Ted Dekker - Mortal

From where Rom stood above the narrow northern canyon, only the scarred soil and the discolored ruin dais betrayed the recent presence of humanity. The inner sanctum had been purged of all relics by the Keeper and then of its silks and rugs. As was their custom, they’d left the leather bowl used for the commemoration of Avra’s heart erected between the twin columns. The pocked limestone beneath was still stained with blood, a macabre blemish visible even from this distance.

Avra… the first Mortal martyr. Rom wondered how many would join her today.

He turned on his heel and walked toward Roland, who was in urgent conference with Michael and Seriph. Massive boulders had been perched five deep along fifty paces of the cliff on either side of the canyon’s mouth. Beyond them, forty fifty-five-gallon barrels of oil that Roland had taken from transport raids over the last five years lay ten paces apart along a section of the cliff that dropped vertically into the chasm.

The plan, long envisioned by Roland and once fully improbable to Rom, had now become their only means to escape certain death.

“Tell me this will work,” he said.

Roland turned. “Now you have your doubts?”

“I always had my doubts.” He peered into the canyon to his right. “You’re sure the fire will catch?”

“Forget the fire,” Michael said. “Worry about getting them into the canyon. If we can do that, we can cut off escape with the boulders. They’ll be trapped like mice and we can pick them off at our leisure.”

There were only two ways out of the canyon: through the north or back the way they had come. The sand between had been soaked in enough oil to bring Hades to earth.

But the engagement wouldn’t begin here in the valley, where Mortals would have less room to maneuver, but on the plateau, south and west of the canyon.

“We’ll suffer our losses,” Roland said. “The only question is how many.”

“How many would you say?”

“As few as possible. If the losses mount, we retreat north as planned.”

“How many before we retreat?” Rom pushed.

“I’ll make that decision when I make it.”

Rom nodded. He’d felt sick in his gut since their return. Here, away from a camp filled with Mortal children and the arthritic elderly, the risk seemed reasonable. But one glance back toward the valley where those under his care made preparations to leave or fight, and Rom found he couldn’t shake the fear that they’d made a terrible mistake.

Ahead, a group of Keepers directed by Nashtu, one of his ranking fighters, leaned into one of several large boulders still to be placed. The position of the boulders was critical-it had to be precarious enough so that the pull of one wedge would send the whole pile tumbling. Rocks and debris had been loosened along the top of the cliff as far down as their ropes would allow then to reach. With any luck at all, the resulting landslide would be enough to close off any retreat.

“Careful there!” Nashtu cried. “You want the whole lot to fall now? Place it like a feather, man!”

Two others with sweating necks and backs joined in, barking their own directions. A full hundred in all worked feverishly along the cliff, making final preparations, well aware of one thing: none of it would make any difference if Roland’s tactics on the plateau didn’t succeed first.

Nearly five hundred Mortals-those pregnant or too young or old to face the Dark Bloods-were nearly gone. The last group of fifty was just now snaking its way over the plateau, headed to one of three locations ten miles north where they would wait for word from the scouts that it was either safe to return or time to flee.

The train of horses plodded toward the badlands pulling dismantled yurts, bundles of cookware, clothing, food… all that was owned by the Mortals except for the weapons and anything else the fighters needed to engage Saric’s army. Over a hundred able-bodied men and women had retreated with the others-those craftsmen and workers among them who were less skilled in fighting but strong enough to rebuild and live to fight again.

“We have our advantages,” Roland said. “And you can be sure I will bring them all to bear. We divide, we jab, we whittle their numbers down, we run, we volley… We can prevail. I wouldn’t risk a single life if I didn’t think so.” A glint came to his eyes. “I tell you today, Rom, the day will come when we live as Makers. Immortal.”

That is your obsession, isn’t it, Prince? To live forever. To be immortal. To be Maker and ruler as one.

He’d seen the lines of Roland’s face harden under pressure these last days. His calling had always been for his people. Only a few of them knew of Jonathan’s recent decline, and Rom bristled to note that those who did seemed to look past the boy as though he were a remnant of something past, no longer relevant. And he knew that for them, this battle was a matter not of the boy’s ascension to world power, but of their own survival. It always had been. But now, something had shifted within Roland in the last few days.

Rom had no intention of confronting Roland on the matter now, but he would when this was through. This battle-everything they risked now-was for Jonathan’s sake, not their own, whether Roland acknowledged that today or not. There were now many Mortals, Makers each and all of them. But there was only one true Sovereign. And he had bled already to give them the life they now called their own.

“And what of Jonathan?”

Roland glanced over Rom’s shoulder, then turned aside. “Ask him yourself.” The Prince walked away, motioning Michael to follow.

For a moment, Rom considered going after him. They dare not go to battle with divided loyalties!

“Rom…”

He hadn’t heard the two riders approach. At the sound of his name, he turned to see Jordin and Jonathan dismounting behind him. Pushing his concerns about Roland aside, he tried to offer a smile.

“Jonathan. Jordin. Roland assures me that all is in order.”

“I hope not,” Jonathan said. “It was my understanding we were overthrowing Order.” He grinned.

“Yes, well, there is that. I’d feel better if you left now, while the last group is still in sight. As for you, Jordin, Roland says we need you here, but I-”

“I go with Jonathan,” she said.

“If you would let me finish.”

She nodded, momentarily contrite.

“I insisted you remain at Jonathan’s side with the others who’ve gone north. Be prepared to return the moment you receive word,” he said, looking from her to Jonathan. “With hope, Saric will be defeated and we will escort you to Byzantium by evening.”

The boy was eighteen today. It was to be the day of his succession, of the claiming of his majority. With luck, it still would be. Time enough for celebration then.

Jonathan seemed to consider the proclamation for a moment. “Then I will fulfill the role I was born for, as Sovereign.”

“May life return to the world through you, my Sovereign,” Rom said, feeling as he said it that was prayer as much as intention. He did not know how the day would unfold-only that somehow seeing the boy before him to power was his destiny.

Jonathan took Rom by his shoulders, embraced him.

“No matter what happens today… what you have done will never be forgotten, Rom. When death comes, you will find life. The dead will rise and live under my reign, mark my words.”

“I have no doubts, my Sovereign.”

Jonathan released him and laid his hand on Rom’s shoulder. “Good. Then you will find it easier to hear that I won’t be going with the others as you ask.”

Alarm spiked his gut. “No, you must. For your own protection.”

“No,” Jonathan said, turning. “I would be closer so that I can join and claim my Sovereignty without delay. Jordin will come with me.”