by Ted Dekker
“I would give my life for you,” she said.
He offered her a quiet smile and a single nod. “And I for you.”
He leaned forward and kissed her gently on her lips. “I for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ROLAND GAZED AT THE AMASSED SEA OF DARK BLOODS, acutely aware of many things at once: The oppressive stench of deeper death wafting across the plateau; the unwavering position of Saric at the front of his horde; the precise location of his archers in trenches along the western side where they awaited his signal; the years of training that every warrior under his command had endured readying for this very day; the battle plan he would execute in four critical stages; the ultimate trap designed to deliver the final blow to the army staring him down right now.
But one thought prevailed above all the others: The fate of all Nomads, those people who had clung tenaciously to freedom over so many centuries, would be decided today in a battle that, no matter how long awaited, could not be won. For all practical purposes, this ground now belonged to Saric.
The Dark Blood had succinctly made his point when his men had planted the pole bearing Triphon in the ground before the temple ruins. A runner had brought them the news: Triphon was alive.
Rom had gone into a frenzy, shouting for his horse. Roland had forcibly pulled him back.
“I have to go get him!”
“Don’t you see? That’s exactly what Saric wants!”
“This is Triphon we’re talking about!” But then he spun away, fists clenched into white-knuckled balls. Rom was no fool; he knew there was no rescuing Triphon.
Words of assurance that Rom could not be blamed failed to calm him—or to assuage the tension in Roland’s own gut. But it was true: taking the time to recover Triphon’s body where he’d fallen at the Authority of Passing would have likely resulted only in more deaths—including Jonathan’s.
In the end the two of them had ridden to the edge of the bluff, there to look down helplessly at the man Roland, too, had regarded as nearly a brother.
Roland’s stomach had tightened to a knot when the Dark Blood shoved his blade under Triphon’s rib cage and ended his life. Rom was beside himself, tearing at his hair. Roland’s own emotion had been for the loss of a friend and those Triphon left behind, but as much for the staggering odds that they faced today. Surely, this was Saric’s intent.
The Dark Bloods were too many. Too savage. Too powerful. Perfectly resolute. When the beast that was Saric’s army moved, it would deny its size and strike like an adder with both wicked speed and venom.
Then again, if Saric had claimed the valley with Triphon’s dead body on a pole, Mortals claimed this battlefield with the Dark Blood’s head dangling from that rope.
Above, the sky had filled with dark-edged clouds full with the promise of an oncoming storm. A heavy rain might compromise their battle plan—particularly the fire they would need in the canyons. To think that after years of preparation for such a day nature itself might defeat them…
A chill prickled his skin.
His declaration that their seven hundred could defeat this swarm of twelve thousand had evoked bold cheers among the ranks of the Nomads just hours ago, and shouts and for final death to any who oppressed life among the living. Children had been kissed and embraced with promises of beauty to come before being sent away. Swords had been sharpened and arrows notched. Someone had told a story of a shepherd boy killing a giant with a single stone and a slingshot, a tale survived from times more ancient than even the Age of Chaos. And they had prepared, believing—knowing—that victory, if not assured, was at least possible.
But now as he stared down Saric’s black dragon of an army, Roland wondered if he’d made a dreadful mistake. If he had overestimated his own tactical advantage. Superior Mortal perception gave them a decided edge over the Dark Bloods’ brute strength and speed, he’d said. And the tenacious instinct for survival within their Nomadic veins would see to it that history recorded the day Roland’s seven hundred Mortals crushed Saric’s twelve thousand Dark Bloods.
They had shouted to the heavens at that.
But now the reality of a vastly larger force stood before him prepared to prove him a fool, and all the bravado and words in the world would not add even one man to his number.
He could still turn his horse back and give the signal for retreat. They would ride north four miles, descend into the canyons along a narrow trail cut months earlier, and quickly disappear into four gorges to emerge three miles farther north, there to regroup in the Valley of Bones.
He could. And yet destiny would not allow him to retreat as his ancestors had.
Rom had informed him that Jonathan had retreated to the old outpost five miles northwest for a summit of Sovereigns. As far as Roland was concerned, they could talk all they liked; ruling power would be decided here on this field, between Saric, Maker of Dark Bloods, and himself, the Leader of the Immortals, as some of the zealots had come to call themselves of late. Political power would succumb to the raw power of life, something Jonathan no longer possessed.
For a full minute, the formation of Dark Bloods remained perfectly still. A thousand on horse, the rest heavy infantry. Part of Saric’s cavalry would be farther west, awaiting the signal for a flanking maneuver. If the Dark Blood had considered every option, he had also sent another division north to cut off any retreat—they had the numbers to spare, and they knew that running had always been the most refined skill of any Nomad.
Not today.
The Dark Bloods’ serpentine banner flapped lazily in the breeze next to another: the compass of Sirin, the standard of Order—but this time it was set, like the dragon, against a red background. If Saric intended the red background of his flags to symbolize blood, Roland vowed plenty of it would be spilled by sunset today.
