Mortal

by Ted Dekker

  Varus hesitated only a moment, then spun and issued the command. A horn blast and Dark Bloods from across the plateau broke into a fast run for their position as Varus issued a string of commands that quickly translated to the flags. And then he turned the army south at a fast jog as those behind fell in line. Like a black river, his vast army spilled over the hill and angled toward the valley.

  Overhead, clouds had cut off the sun. Saric scanned the heavens, momentarily struck by the movement in the sky, like ghosts rushing to meet an unheard call. A storm was gathering with astonishing speed, hastened by a strengthening wind. The Mortals’ archers would be compromised. Rain would slow their horses.

  The sudden turn was a good omen.

  Dust rose to the south, trailing a visible gathering of horses racing to reach the valley’s wide mouth before his Dark Bloods could block their entrance. If the Mortals could be divided, half of his children could engage those caught outside the valley while the rest of his forces fought the Nomads inside. The Nomad prince would be far less likely to flee into the canyons while some of their own remained outside.

  “Varus, take a division at full sprint!” He rose in his stirrups, as he plunged down the hill. Thrust his arm forward. “Cut them off!”

  Varus roared the order to one of the division commanders. His men rapidly broke ahead of the main body. Like a cluster of black hornets, they swarmed down the hill and cut east, passing through the river as if it were made of fog. They were moving at only half the speed of the mounted Nomads but then, they had only half the distance to cover.

  Ahead of them, Roland glanced back at the pursing Dark Bloods, motioning frantically at the approaching Mortals to speed.

  It would be close.

  The arrows came from the riders then, fired into his sprinting division. Not in massive waves as in the Nomad’s first attacks on the plateau, and not with the same accuracy in the face of the wind. Several of his men went down, forcing those behind to leap over their bodies. But the swarming horde did not falter or slow.

  “Varus! The rest! Full sprint!”

  Barked orders. The flags went up. The rest of his army tripled its pace and flooded the low ground.

  Saric gave his horse its head as the two armies angled for the valley’s mouth at breakneck speed, each vying for first position. His blood ran cold as anticipation flooded his veins.

  His Dark Bloods were going to reach the valley first.

  And they did, surging across the mouth of the valley in a long thick line. The Mortal riders thundered forward then veered east as more of his army swarmed in behind the ranks already in position.

  Saric’s mount leapt into the river, splashed through the water and tore up the far bank, barely breaking pace. He pulled north along the river, digging his heels into the flanks of his mount. A small hill rose a hundred paces ahead.

  “To the hill!”

  Varus and five hundred of his children shifted and angled for the rise.

  Saric pulled the steed to a sharp halt at the mound’s crest and wheeled it around to give him full view of the valley.

  What he saw below filled him with dark satisfaction.

  Triphon, the slain Mortal, hung from his pole alone before the temple ruins, head sagging in death, portending the fate of all who’d once celebrated so-called life with him. Roland stood in his saddle a hundred strides north of the dead Mortal, joined by two hundred of his fighters, eyes fixed on the battle erupting at the valley mouth beyond.

  Saric had divided the Nomad’s forces.

  He’d been correct: the prince would not retreat into the canyons before the rest of his warriors fought their way through the Dark Bloods to join him.

  Beyond the ruins a steep cliff cut off any hope of escape to the east. The hills behind him rose to more cliffs, blocking any ascent to the west. There were only two ways out of the valley: past his army now positioned at the mouth, or into the canyons at the far end.

  For the first time, the battle had taken a decided turn in Saric’s favor. The din of combat grew as riders braved his front lines in a desperate attempt to pass to safety. Steel clashed against steel; hooves pounded the earth. Cries and shouts of warning…

  Groans of death.

  In his ears the sound was nothing less than a siren song, beckoning all to follow a new master: Saric, who would usher in new life and protect it with an iron fist.

  “Half, in deeper after the prince!” he cried.

  Varus gave the order and his page issued the signal. Two flags lowered toward the Mortals in the valley.

