Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  “Careful there!” Nashtu cried. “You want the whole lot to fall now? Place it like a feather, man!”

  Two others with sweating necks and backs joined in, barking their own directions. A full hundred in all worked feverishly along the cliff, making final preparations, well aware of one thing: none of it would make any difference if Roland’s tactics on the plateau didn’t succeed first.

  Nearly five hundred Mortals—those pregnant or too young or old to face the Dark Bloods—were nearly gone. The last group of fifty was just now snaking its way over the plateau, headed to one of three locations ten miles north where they would wait for word from the scouts that it was either safe to return or time to flee.

  The train of horses plodded toward the badlands pulling dismantled yurts, bundles of cookware, clothing, food… all that was owned by the Mortals except for the weapons and anything else the fighters needed to engage Saric’s army. Over a hundred able-bodied men and women had retreated with the others—those craftsmen and workers among them who were less skilled in fighting but strong enough to rebuild and live to fight again.

  “We have our advantages,” Roland said. “And you can be sure I will bring them all to bear. We divide, we jab, we whittle their numbers down, we run, we volley… We can prevail. I wouldn’t risk a single life if I didn’t think so.” A glint came to his eyes. “I tell you today, Rom, the day will come when we live as Makers. Immortal.”

  That is your obsession, isn’t it, Prince? To live forever. To be immortal. To be Maker and ruler as one.

  He’d seen the lines of Roland’s face harden under pressure these last days. His calling had always been for his people. Only a few of them knew of Jonathan’s recent decline, and Rom bristled to note that those who did seemed to look past the boy as though he were a remnant of something past, no longer relevant. And he knew that for them, this battle was a matter not of the boy’s ascension to world power, but of their own survival. It always had been. But now, something had shifted within Roland in the last few days.

  Rom had no intention of confronting Roland on the matter now, but he would when this was through. This battle—everything they risked now—was for Jonathan’s sake, not their own, whether Roland acknowledged that today or not. There were now many Mortals, Makers each and all of them. But there was only one true Sovereign. And he had bled already to give them the life they now called their own.

  “And what of Jonathan?”

  Roland glanced over Rom’s shoulder, then turned aside. “Ask him yourself.” The Prince walked away, motioning Michael to follow.

  For a moment, Rom considered going after him. They dare not go to battle with divided loyalties!

  “Rom…”

  He hadn’t heard the two riders approach. At the sound of his name, he turned to see Jordin and Jonathan dismounting behind him. Pushing his concerns about Roland aside, he tried to offer a smile.

  “Jonathan. Jordin. Roland assures me that all is in order.”

  “I hope not,” Jonathan said. “It was my understanding we were overthrowing Order.” He grinned.

  “Yes, well, there is that. I’d feel better if you left now, while the last group is still in sight. As for you, Jordin, Roland says we need you here, but I—”

  “I go with Jonathan,” she said.

  “If you would let me finish.”

  She nodded, momentarily contrite.

  “I insisted you remain at Jonathan’s side with the others who’ve gone north. Be prepared to return the moment you receive word,” he said, looking from her to Jonathan. “With hope, Saric will be defeated and we will escort you to Byzantium by evening.”

  The boy was eighteen today. It was to be the day of his succession, of the claiming of his majority. With luck, it still would be. Time enough for celebration then.

  Jonathan seemed to consider the proclamation for a moment. “Then I will fulfill the role I was born for, as Sovereign.”

  “May life return to the world through you, my Sovereign,” Rom said, feeling as he said it that was prayer as much as intention. He did not know how the day would unfold—only that somehow seeing the boy before him to power was his destiny.

  Jonathan took Rom by his shoulders, embraced him.

  “No matter what happens today… what you have done will never be forgotten, Rom. When death comes, you will find life. The dead will rise and live under my reign, mark my words.”

  “I have no doubts, my Sovereign.”

  Jonathan released him and laid his hand on Rom’s shoulder. “Good. Then you will find it easier to hear that I won’t be going with the others as you ask.”