The Dark Bloods hadn’t moved. Saric, in conference with his generals, didn’t bother turning his head to address him. Time stretched, filling the distance between them as the clouds shifted overhead.
He waited.
Finally, the general named Brack broke from his guard and trotted his horse forward alone. Saric had wisely decided not to place himself in direct contact with an enemy who might slay him where he stood. Wise. A show of confidence could go only so far. For a moment, Roland wondered if his own had gone too far already.
Only when Brack was within fifty paces could Roland distinguish his scent from the overwhelming odor of the horde behind him. A tinge of what he took to be apprehension, but no fear.
The general stopped ten paces away but Roland had no intention of speaking. They were posturing and they both knew it, each waiting for the other to move.
They faced off for a full minute. Twice the general’s mount snorted and shifted impatiently. Never once did the general break his steely glare.
“If you have something to say, speak,” Brack finally said, voice gruff. He was at the disadvantage in this standoff and he knew it, because his master would expect a report.
Roland only stared. Sweat snaked down his back. Out in the wind it normally dried before it could soak through his clothing. Not today. His men crouched in hiding would be soaked from pit to waist by now. Few of them could yet see the full scope of the vast enemy who’d come to snuff them out, but to a man and woman they knew that survival today would come only through inhuman feats of skill, strength, and desire.
Then again, Mortals were inhuman. More than human, created to live hundreds of years and engage the world with a refined perceptive sense superseding that of any living creature upon the earth.
Three hundred Nomads waited in hiding two miles to the south behind the Dark Blood army. Another three hundred to the west waited in oil-soaked trenches, armed with crossbows modified to send three arrows with each pull. Only a hundred were stretched across the plateau to Roland’s rear, mounted just over the slight rise, hidden from view.
Each of them knew the critical mission facing them at the onset of battle: fell the cavalr
y first. Only then would their mounts give them any significant advantage.
“You mistake your foolishness for bravery,” Brack said. “I will tell my Maker that you wish us to place your head next to the one above you.”
He gave Roland a parting glare and jerked on the reins to turn his mount.
“Ask your Maker how long Nomads have lived,” Roland said.
The general held up, and Roland continued.
“Ask him how so many generations of humans with a considerable appetite for breeding could produce only a thousand children. Then you will know why I stand here today, unconcerned. Your forces are matched in number. You’ve been drawn into a trap envisioned by the Sovereigns. If you retreat now and surrender Saric to die beneath my sword, we will allow your army safe passage. Refuse, and not one of your dead will walk away.”
A new scent edged into Roland’s heightened perception. Curiosity. Possibly confusion.
“There is one true Sovereign and his name is Saric,” the general said. “He prefers sharpened steel over flimsy words.”
“No, Brack.” Roland nudged his horse left, drawing the man to face east so that his back was to the western edge of the plateau. “My Sovereign is called Feyn. She meets with the Seventh called Jonathan. Together they plot the demise of any Dark Blood to escape slaughter on this field. Tell Saric when he hears the sky screaming he will know that Feyn has betrayed him.”
The general sat unmoving on his mount, unimpressed, by all appearances, even as his scent turned decidedly acidic.
“One nod from me, and you will be dead where you sit,” Roland said. “Or I could have one of my men give you a gentle warning and spare your life. Tell me which you prefer.”
For the first time, Brack’s eyes narrowed. Roland turned his horse back to the pole and gave a short whistle.
The single arrow came from the east where Morinda, second only to Michael among all the archers, had been waiting over the lip of the cliff, head and bow hidden below a tuft of grass. The missile sped silently through the air, faster than any untrained eye could follow. Before the general could move, the projectile hissed by, a bare inch from his right ear, and embedded itself in the ground as though it had been there all along.
Brack did not flinch. He could not, however, mask the surge of concern betrayed by his scent. They both knew that unlike Dark Bloods, master archers were trained from childhood. They could not be bred in a laboratory or created with only a few years’ practice—or else Saric would have his own. Now they had seen the true threat of Mortal archers.
“Consider that your warning,” Roland said. “Stay and die. Leave and live.”
He turned his horse north and galloped toward his line without looking back.
Saric heard the soft whoosh of the arrow before he saw the shaft cut across the plateau, narrowly missing his man. A glance in the direction of the cliffs failed to reveal the source of it. They had known that archers would be a challenge but had not known to expect such accuracy.
But in truth, it was the audacity of the direct challenge that bothered him more than anything.
“Hold!” he said.
His line held without the slightest twitch. Brack might have been caught unaware by the first shot, but now that he knew the direction of the archer, he would have no trouble avoiding a second.
But a second one did not come. And then Roland was retreating at full speed and Brack was returning at a trot. So then the shot had been a warning? What did they even hope to accomplish? Surely no show of individual bravado could be expected to shake his army.
“Well?” he snapped, as Brack pulled up.
The general hesitated only a moment. “He says to ask you how so many generations of Nomads could produce only a thousand children,” the general said.
