Ted Dekker - Mortal

Bile rose up in her throat and for a moment she thought she might be sick.

Jonathan stopped ten paces in and looked back at her-a quiet look that was neither order nor request. Simple acceptance, whether she entered after him or not.

She knew then that she could walk away and he wouldn’t begrudge her. That he had no expectation of her.

That he would love her always.

There was still time. She could get him out. But that wasn’t his way, and she was here to follow him, not the other way around.

She put one foot in front of the other until she’d passed through the gate and joined him.

Overhead, the sky flashed, a white flicker of lightning against a black sky. Too silent.

They made it all the way to the electrical plant, just north of the Authority of Passing, before Rom’s horse collapsed under him.

Beast and rider crashed to the earth. Rom slid over the shuddering animal’s neck and slammed into the ground in front of it, scraping hair and skin from his chin. Ahead of him, Triphon jerked his mount to a halt. The horse began to buckle, but managed to recover as Triphon slid from the saddle.

Rom shoved himself forward and scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain that shot up his leg. He glanced desperately at the heaving sides of the stallion on the ground and then in the direction of the garbage docks, and what he knew lay beyond.

“Take mine!” Triphon said, thrusting the reins of his horse into his hand.

He glanced at Triphon.

“Go! I’m coming behind you!”

Without another word, Rom leaped up onto the back of Triphon’s mount, the flanks of which were twitching with fatigue. And then he dug his heels in and took off, willing it to live just another moment longer.

THE SUN WAS HIGH, bright even through a scrim of shifting clouds, when Saric led his twelve divisions into the Seyala Valley. Where the Lucrine River meets the badlands , the Mortal scout had said.

A broad green valley lay ahead, a half mile long before it narrowed into a canyon, lush and undisturbed by traffic-equine or human-or any other signs of passage. From here, the western slope rose sharply to the barren badlands, and the Lucrine River glinted with the occasional glimpse of sun. The forest hugged the opposite rise, typical of the patchwork greenery in these parts.

Saric lifted a hand shoulder-high, signaled the halt, and brought his stallion to a heavy-footed stop. The thudding of hooves and feet resolved into the creak of saddles and snorting horses.

He’d donned battle leathers only as a precaution, and now regretted doing so. They’d seen no sign of Mortals, no threat of any kind-only the occasional hare scurrying for cover as his army invaded a serene landscape most had never laid eyes on.

Brack pulled his horse alongside him. On his other flank, Varus, ranking general of all twelve divisions, studied the landscape before them.

“You’re sure this is it?” Saric asked.

“The Seyala Valley isn’t marked on our maps, but there’s no mistaking the location,” Varus said. “Either he made it up or he gave us the wrong location.”

“What about our scouts?”

“The canyon narrows to a file. Smells like a trap.”

“Clever. Clever Mortals, who mislead with a suicide scout,” Varus said, clicking his tongue.

“Yes.”

“Permission to speak?” Brack said. The captain of the elite guard held his lofty position directly under Saric in part because of his attention to the detail of loyalty. His devotion wasn’t necessarily greater than any of Saric’s other children, but he was an exceptionally refined man in all respects-strange, considering his violent nature. He was testament to the full power of the incubation chambers built by Pravus and perfected by Saric. They had indeed built a perfect species.

“Speak freely.”

“Even if the scout misled us, we can’t know that he did it under orders. He may have given false information on his own, to protect his people.”

Saric scanned the top of the cliffs for the dozenth time. “If you’re wrong and the scout intended to be taken-even knowing he might die-it would mean these Mortals have deep loyalties indeed.”

“We have to assume it’s a trap,” Varus said. “And that our entire army may be exposed.”

“How could a trap make sense?” Brack said, as if speaking to himself. “If the scout was correct, there are only seven hundred of them. Any confrontation would end in their elimination. Why go to all the trouble to dispatch a scout to lure us here under such impossible odds?”

“ If the scout was correct,” the general said.

Clearly there was more to the Mortals than Saric yet knew.

The only thing worse than numerous enemies… was hidden enemies.

And feeling made a fool of.

But he, too, could play at any game. He had every confidence that his Dark Blood taken by the Mortals had not divulged their true numbers.

He twisted in his saddle and surveyed his divisions. They’d marched through the night and morning in three wide columns, three thousand on horseback ahead of nine thousand infantry, stretching back half a mile. Twelve thousand in all.

Warriors, erect on horseback, swords in scabbards by armored thighs, leather helmets donned over long dreadlocks that spread over their shoulders and chests like roots clawing for passage through the thick leather of their armor. Behind them the infantry stood tall, perfectly formed, heads fixed, forward and alert.

The first army in nearly five hundred years.

His.

The technology and armaments of the armies during the age of Chaos may have been far more advanced, but history had never seen warriors with more discipline, speed or strength than these.

And because of it, his power was without peer.

Absolute.

“Movement.”

He turned at Brack’s word. Two horsemen had entered the valley from the canyons beyond. They rode abreast, slowly, without any sign of anxiety.

Varus spat off his right side. “We were drawn,” he said with obvious disgust.

“So it seems,” Saric said. “Do you see any danger? Either of you.”

Silence for a moment.

“No.”

“No, my Lord.”

“So then, let’s go see what our clever enemy is made of, shall we?”

Saric spurred his horse forward, ambling at the same pace of the two now approaching. Behind him, the army shuddered to life with precision. Two lines of horses broke to the flanks, marching as one so that the earth vibrated with each footfall as Saric’s captains emerged up through the corridor.

The approaching Mortals stopped, still a hundred paces off.

“Hold your riders back,” Saric said. “I don’t want to pursue a fleeing enemy in these parts. They’ll be prepared to ambush.”

Almost immediately the cavalry on each side slowed their approach and settled into a cautious gait, wide but parallel with Saric.

The two Nomads resumed their approach. They both rode stallions-bred for running long distances, according to lore. Their hair was long, braided, beaded, their clothing a blend of dark brown leathers with accents of red and metal painted or woven into the sleeves and breasts. Their boots were set in stirrups attached to light saddles.

He’d never seen a Nomad apart from the scout they’d taken just two days ago. It made sense for Jonathan’s handlers to go after the disaffected tribespeople who’d always resisted Order, who survived without the facilities of cities. They could run and hide like jackals. They evidently could also hold their own in hand-to-hand combat and were no strangers to strategy. Because there could be no mistaking the matter: they’d lured him here with intent.

Only when they were fifty paces off did Saric see that one of them was a woman. Haughty-chinned and steely-gazed.