  Alarm spiked his gut. “No, you must. For your own protection.”

  “No,” Jonathan said, turning. “I would be closer so that I can join and claim my Sovereignty without delay. Jordin will come with me.”

  “I won’t have you fighting!”

  “I won’t fight, but I will stay near. I’ll go to the old outpost at Corvus Point. It’s isolated and safe. Have no fear, Rom. I’ve decided.” He gave a slight, enigmatic smile. “Isn’t that the prerogative of being Sovereign—to make ones own decisions?”

  Corvus Point was roughly five miles west, but there was no telling what might happen in battle. And Dark Blood scouts would be scouring the region.

  As though having read his mind, Jonathan said, “It’s too far for their scouts to wander. We’ll be safe. Jordin and I are adept at escaping stray threats.”

  Rom suddenly recalled their negotiation with Feyn the previous day. She’d said Jonathan suggested they meet alone on the day of his succession to sort out the matter of rulership—a detail he’d forgotten in the crisis until now.

  Jonathan had planned on this all along.

  “And Feyn?”

  Jonathan gave a slight, acquiescing nod. “I asked her to meet me there. Warriors will wage war, but the matter of Sovereignty has its own demands.”

  He no longer sounded like the boy of just days ago. Even so, panic sliced through him and he grabbed him by the shoulder. “Then I go with you. I won’t leave you unprotected. We’ll take ten of our best—”

  “No, Rom. You have a battle to fight. I will take Jordin.”

  “She’s only one! No. The stakes are too high!”

  “My Sovereignty is at stake. I decide this, not you, Rom. Not this time.”

  The boy’s tone could hardly be more forceful. Rom released his shoulder, taken aback.

  Jonathan said, more gently now: “Today I come of age. Let me lead as I must, and you as you must. Our people need to see you in battle.”

  “Roland leads this battle.”

  “Roland leads the hearts of many. But you lead others. And so Jordin comes with me alone. We will meet Feyn. Before the day is out, we will return with an agreement that will allow me to take the seat of power I was born to occupy. Saric will be defeated and I will be Sovereign. Let me take the path to my rightful place.”

  Was it possible?

  But Saric would still come. Regardless of Jonathan’s negotiations or even agreement with Feyn, Saric held her in thrall, poised to ascend to power in her place. He had to be defeated.

  He started to object again, but Jonathan cut him short. The boy had indeed become a man nearly overnight. Gone was the crazed Sovereign to-be who’d danced covered in blood at the Gathering. Here stood a young leader demanding to be obeyed.

  There was hope yet.

  Rom looked at Jordin. Her chin was a notch higher than normal. Pride. Satisfaction. She’d been chosen by Jonathan—nothing could mean more to her.

  “Don’t let him out of your sight,” Rom said, leveling his gaze.

  “I have no intention of removing my eyes from him.”

  “If he even stubs his toe, I will hold you personally responsible.”

  “He will not lose a single hair under my watch.”

  “Keep an eye out for any disturbance. If you’re confronted, don’t fight. Run.”

  “Faster than a gazelle.”


  “Enough,” Jonathan said. “Am I a fragile egg?”

  “No. You’re a Sovereign—far more precious to this world than any egg.”

  Jonathan’s expression softened. “As are you, Rom. Jordin would give her life to save me, I have no doubt of that. And I would give my life to save either of you.”

  He clasped Rom’s shoulder one last time. “Be safe, my friend. We will meet soon in victory.”

  “If Feyn comes, watch her like a hawk,” Rom said. To Jordin: “Don’t trust her. If Saric dies and she survives—”

  “Then Feyn and I will both rule,” Jonathan said, walking back to his horse, Jordin at his heels. He swung into his saddle, and a second later Jordin followed suit. “Put your doubts aside, Rom. Don’t forget what I’ve said.”

  With that he pulled his mount around and spurred it west.

  Toward Corvus Point.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  FIVE MILES SOUTH OF THE SEYALA VALLEY, the scales of a vast serpent twined along the Andros Plain. Twelve thousand strong. Two thousand cavalry. Ten thousand heavy infantry.

