoned and empty-handed.

  “Run and the next one is for you!” Michael cried.

  Feyn glanced up, saw she had no escape, and went very still. Roland slowed to a walk at the bottom of the hill, now only ten paces from her.

  “So we meet again,” he said.

  Though her face was striking, her scent was an offensive bouquet—a strange mixture of defiance, anxiousness… and grief. Perhaps grief most of all.

  She was fond of the warrior, he realized with surprise, flicking a glance at the Dark Blood’s fallen form.

  He stopped before her. Her skin, so unnaturally white, seemed paler than even a moment ago.

  “Running was your downfall. Now they all know the truth.”

  Her lips tightened over her teeth. Her hair was disheveled, loosed from its simple braids. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand you, my lady, all too well.”

  “You understand nothing about me, or my allegiances.”

  “Is that what you call blind loyalty to your brother?”

  “I’m talking about the boy.”

  He barked a laugh.

  “Do you understand anything of the thin line I’ve walked since waking from stasis?” she demanded. “Did you just expect me to run out and proclaim my allegiance to the boy?”

  “After betraying us at the Citadel, you claim allegiance to the boy? No. It may have been nine years ago, but it is no more.”

  “True. It’s faltered. None of what was supposed to happen has come to pass. And no matter how much Rom thinks I can work a miracle in the senate, my hands were tied the moment I was brought out of stasis before Jonathan claimed his majority.”

  “You’re loyal to no one but Saric. Or is it only to yourself?”

  “I died once, and what did that gain me? Die and you will see how it changes your perspective on life. No. This time, I mean to do things my way.”

  He slipped his knife from its sheath and squatted, one leg forward. Spun the blade in his hand. “Maybe you should try dying twice. It would help my perspective.”

  “Kill me and lose the boy’s most powerful ally.” Her nostrils flared. Roland took in the scent of indignation, of anger, fear. And of something else he could not name.

  “Ally? You all but admit your loyalty is to no one.”

  “Yes, I questioned. But that was before what I saw last night.”

  “And what did you see last night? A mad boy bathing in blood?”

  “I saw something that I understand,” she hissed. “Better than even you, Prince.”

  “And what was that?” His elbows rested on his knees, knife twirling loosely between his fingers. “That what I said was true? That we would crush your brother’s army, no matter how strong? That you needed to run to warn him?”

  She took a deep breath and lifted her gaze to Michael, coming up behind him with the horses.

  “I saw you would never trust me,” she said, her eyes back on him. “Now you prove it.”

  “You’re right. And now you prove why I can’t trust you.”

  “You know nothing of my intentions.”

  “And Rom does? You must have had quite the romp in the meadow with him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t know him as well as you think. But you’re right. He doesn’t know me. I’m not a girl any more than he’s a naïve boy. There is an entire machine waiting for me.” She jutted her chin in the direction of Byzantium. “One backed by my brother whom I have to manage. You can’t know how dangerous he is.”

  “There, you’re wrong. I have every idea.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I died for Jonathan once. Does this mean nothing to you? Do you understand all that I have done?”

  He raised his brows and grinned. “Enlighten me.”

  “You not only owe your life to him for the blood in his veins… but to me.”

  “Why did you run?”

  “I knew you had no intention of allowing me to leave. Rom perhaps, but not you. If I don’t take more blood tonight, I die. I’m dependent on Saric’s blood, or didn’t Rom tell you? It doesn’t matter. We both know you wouldn’t have let me leave on my own, having seen your camp.”

  “And yet by fleeing on your own you seal your fate even more.”

  “So now you kill me. And what does that win you?”

  “All Dark Bloods must die. It’s the only way for my kind to survive.”

  “Are you so blind? Or do you simply refuse to see that I can help you?”

  “You can help me by revealing where Saric holds his forces.”

  She gave a brittle laugh. “And lose all of my leverage? No. I am your key to destroying Saric.”

  “Are you? Then show me your intentions. Tell me where his fortress is.”

  “Even if I did, you would stand no chance.”

  Roland stood up and walked closer, rounding to her left, knife snug in his right hand.

  “Kill her now and be done with it,” Michael said.

  “You of all people know Rom’s request is impossible,” Feyn said, voice now tight. “Putting Jonathan in power with Saric alive will only invite a full-scale war. I didn’t create this mess; I was resurrected into it. Now I have to fix it. My way.”

  “The only way I’m willing to consider is via the death of all Dark Bloods,” Roland said, glowering at her through lowered lids.

  “You can’t provoke war. You’re outnumbered!”

  “I don’t think you realize how powerful we are.”

