Ted Dekker - Mortal

One of the scouts, returning. Urgency pulled at the warrior’s face.

Saric raised his arm. Behind him, the machine of his army ground to a halt.

The scout dropped from his horse before it stopped, took five long strides and dropped to one knee, head bowed.

“My Lord.”

“Rise.” The scout stood. “Well?”

“The valley’s been evacuated. They wait on the plateau.”

So the Mortals were not unaware. They’d expected as much; Nomad scouts would have seen their approach in time to make hasty preparations for retreat or for battle.

“No sign in the valley?”

“They’ve swept it clean, though there are some ruins that appear to have been recently used for a blood ritual of some kind. It’s all over the stones.”

Little was known about secretive Nomadic custom, but Saric had little interest in how they lived. It was the blood that interested him. Could it be the boy’s? Had it been spilled in the making of more Mortals?

His mind flashed back to Feyn’s turning, there on Corban’s table, as the alchemist pumped her full from the reserve he kept of Saric’s blood. She’d screamed as Saric’s blood had replaced the last of her own, and then she’d collapsed for an hour. Waking, she’d been calm and resolved, apparently unchanged from her former self.

Later, when they had spoken, she seemed quite sure they suspected nothing and would be caught unawares, but then, she knew little of the ways of war.

For a moment, he wondered what else she might have been mistaken about. Or if she’d knowingly delivered erroneous information to him. No. Impossible. His power over her was absolute and she’d been guileless. He would have seen her deception.

Or had the boy found a way to change her in ways beyond Saric’s understanding?

He would soon know. She would either betray the boy as she’d detailed late that night, or she would attempt to betray him- inconceivable, considering her state.

She’d insisted she go alone, fearing that the presence of any guard would be detected and her opportunity lost. He’d rejected the notion immediately, but she’d been adamant that Jonathan must suspect nothing at this so-called summit of theirs.

“I don’t like it,” Varus murmured.

Saric’s attention returned to the present.

“There is nothing to like about what is uncertain,” he said. “How many on the plateau?”

“From what we could see, less than a thousand,” the scout said. “But full surveillance isn’t possible-they wait on the higher ground.”

“What side?”

“The north.”

Strange relief seeped into Saric’s veins. This much of Feyn’s report was true. It gave him confidence in her ability to deliver on the rest.

“Weapons?”

“Standard fare,” the scout said.

“Horses?”

“Most.”

Again, as expected.

“They’ll outrun our infantry,” Varus said. “Unless we can bring our infantry to bear, they might outmaneuver us or run.”

“If they meant to run, they would have already,” Saric said. “They wait for us. And so we will not disappoint them.”

“Could it be a trap?” Varus said.

Saric looked at the scout for an opinion.

“No sign that we could see. A canyon lies to the north, best to be avoided.”

Saric lifted his eyes and studied the horizon. The valley lay beyond the hills ahead, quiet in the late morning sun. It was odd to think that the fate of all living and dead could be decided in one historic day. His name would be remembered to the end of time.

This was his destiny.

And the boy’s blood?

“We can lose half of our number and defeat them still,” Saric said. “We’re not here to save lives, but to end every one of those that threatens our own. Send three hundred cavalry north along the western flank to cut off any escape. Another three hundred west with a full division of infantry to hold for my signal. We box them into their own graveyard without a single Nomad warrior left standing by day’s end.”

There would be no one left to protect the boy.

“Send the bulk of our infantry led by two cavalry divisions up the middle,” Varus said. “We’ll drive them to the cliffs. Send the order.”

Brack nodded and wheeled his horse round. Within moments an entire left column broke away and reformed itself, twenty wide, one hundred deep. Two thousand infantry. They were moving northwest within minutes, and Brack was back by his side.

Saric gave him a curt nod. “Double time.”

Brack swung his arm forward and the dark and beautiful machine that was his army broke free and started forward again, this time at twice the former cadence.

The plain began to narrow within three miles between two rising cliffs. From here one could follow the winding of the river that flowed between them up toward the canyons and mountains farther north. Saric’s army surged along the plain, veering west as the ground began to rise. Not until they reached the mouth of the valley did he signal.

“Stop.”

He eased his mount’s pace to a halt, and the heavy crush of boots on the ground ceased behind him. Still no sign of the Mortals on the cliffs. Save the ruins, the valley appeared empty, as reported.

“Bring him.”

Orders were issued and four Dark Bloods wheeled a long, shallow cart forward. Saric considered the Mortal gagged and bound at the neck, waist, and knees to a thick pole in the middle of the cart. He was naked except for the cloth around his waist-covered now in sweat and dust. His eyes were wide, wild. Corbin had done well to keep the prisoner they’d taken at the Authority of Passing alive. Triphon, he was called-Saric knew him as one of those who’d conspired with Rom Sebastian to bring him down nine years earlier.

Now the Mortals would see the fate of any who defied him.

“Do it in front of the ruins.”

The two pulling the cart dipped their heads and started forward at a jog, followed by two others. The air hung heavy and still as the party separated from his army and angled toward the ruins a quarter mile ahead along the eastern cliffs.

For several long minutes no other movement. The cliffs remained empty, the sky silent, the valley dormant.

The detachment stopped near the ruin steps and quickly went to work digging a hole.

“Anything?”

Brack’s mount shifted beneath him. “Nothing. But they watch.”

Undoubtedly. And they would see.

The preparations took only a couple minutes aided by thick muscle and sharp shovels. They pulled the Mortal from the cart, still bound to the ten-foot pole. The air stirred, lifting something from the top of the pole a banner bearing Saric’s crest.

They hoisted the prisoner up for all to see before moving him into position over the hole and unceremoniously dropping the end of the pole inside.

The Mortal’s body jerked and hung still, like a pig on the end of a stick, arms bound to his sides, feet dangling.

They filled in the hole, tamping down the earth so the pole could stand on its own, then stepped back and awaited his signal. Nomads were too strong to be demoralized by the sight, but planting the body would serve as clear notice: Saric claims this valley.

He nodded. Brack lifted a red flag.

One of his children withdrew a sword, walked over the Mortal, and shoved the blade up under his rib cage. The man on the pole jerked his head back and strained, the cords standing out along his neck, then went limp, a lifeless puppet on a spike.

As he watched the slaying, Saric could not help but consider just how easily life was taken, yet how difficult it was to create. How it was his to give and take.

There could be only one Maker.

The Dark Bloods gathered the cart and left the pole standing in front of the ruins. High above a lone buzzard had already begun to circle in the gray sky.