Ted Dekker - Mortal

Exotic material for a concubine.

Still no sign of additional warriors on the high ground.

The horsemen stopped thirty paces off, steady and seemingly unconcerned. But Saric knew better than to underestimate them.

“That’s far enough,” the man called out, voice firm.

Who was this man who presumed to order him? Did two lone warriors command his path? What kind of enemy could approach such a crushing display of force and demand they move no further?

Nomads.

Saric’s hand went up. “Hold.”

Immediately the columns behind him ceased marching on a single footfall. Silence filled the valley.

It was the first time Saric had seen a Nomad Mortal outside of captivity, and for a moment he was captivated. Here was no cowering enemy, but a creature brimming with strange power. Power to equal his own. It came off the man in waves like heat. What kind of blood made a man so fearless? Even the woman stared him down with an audacity he found compelling. If what Rom had told Feyn was true, their veins ran with the natural blood of one child who’d been born without Legion to contend with. Pure, untouched by alchemy.

A sudden, raw sensation sunk like razored talons into his heart. The moment he felt the savage emotion, he knew it for what it was.

Jealousy.

He immediately replaced it with another passion: rage.

But neither would serve him. During the age of Chaos, humanity’s failure had been its inability to control such powerful sentiments. He was far more evolved.

Indeed, he was master… and Maker.

Even over such magnificent creatures as these two, seated on their horses, staring him down.

They would soon see.

Roland gazed out over Saric’s vast army, acutely aware of the nerves running on edge down his neck and arms. By his quick estimation, there were well over ten thousand of them. Far larger than they’d been led to believe.

They smelled like a horde from hell. Even from a distance the stench was hardly bearable.

Their formation was nearly perfect, three large blocks of three or four thousand each, one-fourth mounted, the rest on foot. Whatever discipline had gone into their training had been effective; they could hardly be more ordered or settled if they were mechanized.

Two generals flanked the leader, half a horse length behind. Tall and thick, as certain of themselves as boulders in the face of a noon breeze. But Roland had met a few of these rocks before and he knew how quickly they could move.

And then there was Saric in his black leather armor with its silver buckles and red piping-an exhibition of authority. Like the rest of the Dark Bloods, his skin was pale, nearly translucent beneath the intermittent sun. Even from here, Roland’s Mortal eyes could detect the dark lines of veins near the surface of Saric’s skin. The unblinking bore of his black eyes, like two coals in a sun-parched face.

Deathly. And chillingly beautiful.

“Are you sure, brother?” Michael breathed.

“I am always and never sure.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Be ready to run if anything goes wrong. Through the canyons on the route I showed you. Don’t lead them to our camp. Head west and cut back-”

“I know what to do. Be careful.”

“Wait here.”

He gave his mount a gentle nudge, guided it forward, and stopped fifteen paces from Saric.

“I would speak to Saric, brother of the Sovereign,” he said, refusing him more title than that. “You have my word-I will not harm you. I have no intention of angering this machine of an army, only to speak terms.”

Saric stared, unmoved. Not even the blink of an eye.

“You must think it odd that two of my kind would face ten thousand of yours,” Roland said. “You ask yourself how I so easily lured your army with the word of a single man, one of my most humble warriors. And you wisely doubt that the warriors I command are only seven hundred, as he told you. Now you realize you know nothing of our true power. And so come closer and let me explain.”

It was a long speech for Roland, but he was dealing with a man of the Order, given to such displays of power. So he let the words work their way into this pale overlord, this maker of Dark Bloods, content to know that despite appearances, he still held the upper ground. He had tricked them . He was also still beyond their reach, able to vanish into the canyons within seconds. No matter how fast the Dark Bloods themselves, their chargers could not outrun his stallion.

But there was more here that Roland could not easily dismiss. As much as Saric must even now reevaluate all he knew about the Mortal force, Roland must do the same of him. He could smell the anger and ambition wafting from the sea of humanity, nearly as strong as the scent of death.

But was it truly the scent of death? It wasn’t the same as the Corpses; the powerful overtones of what he might place as loyalty and affection were as thick as a low fog in the valley. Affection. Perhaps even love.

Was it possible Saric had actually found a way to create life in as much as Jonathan had? Full life, vivid with emotion?

There sat a powerful man upon his charger-a warrior Roland acknowledged as majestic. Who else could have orchestrated the defeat of Order and the raising of an army such as this but a singularly potent man who was born to rule?

The desire to subdue a foe of equal strength wrestled with simple admiration within him, and it occurred to Roland then that one day he would indeed either kill this man or join him. There could be no in between.

Still no response from Saric.

“Come now. Do two of us frighten you so easily?”

“Do I look like a fool to you?” Saric said at last. The man’s voice held not a shred of concern.

“Definitely not.”

“Then you come closer.”

Roland considered the request, judging the likelihood of a personal attack. Saric had little to gain by killing him. It was Jonathan who threatened his power, not one or two lone warriors. In any case, he had challenged Saric, and he was now compelled to accept that same challenge. Anything less would be a show of weakness.

He cut the distance between them in half.

“You should not fear one who has come to give you the keys to your kingdom,” Roland said.

A wry smile twisted Saric’s mouth. “I’m not sure you understand your position.”

“I understand it very well. Order two of your men to kill me and you will as well.”

No one moved. Those dark eyes studied him, devoid of emotion. The scent of him, however, was saturated with anger… and strange eagerness.

“You seem quite confident,” Saric said.

“I would know my enemy. Make it three men if you wish.”

Saric dipped his head. “As you wish. Varus, humor the man.”

The Dark Blood to Saric’s right turned and barked out an order. Without hesitation, three horses broke from the ranks behind and trotted forward.

Roland pointed to a slight rise, twenty paces to Michael’s left. “On foot.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his horse, rode to where Michael waited, and dismounted, handing her the reins.

“Remember, the canyon. Have my horse ready.”

He started to walk for the rise.

Only then did the three warriors dismount. They came for him at a run, three abreast, spreading out as they approached.

Twenty paces…

But Roland wanted the rise, so he continued on and stopped only when he was atop it, staring at the onrush of Dark Bloods.

Ten paces…

He took a deep breath, spread his arms by his waist, and tilted his head down. In the next moment, he saw .

Time slowed to a drip.

The Dark Bloods were running but in his sight they plodded through tacky mud. Their dreadlocks flailed behind them like black smoke in a dream. Every ounce of their bulk fighting gravity, the viscosity of time itself, to get to him. Their size so cumbersome that he might run up and tap each of them and jink away before they could even react.