Ted Dekker - Mortal

The Mortal looked confused.

“No, I didn’t think so,” Saric said. “But now you understand that I fear no Mortal, including Jonathan, who is no Sovereign but subject to Feyn. Understand also that I will assure peace among all who live, either in or out of Order. Can you accept that, Pasha?”

A nod.

“Say it, please.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. It seems you didn’t want to submit to that peace earlier. I’m sorry they had to persuade you as they did, but these wounds will heal. You are now demonstrating your willingness to work toward a lasting peace by being truthful. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. How many Mortals of your kind has Jonathan given his blood to?”

“More than a thousand.”

“Only a thousand? How many can fight?”

“Seven hundred.”

“Only seven hundred. So few? Why?”

“There is… a moratorium… on making new Mortals.”

The confession was curious. Why? Saric would think any reasoning party would feel the need to build an army.

“Well then, it doesn’t appear that your Mortals have any intention of harm. You can understand how your secrecy might have led us to believe otherwise.”

He glanced again to the cut on the man’s ribs, still oozing blood. Was it possible that there could be a power greater than his own in that red vitae? The thought was intolerable, offensive. He tore his gaze away.

“Where are your people?” he asked.

This time the Mortal hesitated.

“Any subject who hides demonstrates hostility. Should I assume you are an enemy of the Sovereign?”

“No.”

“Then tell me.”

The Mortal’s eyes seemed to shift to Feyn and back within their broken sockets. “In the Seyala Valley.”

“I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?”

“A day’s ride northwest, where the Lucrine River meets the badlands.”

Saric knew the valley by another name. These Mortals, then, moved by their own map?

“How many are there. All of them?”

“You’ll release me?”

“I’ve given you my word.”

The man hesitated again, then nodded.

“Good.” Saric turned to Brack, captain of the elite guard. “Return word to Varus. Gather the army to march by nightfall.”

The captain dipped his head. “Yes, my Lord. How many divisions should-”

“All of them! Tell him I will lead and to wait for me.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The Dark Blood spun on one heal and left at a brisk clip.

Saric turned his attention to Feyn, who was still staring at the Mortal.

“I want you to kill this man, my love. I want you to cut his chest open and pull out his heart.”

Her dark eyes darted up, wide.

Saric studied her. Loyalty could nearly always be seen in the eyes, but action always told the full truth.

“Corban, give her the knife.”

Corban withdrew a long serrated knife from a sheath beneath his robe, and pressed the handle into Feyn’s hand. She took it without wavering.

“Please…” The Mortal was pleading now, chest heaving as he gasped for air, voice hoarse and too high. “I beg you… Send me as a warning, anything…”

Feyn didn’t move.

“Do you remember who gave you life on this altar? Tell me.”

Her voice was faint. “You did. Master.”

“And he who gives life can also take it. This man serves the Mortal who would take your seat and offer life in my stead. Do you serve him or do you serve me?”

“I serve you.”

“Then do as I say, my love.”

Feyn’s chest was rising and falling quickly. Sweat beaded her brow. A tremor shook the hems of her white sleeves.

“Kill him?” she said.

“For me, my love.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

She gave a faint nod. Stepped up to the table, lifted the blade high over her head. Eyes fixed upon Saric, she screamed and plunged the knife down with both hands into the chest of the Mortal beneath her.

IN TWO DAYS’ TIME, the great bonfires before the temple would burn as high as the ancient columns standing above it. The growing piles of wood were already the size of a small yurt and would be even larger by the time the fires were lit on the night of the annual Gathering. Hunters had gone out in search of boar, hare-as much game as they could bring back. The roasting pit had been dug on the edge of camp and lined with coals-soon the smell of roasting meat would send every stomach in camp growling.

Wine had been retrieved from the deep crevasse in the cliff face where it was stored, carried off from the last northern transport Roland’s cadre had raided before the entire camp had relocated to the Seyala Valley. It had been stored here, untouched, in anticipation of the Gathering. For centuries the annual event had drawn Nomadic factions scattered throughout the continents together for trade, marriage, and, most important of all, the remembrance of Chaos. In this way Nomads celebrated life as it was known in Chaos, by rote, void of emotion, as best as Corpses could celebrate life.

These last years the Gathering had taken on a decidedly more frenzied pace. The small bands of a hundred or two hundred Nomads each that had come together the year Jonathan had joined Roland’s tribe had never separated again. Nine hundred Nomads in total who no longer needed to travel long distances to gather, who no longer gathered in remembrance of Chaos but in celebration of life.

Mortal life through Jonathan’s blood.

A life that Rom had just a day and a half ago learned was rapidly slipping away.

Rom paused in midcamp, staring vacantly at the smoldering remains of last night’s bonfire. It had burned lower than usual-and would burn lower yet, tonight, in preparation for the great fire to come the night after. The celebration promised to be the most hedonistic and frenzied Gathering yet for the anticipation of Jonathan’s succession to the Sovereign throne-of the kingdom to come. New life to invade the dead world.

But looking at the embers now, Rom felt only dread.

Roland was gone on his wild gamble of a mission to acquire Feyn. A hundred fighters had been sent out as scouts, leaving those within the camp vulnerable. All this for Jonathan’s sake.

Rom needed to see him. To lay eyes on the boy with the uncanny nature who was both naïve and too wise at once. To see him and remember the day he’d first found him in secret as a boy. To remind himself that this was the boy predicted by Talus. Surely, the prophecy would come true.

But of course it would. Jonathan’s very existence was proof that all Rom had lived and fought for these nine years would somehow still come to pass.

He strode for Adah’s yurt, impatient for Triphon, who’d gone to find the boy an hour ago. What was taking him so long?

Ten minutes later, he was seated at Adah’s table at her insistence, a bowl of rabbit stew and a cup of fermented mare’s milk in front of him.

Watching as the older Nomad hurried out to check on something cooking in her outdoor oven, Rom could not help but think of Anna, his mother. She’d never known life-he could only hope that she now knew Bliss. The thought should have comforted him but instead brought him new anxiety. So many had died… Anna. Jonathan’s mother. The first old Keeper who had given him the vial of blood on that day nine years ago…

Avra.

Too many, and yet he couldn’t shake the fear that they might be few compared to the cost that awaited them in the days to come.

Appetite gone, he forced himself to eat-the first time he had done so since early yesterday morning, before the debacle with the Corpse and Jonathan’s increasingly erratic behavior.

Adah ducked back into the tent and he forced a slight smile and a wink. “Delicious as always, Adah.”