  Three thousand Dark Bloods turned, took up rank, and began marching toward Roland’s two hundred Nomads, just now surging forward to attack. They clashed just north of the ruins, this time in closer quarters than on the plateau above.

  Now the battle was fought on two distinct fronts: one at the mouth of the valley, one in the valley itself. Had the Mortals been less determined, they would have the sense to cut off their assault and flee. But Saric knew running wasn’t in Roland’s blood.

  Beyond the ruins, a Mortal rider raced behind the main battle, arms waving frantically, yelling retreat. It took only a moment for Saric to recognize the man as Rom Sebastian.

  Two leaders with two minds. One cried retreat, the other attack.

  Now Saric knew: only time stood between himself and full victory. The battle was his. If his army didn’t annihilate the entire Mortal force, there would only be enough left to run and tell the tale later.

  Feyn would die for her betrayal.

  There would be no army left to usher Jonathan in as Sovereign.

  Saric would rule without challenge.

  Rom tore down the line behind the Mortals fighting in the valley, heart hammering with panic. Roland’s plan was unraveling. By the minute more Nomads desperate to break through the heavy Dark Blood ranks took spears in their chests and fell. He couldn’t see the extent of what was unfolding on the far side, but he imagined the casualty rate was no less.

  And yet to a man, the fighters followed Roland’s lead, determined to prove the Nomad’s cry for victory.

  Triphon’s bloodied body hung from the pole in the wide swath of bare ground between the two battlefronts. His friend had paid for Rom’s failure with his life. Now the rest of them would follow that death and leave Jonathan with no hope.

  “Michael!” he screamed. “It’s too much!”

  She ducked to avoid a hurled spear and veered toward the Dark Blood who’d hurled it. If she’d heard Rom, she gave no sign of it.

  He spun his head to the left. “Roland!”

  The cry fell on deaf ears.

  They had begun the day with seven hundred Mortals, primed to change the world. They’d lost nearly a third on the plateau. Here in the valley, they might lose far more… Surely Roland could accept defeat to fight another day!

  But no. The Nomads had lost their minds to their own need for supremacy.

  Just beyond the reach of the Dark Bloods, Roland paced, daring them to approach. Mind welling with rage, Rom spurred his horse into a tear straight toward Roland.

  He would run the man down if he had to.

  He had made it halfway to the Nomad Prince when the lone cry—unmistakable to Mortal ears—reached him. He glanced back, to the west.

  There on a far hill, buffeted by the accelerating wind sat two riders. One on a pale horse, the other on a dark one. A young man dressed as a Nomad… a woman cloaked in pale gray over regal white whom he would have recognized anywhere.

  Jonathan. Feyn.

  They had come.

  Rom felt the air leave his lungs. For a beat, he forgot that his horse careened toward Roland. He jerked back on the reins and pulled his mount to a rearing halt.

  He wasn’t sure if it had been Jonathan or Feyn who’d announced their arrival, but the effect swept through the amassed forces like a wave. The sounds of battle in the valley lost some of its urgency.

  To the hill on Rom’s right, Saric had turned on his horse, one
arm still raised to his army. But his attention was on the pair. Roland whistled and retreated, joined immediately by the Mortals fighting at his side.

  The battle ebbed, eerily so, before falling to a standstill.

  Thunder rumbled overhead. The dark sky churned.

  The valley was now divided by two wide lines of Saric’s army, one on either side of the ruins, leaving a wide strip of bare ground that led directly up the ruin steps. The Mortals pulled back to the north and south of the Dark Bloods.

  Feyn broke first, nudging her horse forward at an easy walk. Jonathan followed slightly behind to her right. Down the hill, then across the river and up the bank toward the temple ruins. A picture of stoic resolve.

  Rom’s first thought was filled with relief and jubilation. However unlikely, Jonathan had carved out an agreement with Feyn that would give him power without further bloodshed. And then they would mourn the cost of that already spilled—more than had been let in more than five centuries.

