Ted Dekker - Mortal

“Promise you’ll follow me, even if the others doubt and turn away. Promise that you will follow me.”

“I will always follow you, Jonathan.” And she knew, as she had known for years, that she would pour herself out for him as surely as he had for so many, and for so many others to yet come.

“I would give my life for you,” she said.

He offered her a quiet smile and a single nod. “And I for you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her gently on her lips. “I for you.”

ROLAND GAZED AT THE AMASSED SEA OF DARK BLOODS, acutely aware of many things at once: The oppressive stench of deeper death wafting across the plateau; the unwavering position of Saric at the front of his horde; the precise location of his archers in trenches along the western side where they awaited his signal; the years of training that every warrior under his command had endured readying for this very day; the battle plan he would execute in four critical stages; the ultimate trap designed to deliver the final blow to the army staring him down right now.

But one thought prevailed above all the others: The fate of all Nomads, those people who had clung tenaciously to freedom over so many centuries, would be decided today in a battle that, no matter how long awaited, could not be won. For all practical purposes, this ground now belonged to Saric.

The Dark Blood had succinctly made his point when his men had planted the pole bearing Triphon in the ground before the temple ruins. A runner had brought them the news: Triphon was alive.

Rom had gone into a frenzy, shouting for his horse. Roland had forcibly pulled him back.

“I have to go get him!”

“Don’t you see? That’s exactly what Saric wants!”

“This is Triphon we’re talking about!” But then he spun away, fists clenched into white-knuckled balls. Rom was no fool; he knew there was no rescuing Triphon.

Words of assurance that Rom could not be blamed failed to calm him-or to assuage the tension in Roland’s own gut. But it was true: taking the time to recover Triphon’s body where he’d fallen at the Authority of Passing would have likely resulted only in more deaths-including Jonathan’s.

In the end the two of them had ridden to the edge of the bluff, there to look down helplessly at the man Roland, too, had regarded as nearly a brother.

Roland’s stomach had tightened to a knot when the Dark Blood shoved his blade under Triphon’s rib cage and ended his life. Rom was beside himself, tearing at his hair. Roland’s own emotion had been for the loss of a friend and those Triphon left behind, but as much for the staggering odds that they faced today. Surely, this was Saric’s intent.

The Dark Bloods were too many. Too savage. Too powerful. Perfectly resolute. When the beast that was Saric’s army moved, it would deny its size and strike like an adder with both wicked speed and venom.

Then again, if Saric had claimed the valley with Triphon’s dead body on a pole, Mortals claimed this battlefield with the Dark Blood’s head dangling from that rope.

Above, the sky had filled with dark-edged clouds full with the promise of an oncoming storm. A heavy rain might compromise their battle plan-particularly the fire they would need in the canyons. To think that after years of preparation for such a day nature itself might defeat them…

A chill prickled his skin.

His declaration that their seven hundred could defeat this swarm of twelve thousand had evoked bold cheers among the ranks of the Nomads just hours ago, and shouts and for final death to any who oppressed life among the living. Children had been kissed and embraced with promises of beauty to come before being sent away. Swords had been sharpened and arrows notched. Someone had told a story of a shepherd boy killing a giant with a single stone and a slingshot, a tale survived from times more ancient than even the Age of Chaos. And they had prepared, believing-knowing-that victory, if not assured, was at least possible.

But now as he stared down Saric’s black dragon of an army, Roland wondered if he’d made a dreadful mistake. If he had overestimated his own tactical advantage. Superior Mortal perception gave them a decided edge over the Dark Bloods’ brute strength and speed, he’d said. And the tenacious instinct for survival within their Nomadic veins would see to it that history recorded the day Roland’s seven hundred Mortals crushed Saric’s twelve thousand Dark Bloods.

They had shouted to the heavens at that.

But now the reality of a vastly larger force stood before him prepared to prove him a fool, and all the bravado and words in the world would not add even one man to his number.

He could still turn his horse back and give the signal for retreat. They would ride north four miles, descend into the canyons along a narrow trail cut months earlier, and quickly disappear into four gorges to emerge three miles farther north, there to regroup in the Valley of Bones.

He could. And yet destiny would not allow him to retreat as his ancestors had.

Rom had informed him that Jonathan had retreated to the old outpost five miles northwest for a summit of Sovereigns. As far as Roland was concerned, they could talk all they liked; ruling power would be decided here on this field, between Saric, Maker of Dark Bloods, and himself, the Leader of the Immortals, as some of the zealots had come to call themselves of late. Political power would succumb to the raw power of life, something Jonathan no longer possessed.

For a full minute, the formation of Dark Bloods remained perfectly still. A thousand on horse, the rest heavy infantry. Part of Saric’s cavalry would be farther west, awaiting the signal for a flanking maneuver. If the Dark Blood had considered every option, he had also sent another division north to cut off any retreat-they had the numbers to spare, and they knew that running had always been the most refined skill of any Nomad.

Not today.

The Dark Bloods’ serpentine banner flapped lazily in the breeze next to another: the compass of Sirin, the standard of Order-but this time it was set, like the dragon, against a red background. If Saric intended the red background of his flags to symbolize blood, Roland vowed plenty of it would be spilled by sunset today.

The Dark Bloods hadn’t moved. Saric, in conference with his generals, didn’t bother turning his head to address him. Time stretched, filling the distance between them as the clouds shifted overhead.

He waited.

Finally, the general named Brack broke from his guard and trotted his horse forward alone. Saric had wisely decided not to place himself in direct contact with an enemy who might slay him where he stood. Wise. A show of confidence could go only so far. For a moment, Roland wondered if his own had gone too far already.

Only when Brack was within fifty paces could Roland distinguish his scent from the overwhelming odor of the horde behind him. A tinge of what he took to be apprehension, but no fear.

The general stopped ten paces away but Roland had no intention of speaking. They were posturing and they both knew it, each waiting for the other to move.

They faced off for a full minute. Twice the general’s mount snorted and shifted impatiently. Never once did the general break his steely glare.

“If you have something to say, speak,” Brack finally said, voice gruff. He was at the disadvantage in this standoff and he knew it, because his master would expect a report.

Roland only stared. Sweat snaked down his back. Out in the wind it normally dried before it could soak through his clothing. Not today. His men crouched in hiding would be soaked from pit to waist by now. Few of them could yet see the full scope of the vast enemy who’d come to snuff them out, but to a man and woman they knew that survival today would come only through inhuman feats of skill, strength, and desire.