  Two standard-bearers carried red flags that rose like two crimson eyes set in the head of the winding army. One standard bore the compass of Order, which was the insignia of the world and of the Sovereign, transposed from its former white background to the crimson of Saric’s new World Order. The other bore the scaled phoenix—a winged and serpentine creature, an evolved version of the firebird—a symbol of reborn life once revered by the alchemists of ancient Chaos.

  The army was twice the size of the legions in the history books of Chaos. Appropriate, because it was comprised of those who were doubly alive, each of them beautiful works not only of alchemy, but of their Maker.

  The vanguard’s two thousand cavalry rode black stallions so eerily uniform that one might think they had all sprung from the same bloodline or even the same genetic code.

  Which they had.

  The cavalry carried spear, sword, and smaller round shields. They rode in black saddles skirted in leather armor to protect the horses’ flanks—at first glance one might not know where man ended and horse began. Their black helmets reflected no light from the sporadic sun.

  The ten thousand on foot wore the black leather armor of their leader, the polished sheen dulled by the dust of eight hours’ march. It covered the toe and heel of boot to midthigh, giving each man the appearance of having sprung up out of the earth like a dark specter.

  They carried spears with iron heads. Short, straight swords rode their left hips. Rectangular shields were slung across their backs like giant, obsidian scales. The weapons of a former age had been remade—reborn—in factories deep to the south of the peninsula, first under the orders of Pravus, and most recently under Saric.

  They marched twenty columns wide, with five on either side of the supply train in the middle. Their formation was perfect. Mathematically precise and alive.

  The ground shook beneath their feet like the beat of a new heart, the anthem of a new, living age.

  At the head of the vanguard between Brack and Varus, Saric closed his eyes. The cavalry’s rattling tack was its own kind of song. Primal. Beautiful. Like the violins of Chaos—refined beyond mere sound.

  Only one being could threaten the harmony of his new era.

  The boy. Jonathan.

  His stomach clenched, as much with anticipation as with outrage. There were two things he could not abide. One was any threat to the supremacy of the life in his veins. The other was his own need to discover and consume the greatest life.

  Since the notion that the boy might possess superior life in his veins had first presented itself to him, no amount of reason had yet dislodged it. Saric had spent half of the night in preparations with his generals, considering every possible approach to the Mortals’ valley and every tactic to ensure crushing victory. He had rehearsed them all relentlessly. That he harbored any concern despite his army’s massive advantage was somewhat of a mystery to his officers, he knew.

  In reality, it was the conflict raging in his mind regarding the nature of Jonathan’s life that motivated his anxiety, something his children could never know. The questions had kept him awake until their predawn march.

  In the end he submitted himself to a simple resolution. His need to rule superseded his need to embrace any potentially greater life. And yet even the thought of opening the boy’s jugular haunted him. One Maker, slaying another. What source of life might he extinguish, never to be seen again? What if he was making a terrible mistake?

  Saric’s reverie was broken by the sound of drumming hoofbeats, approaching from the north. His eyes snapped open.

  One of the scouts, returning. Urgency pulled at the warrior’s face.

  Saric raised his arm. Behind him, the machine of his army ground to a halt.

  The scout dropped from his horse before it stopped, took five long strides and dropped to one knee, head bowed.

  “My Lord.”

  “Rise.” The scout stood. “Well?”

  “The valley’s been evacuated. They wait on the plateau.”

  So the Mortals were not unaware. They’d expected as much; Nomad scouts would have seen their approach in time to make hasty preparations for retreat or for battle.

  “No sign in the valley?”

  “They’ve swept it clean, though there are some ruins that appear to have been recently used for a blood ritual of some kind. It’s all over the stones.”

  Little was known about secretive Nomadic custom, but Saric had little interest in how they lived. It was the blood that interested him. Could it be the boy’s? Had it been spilled in the making of more Mortals?