  Feyn and Jonathan approached, looking neither to the right or the left. Only when they reached Saric’s hill did they stop.

  Jonathan stared at Triphon’s dead body sagging before the ruin steps. Feyn slowly turned her head, looked up at Saric, and held his gaze evenly. The Maker of Dark Bloods finally gave her a short nod then nudged his horse forward. Down the hill, slowly.

  Before Saric reached them, Feyn started her mount forward with Jonathan at her side, his eyes never leaving the temple ruins. Saric rode down from the hill and followed.

  Only then did it occur to Rom that Saric and Feyn were now in possession of the boy, isolated by an army of Dark Bloods on either side. They were cut off from all Mortals sworn to Jonathan’s defense.

  He pulled around, saw that Roland was locked in place, utterly still as others cast furtive glances between him and the procession to the temple. They were awaiting orders.

  None came.

  “Jonathan!” Rom’s voiced echoed through the valley. “My Sovereign!”

  Jonathan neither turned nor raised his hand, even in acknowledgment. Instead, he rode slowly at Feyn’s side, seemingly intent on only one thing: the ruins ahead of him.

  Another peal of thunder rumbled across the sky. The wind picked up.

  Terror sliced through Rom’s mind.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  SARIC’S MIND SPUN WITH THE MEANING of Feyn’s sudden arrival, aware all the while that his children’s eyes were fixed on him riding behind her like a leader who had taken second seat to true royalty. Aware that his skin was clammy with sweat. That his heart pounded. Aware that Jonathan’s jaw was set, his eyes fixed, his hips rolling naturally with his mount’s gait, his hands light on the reins as one at ease with his place as supreme ruler of all that life could offer, despite the falsity of that notion.

  Aware, too, that the Mortals were cut off from any attempt at saving the boy.

  The battle had stalled completely, drawn to the sudden appearance of the pair. His children watched him, waiting for his direction. He left them standing. The battle was now in his hands.

  He studied the side of Feyn’s face, the line of her jaw bared by her simple plaits, the pale gray mantle, the pearls sewn at the cuffs of her sleeves. She had fulfilled her promise to bring the boy to him.

  And yet, she showed none of the reverence he expected from a loyal servant. The submission that had occupied her very posture before turning full Dark Blood only last evening was gone.

  He considered the line of Dark Bloods to his right. They watched him mostly, but some of their eyes had turned to Jonathan.

  A chill flashed down his back. He could hardly blame them—the object of their full fury had been delivered into the hands of their Master. But curiosity, not anger, occupied their eyes.

  He kicked his horse and trotted up next to Feyn as they approached the steps.

  “I was beginning to question your loyalty, my love.”

  Her eyes remained steadfast on the dead Mortal hanging before the temple. As did Jonathan’s.

  Didn’t she know he could draw his sword and summarily cut her down now, where she sat? For a brief moment he considered showing his supremacy in such a way for all to see. But then, he had no evidence that she’d betrayed him.

  “You have done well,” he said quietly. “For this I will reward you.”

  She made no effort to acknowledge him.

  Had she lost her mind? Did the boy have such power to steal her heart? But no… They were both under his heel, their fates in his hands.

  Beside her, Jonathan rode as though alone, seemingly oblivious to the thousands who looked on. He looked strangely majestic in his worn black tunic. Even his mount seemed to be aware of nothing but its rider’s supremacy, as though to say: Here is one born of true life, the final remnant of Chaos, fully alive by birthright.

  A man brimming with more life than Saric could possibly know without taking his blood himself.

  No. He was imagining things.

  And what if it’s true, Saric? What if you rid the world of the only vessel that might bring you the supreme life and power you so desperately crave?

  “Is there anything you would say to your Maker?” he demanded of Feyn.

  Her horse stopped ten paces from the ruin steps, just beyond Triphon’s lifeless form. Without a glance at Saric she dismounted, walked around to Jonathan, and offered him a hand.