  “Oh, but I do, and I tell you… it’s not powerful enough.”

  Roland flipped the knife. “Then there’s no reason to prolong the inevitable.”

  He stepped behind her and grabbed her hair. Jerked her head back, exposing her neck.

  “No bargainin
g?” he said. “No begging for your life?”

  “No,” she whispered. “We both know you never had any intention to let me live.”

  Roland laid the blade against her throat. “You’re right.”

  He was about to express a final passing word of consolation—as much as he hated the Dark Blood there was something noble in this Sovereign who’d once given her life for Jonathan. But two things quickly came to his attention: The first was the drumming of horse hooves, of a single rider quickly approaching. The second was that the rider was upwind. He couldn’t determine whether the rider was Mortal or Corpse, Dark Blood or Nomad. Killing her now, he might lose a valuable hostage and any leverage she offered.

  Then he knew. The leader of Keepers had discovered them missing and followed them. Rom, come to save his woman.

  Roland’s first impulse was to pull the knife across Feyn’s throat and be done with it. He was in no mood for weakness, a trait that seemed inexorably ingrained in Rom’s psyche. But the sight of Feyn’s veins pumping their black blood onto the ground would prove too much for the man. They could not afford division now. Perhaps in Feyn’s attempt to escape Rom had found an ounce of sanity.

  “Hold still. Not a word.”

  To Michael: “On my right, stay hidden, bow ready.”

  She ran in a crouch to a tree, upwind, dropped to one knee, bow strung already.

  Roland held his ground, watching the crest of the hill.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ROM HAD PUSHED HIS HORSE without mercy, following both tracks and scent in a pell-mell rush south, desperate to catch Roland before it was too late.

  A hundred thoughts had relentlessly pushed through the fog in his mind, chief among them the question surrounding Feyn’s attempt to escape.

  Why?

  Had she planned her move all along? Were other Dark Bloods waiting for her to exit the camp? Had he been played the fool, captured by misplaced love and hope?

  But the most unyielding thought of all was Roland. Rom knew the prince had pushed her to the conclusion that she had no hope of leaving the valley alive. That when it came to Feyn, he possessed not a bone of trust. Nomads had always seen the benefits of life as their due inheritance—the prize awaiting them after generations on the run. Roland’s obsession was not love or truth but freedom and power, and in his mind Feyn posed a direct threat to both.

  He knew he was closing as the sulfuric scent grew stronger—too strong. Not just the odor of Dark Blood, but of physical death.

  Terrified that he was too late, he crested the hill, the stench of death burning his nostrils.

  The scene in the wash below flashed before him as his horse thundered over the edge. Roland behind Feyn, knife at her throat—both staring up at him. Janus, the Dark Blood, dead on the ground with an arrow buried in his head. Roland’s and Michael’s horses tied to a shrub by the narrow creek.

  But Feyn was alive. For the moment.

  As his horse plunged down the stony slope, Rom knew that what must be said now would require finesse, not volume. Reason, not emotion.

  He slowed his horse to a walk and approached, easy in the saddle. Pulled up ten feet from them. Michael stepped out from a tree on his left, hesitated a moment, then lowered her bow.

  Rom spoke, paying her no mind. “Hello, Roland.”

  The Nomad released his fistful of Feyn’s hair. “Good of you to join us, Rom. Please don’t tell me that you still trust the heart of any Dark Blood bound by loyalty to their master. Regardless of past intentions.”

  Rom glanced at Feyn. Her eyes were fixed on him, brimming with tears.

  “I trust no one who breaks their word and flees. But we have the Sovereign of the world in our hands now. She is more valuable to us as a hostage than dead.”

  Roland spit into the dirt. “She’s dead already. Your problem, Rom, is that you find it difficult to place reality ahead of hope. She ran because it’s in her blood to run. As long as she’s alive, she posses a threat. Believe me when I tell you there are two Sarics still breathing. I would cut that number down to one.”

  “True enough.” Rom dismounted, struck by the fact that he found Roland’s words compelling. “But we’re up against the end, close to the goal. All I ask is that you consider what Saric might offer us for her return.”

  “Are you both fools?” Feyn cried. “Rom, still the naïve lover and Roland, the warrior too full of bravado to understand the subtleties of negotiation. At this rate you’ll both be dead long before Jonathan takes power.”

  They stared at her. Rom wondered if Roland was as taken by her audacity as he.

  “What do you gain by killing me?” she demanded.

  “The satisfaction of delivering your head to the Citadel in a box,” Michael said, ambling easily toward them.