The question had already been asked and answered. The Nomads lost most of their numbers to attrition, leaving only the most dedicated to carry on their hard life. Now Roland wanted them to think they had many more. A pathetic ploy.
“And?”
“He said you would know your end when the sky begins to scream. He claims that Feyn has led you into a trap. The rest is utter nonsense.”
The image of Feyn cut through his mind at mention of her name and in that instant he considered the logic of such reasoning. In one fell swoop she could rid herself of all threats to her rule by pitting Mortals against Dark Bloods.
What if it were true?
His eyes flashed across the plateau, searching for any sign that there were more than the seven hundred they’d come expecting.
Nothing. The Nomadic Prince had vanished from sight over a slight rise. How many had hidden there beyond their line of sight?
His scouts had reported only seven hundred.
“Tell me the rest,” he said.
“My Lord—”
“Speak!”
The man dipped his head quickly. “He offers to spare the army if you surrender yourself.”
Silence settled between them. Saric’s gaze dropped over his general like tar.
“And did you for an instant wish that I would, so that you might save yourself?”
“Never, my Lord! I serve you with my life.”
Saric looked away, toward the rise.
“Is there any possible credence to this notion that they may have more numbers than we’re aware of… or that Feyn has betrayed us?”
His chief strategist, mounted to his right, said, “Unlikely, my Lord.” The man waited a beat then spoke on. “I only wonder what kind of enemy would be so bold as to offer terms they knew would be dismissed. They are begging for engagement.”
“So it seems. Only Feyn and our scouts have verified their numbers. Is there any possibility our scouts could have been misled?”
A long silence.
“It’s possible,” Varus said slowly. “The number first came to us from their scout while in our custody. It’s possible he could have fed us misinformation. The Nomads could have hidden an army in the badlands. If Feyn—”
His words were cut short by a sound that Saric first took to be screeching birds taking flight to the west. He turned his head and saw the black flock rising, screaming.
Those weren’t birds.
The screech became a whistling scream—a cloud of arrows darkening the sky. He’d heard of Nomads notching their arrows so they whistled as they flew, but he’d never imaged such an unnerving sound.
“Defend!” Brack thundered.
The terrifying sound had confused men and horse alike, locking them in indecision without a clear path of action. Too late, they recognized the unfamiliar threat of incoming arrows and threw up their shields while attempting to steady their mounts.
The first volley had not reached his cavalry before another horde of screaming arrows took flight from the west.
“Defend!”
His shout was lost in the squall of incoming projectiles. They had been carefully aimed to strike the leading cavalry, and they sliced down with blazing speed, cutting deep into leather, flesh, and hide.
It occurred to Saric in a momentary flash that if his children had been more given to panic, they might have bolted and avoided more of the heavy razors now cutting into their ranks.
Only one of every three arrows struck a target, but the second volley was already arching down, angled once again for the cavalry alone.
Brack shoved his finger in the direction of the archers. They had to be hiding in low ground. “Defend your Maker!”
The second volley sliced into the rearing horses. At a glance Saric saw that a full third of his cavalry had been compromised. A third volley darkened the sky. This could not be the doing of a mere few hundred archers! The threat wasn’t coming from the north, which was the direction Roland had gone, but from the west.
Rage flooded Saric’s veins. “Send them all! Send them all west!”
Brack swatted away one arrow that snipped by, then grunted as a second buried itself in his shoulder. He broke it off with a thic
k fist, stared at it for a brief moment, then hurled it at the ground.
“Cavalry, follow!” He spurred his horse and charged west, straight down the throat of the threat, ignoring the rain of shafts plunging into the ground around him until it seemed the earth itself had sprouted quills. As one, Saric’s Legion shifted and surged forward.
Only then did Saric see the line of a hundred horses thundering forward from the north where Roland had vanished. Bent low in saddles at breakneck speed, the riders suddenly rose in their stirrups, drew bowstrings, and fired a much closer volley directly into his battered cavalry.
They arrows came in like hornets, zeroing in on the larger targets of the horses’ bodies. And then more from the east where a line had risen from the cliffs, now to their rear. Half of his cavalry were down; the rest were in full swing west, leaving only infantry to bear down on the cliffs.
Saric swung his shield up just in time for the latest volley, arrows slamming into steel, then falling away, broken.
He gathered his resolve and willed himself to calm. A hornet could not defeat a hammer.
“Varus! The remaining divisions forward in full attack! Advance without retreat!”
The order was cried and the infantry surged forward, flowing around Saric like a thick, black wave. With a roar his Dark Bloods ran, leaning forward, shields lifted, feet shaking the earth, eight thousand strong.
The archers along the cliff sprung into view, loosed one last volley into the face of his advancing army, then sprinted in retreat. A line of two hundred men veered to their right in pursuit, a thundering horde. Too fast for the Mortals in flight despite their lighter weight.
Those at the back of the retreat were forced to engage. The Mortals parried and stuck, moving with the same agility he’d seen Roland demonstrate a week earlier. Deadly and deadly accurate, as though they saw every thrust coming. His children began to fall, only to be replaced by more, an unending tide of black.