  His mind flashed back to Feyn’s turning, there on Corban’s table, as the alchemist pumped her full from the reserve he kept of Saric’s blood. She’d screamed as Saric’s blood had replaced the last of her own, and then she’d collapsed for an hour. Waking, she’d been calm and resolved, apparently unchanged from her former self.

  Later, when they had spoken, she seemed quite sure they suspected nothing and would be caught unawares, but then, she knew little of the ways of war.

  For a moment, he wondered what else she might have been mistaken about. Or if she’d knowingly delivered erroneous information to him. No. Impossible. His power over her was absolute and she’d been guileless. He would have seen her deception.

  Or had the boy found a way to change her in ways beyond Saric’s understanding?

  He would soon know. She would either betray the boy as she’d detailed late that night, or she would attempt to betray him—inconceivable, considering her state.

  She’d insisted she go alone, fearing that the presence of any guard would be detected and her opportunity lost. He’d rejected the notion immediately, but she’d been adamant that Jonathan must suspect nothing at this so-called summit of theirs.

  “I don’t like it,” Varus murmured.

  Saric’s attention returned to the present.

  “There is nothing to like about what is uncertain,” he said. “How many on the plateau?”

  “From what we could see, less than a thousand,” the scout said. “But full surveillance isn’t possible—they wait on the higher ground.”

  “What side?”

  “The north.”

  Strange relief seeped into Saric’s veins. This much of Feyn’s report was true. It gave him confidence in her ability to deliver on the rest.

  “Weapons?”

  “Standard fare,” the scout said.

  “Horses?”

  “Most.”

  Again, as expected.

  “They’ll outrun our infantry,” Varus said. “Unless we can bring our infantry to bear, they might outmaneuver us or run.”

  “If they meant to run, they would have already,” Saric said. “They wait for us. And so we will not disappoint them.”

  “Could it be a trap?” Varus said.

  Saric looked at the scout for an opinion.

  “No sign that we
could see. A canyon lies to the north, best to be avoided.”

  Saric lifted his eyes and studied the horizon. The valley lay beyond the hills ahead, quiet in the late morning sun. It was odd to think that the fate of all living and dead could be decided in one historic day. His name would be remembered to the end of time.

  This was his destiny.

  And the boy’s blood?

  “We can lose half of our number and defeat them still,” Saric said. “We’re not here to save lives, but to end every one of those that threatens our own. Send three hundred cavalry north along the western flank to cut off any escape. Another three hundred west with a full division of infantry to hold for my signal. We box them into their own graveyard without a single Nomad warrior left standing by day’s end.”

  There would be no one left to protect the boy.

  “Send the bulk of our infantry led by two cavalry divisions up the middle,” Varus said. “We’ll drive them to the cliffs. Send the order.”

  Brack nodded and wheeled his horse round. Within moments an entire left column broke away and reformed itself, twenty wide, one hundred deep. Two thousand infantry. They were moving northwest within minutes, and Brack was back by his side.

  Saric gave him a curt nod. “Double time.”

  Brack swung his arm forward and the dark and beautiful machine that was his army broke free and started forward again, this time at twice the former cadence.

  The plain began to narrow within three miles between two rising cliffs. From here one could follow the winding of the river that flowed between them up toward the canyons and mountains farther north. Saric’s army surged along the plain, veering west as the ground began to rise. Not until they reached the mouth of the valley did he signal.

  “Stop.”

  He eased his mount’s pace to a halt, and the heavy crush of boots on the ground ceased behind him. Still no sign of the Mortals on the cliffs. Save the ruins, the valley appeared empty, as reported.

  “Bring him.”

  Orders were issued and four Dark Bloods wheeled a long, shallow cart forward. Saric considered the Mortal gagged and bound at the neck, waist, and knees to a thick pole in the middle of the cart. He was naked except for the cloth around his waist—covered now in sweat and dust. His eyes were wide, wild. Corbin had done well to keep the prisoner they’d taken at the Authority of Passing alive. Triphon, he was called—Saric knew him as one of those who’d conspired with Rom Sebastian to bring him down nine years earlier.