  “My sister has a point,” Roland said. “There are advantages to an enraged enemy, whose calculation is thrown off balance.”

  “You can hardly enrage Saric by my death,” Feyn said. “He would only take his seat as Sovereign under the guard of twelve thousand Dark Bloods and hunt you down at his leisure. The division among you will further widen under pressure and Jonathan will lose his unified defense. In the end you will all be purged. The hope Jonathan brought through his blood will be forever lost.”

  Roland gave up an incredulous chuckle. “You see how self assured they are, Rom? We’ve avoided Order for hundreds of years. We’ll fight for hundreds more if need be. Jonathan’s no longer the Maker we depend upon.”

  “I do see,” Rom said. “I also see that she isn’t a fool. She ran because you pushed her to it. She needs Saric’s blood or she dies. It’s Saric we should kill now, not Feyn.” And then he added, “At least, not yet.”

  “She broke her word and ran.”

  “You gave her no choice!”

  “I can give Saric to you,” Feyn cut in.

  “You expect to be trusted now, as you face death?” Roland snapped.

  “No.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “What I can offer you requires no trust on your part. But the Nomadic Prince refuses to listen long enough to hear me out. He’s made up his mind, regardless of the consequences.”

  “Do you blame him?” Rom said. “If you had something to say, you would have said it in our camp.”

  “I should have. That was my mistake. And I may pay for it with my life. But as he says, I’m dead already. In Saric’s world I’m only his slave, waiting for his axe to fall so that he can take my Sovereign place. In yours, I’m nothing more than a prisoner who must die to make room for Jonathan. I have nothing to gain either way.”

  Rom felt his heart falter at her words. She’d died for Jonathan only to be resurrected into Hades itself.

  “We’re wasting time!” Michael said.

  Roland looked from Rom to Feyn. Pushing her away from him, he said, “Speak.”

  She turned, straightened. “It’s only a matter of time before Saric kills me. Do you have any doubt of that?”

  Rom shook his head. “No.”

  “With or without me, he will come after you. The only question is whether it’s under his terms or yours. You have nothing to lose by my returning to him.”

  “We have the information you give him to lose,” Roland said.

  “And this harms you how? You can simply move and be gone. He already knows enough about your numbers and skills. What could I possibly tell him that might compromise you at this point? He gains nothing with me at his side. My only hope is to free myself from him. It’s what Jonathan told me last night when he came.”

  “He told you to free yourself?” Rom asked.

  “It’s the only way I can live if you kill Saric. It’s the boy’s wish. Ask him yourself.”

  A smirk pulled at Roland’s mouth. Rom knew Jonathan’s words held less and less credibility with the Nomad.

  “Is it even possible?” Rom asked.

  “I believe so, but that’s my concern. Yours is Saric. I think I can give him to you. And if I can�
��t, I’m the only one who stands to lose anything. You’ll be no worse off than you are now. Trust me or not, it doesn’t matter. I can’t hurt you.”

  She made a good point. Surely Roland heard at least that much.

  “Go on,” Rom said.

  Feyn crossed her arms and looked at Roland. “You said last night that you could destroy Saric’s full army in the valley where you live.”

  He frowned, then nodded once, slowly. “And if we could?”

  “Tell me. Can you?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Then I think I can convince him to bring his full army to your valley. Make what preparations you need, and then take him.”

  They had all considered the possibility of thwarting an invasion in the Seyala, but no discussion had been made of purposefully leading the Dark Bloods to them. Even if they could, the odds would be astronomical.

  “Roland?”

  “Our seven hundred against their full army of twelve thousand… a considerable risk.”

  “Risk,” she said. “Where’s that bravado? Consider what you would gain if you were successful. Your greatest threat is the existence of so many sworn to your end. They must all go. I can deliver them to you.”

  “So you say,” Michael quipped.

  “I wouldn’t worry about my ability to deliver them, only your ability to exterminate them. Are the Nomads as great as they claim?”

  “Yes, but neither are we foolish,” Roland said.

  “Which is why you see the value of what I say. If I fail, you lose nothing.”

  Rom studied Roland, measuring the Nomad’s resolve. “Can we do it?”

  The Prince paced, one hand in his hair. “Possibly. And if the tide goes against us we have our means of escape. It would require—” He stopped short, glancing at Feyn. He wouldn’t discuss any tactics in her hearing.

  “You understand that I would need to be protected,” Feyn said. “Saric will know he had been handed over. If he survived—”

  “That can be arranged,” Rom said.

  “And I would need to assure him that I could deliver him Jonathan.”

  “What?”