  Jonathan took her hand, gave Triphon’s body a last look, and dismounted. She led him to the steps, lifted his fingers, and lightly kissed his knuckles. Gave him a parting look. Only then did she turn to face Saric.

  “I give you your Sovereign, my Lord. My debt is repaid.”

  Without another word, Feyn crossed to her mount, swung into the saddle, reined her horse around, and rode directly toward the line of Dark Bloods at the valley mouth. They parted like a black sea as she approached, wind gusting through their corridor.

  He could have stopped her, but she had played her role. If her loyalty to him had been undermined, he would deal with her easily enough later—she commanded no army. No force could offer her protection.

  Feyn rode through his ranks, past the Mortals beyond, and headed out of the valley at a full run.

  When Saric turned back to the temple ruins, Jonathan had already climbed the steps. He stood, looking out at Dark Blood and Mortal alike. His feet were parted and firmly planted, young jaw tight, his hands clenched in fists by his side as gusts tore at his clothing and hair.

  So then, nine years had finally brought them to a place of righting the past, of all that had gone wrong. Their roles, this time, were reversed. Today it was Jonathan’s turn to surrender.

  Life…

  The word swept through Saric’s mind as if carried by the raging wind.

  “Jonathan!” Rom Sebastian’s voice carried over the lines, stretched thin by desperation. “Jonathan!”

  Saric was about to dismount when the boy’s voice cut through the rising storm, drawing the ear of every breathing soul in the valley.

  “In an age of Chaos the first to walk this earth lived in full abandonment!” he cried. “They embraced the full pleasure of all that was given. They laughed and filled their bellies with the offerings of the land. They danced beneath sun and moon, and celebrated unreserved passion. Do any of you dare say it was not good?”

  His challenge rang out with an authority that brought a tremble to Saric’s fingers.

  He speaks of life as one who knows it too well…

  The wind moaned through the ruins. Above, the dark sky churned. Dark Blood and Mortal alike stared on in silence.

  Jonathan walked to his right, tendons taut along his neck beneath bulging veins. Veins flowing with the first blood of life.

  “Before there was war, there was peace! Before hate, love. Before selfish ambition, selfless service. There was beauty without end, never meant to fade.”

  He was pacing now, hands clenched in the air.

  “But those who lived also courted sick ambition
and selfish greed. They longed for power. To consume more than they were given. They waged war. Human killed human, enraged, jealous, filled with the need to possess the service of others. Love was crushed by the need to protect what could not be owned. Man ignored the call to embrace the way of a Maker whose banner is love given freely, not controlled by force or demanded by allegiance or loyalty!”

  How dare this man stand before his children and speak of love divorced from obedience, loyalty, or possession?

  And then, as his rage gathered like the storm overhead, he realized it wasn’t rage at all… but jealousy.

  “This was the failing of man!” Jonathan cried. “And so a man named Megas stripped humankind of all sentiment but fear. Jealous for humanity, determined to possess it, zealous for control! Until the day that life was reborn five centuries later in one child. A boy to be raised for his blood to feed all those thirsty to drink!”

  Far to Saric’s left, one of the Mortals cried out: “He speaks the truth! Mortals rise with life!”

  Jonathan’s finger shot out in the direction of the voice. “No!” he screamed. “I tell you today, true life is not found in blood that wakens only the passions. As in the days of Chaos, only love given freely inhabits the Maker’s design. Those who claim love dependent on allegiance are imposters who know nothing of the Sovereign realm. They will die the same as those who walk without life already!”

  A jagged knife of lightning split the sky. Thunder crashed overhead as the wind gained intensity, whipping Jonathan’s braids about his face.

  But the heavens were not the only thing on the verge of cracking open.

  Saric felt his mind tilt even as he sat tall in his saddle. The boy’s words cut, severing every tether to all that he’d died and lived for. Slowly the world around him began to fade, leaving only the accusing form atop the ruined temple steps. Was it possible? Was Jonathan’s life more true than his own?

  Even if it was, he could not bow. Not to this Maker, no matter how much greater his life might be.