Ted Dekker - Mortal

Then again, Mortals were inhuman. More than human, created to live hundreds of years and engage the world with a refined perceptive sense superseding that of any living creature upon the earth.

Three hundred Nomads waited in hiding two miles to the south behind the Dark Blood army. Another three hundred to the west waited in oil-soaked trenches, armed with crossbows modified to send three arrows with each pull. Only a hundred were stretched across the plateau to Roland’s rear, mounted just over the slight rise, hidden from view.

Each of them knew the critical mission facing them at the onset of battle: fell the cavalry first. Only then would their mounts give them any significant advantage.

“You mistake your foolishness for bravery,” Brack said. “I will tell my Maker that you wish us to place your head next to the one above you.”

He gave Roland a parting glare and jerked on the reins to turn his mount.

“Ask your Maker how long Nomads have lived,” Roland said.

The general held up, and Roland continued.

“Ask him how so many generations of humans with a considerable appetite for breeding could produce only a thousand children. Then you will know why I stand here today, unconcerned. Your forces are matched in number. You’ve been drawn into a trap envisioned by the Sovereigns. If you retreat now and surrender Saric to die beneath my sword, we will allow your army safe passage. Refuse, and not one of your dead will walk away.”

A new scent edged into Roland’s heightened perception. Curiosity. Possibly confusion.

“There is one true Sovereign and his name is Saric,” the general said. “He prefers sharpened steel over flimsy words.”

“No, Brack.” Roland nudged his horse left, drawing the man to face east so that his back was to the western edge of the plateau. “My Sovereign is called Feyn. She meets with the Seventh called Jonathan. Together they plot the demise of any Dark Blood to escape slaughter on this field. Tell Saric when he hears the sky screaming he will know that Feyn has betrayed him.”

The general sat unmoving on his mount, unimpressed, by all appearances, even as his scent turned decidedly acidic.

“One nod from me, and you will be dead where you sit,” Roland said. “Or I could have one of my men give you a gentle warning and spare your life. Tell me which you prefer.”

For the first time, Brack’s eyes narrowed. Roland turned his horse back to the pole and gave a short whistle.

The single arrow came from the east where Morinda, second only to Michael among all the archers, had been waiting over the lip of the cliff, head and bow hidden below a tuft of grass. The missile sped silently through the air, faster than any untrained eye could follow. Before the general could move, the projectile hissed by, a bare inch from his right ear, and embedded itself in the ground as though it had been there all along.

Brack did not flinch. He could not, however, mask the surge of concern betrayed by his scent. They both knew that unlike Dark Bloods, master archers were trained from childhood. They could not be bred in a laboratory or created with only a few years’ practice-or else Saric would have his own. Now they had seen the true threat of Mortal archers.

“Consider that your warning,” Roland said. “Stay and die. Leave and live.”

He turned his horse north and galloped toward his line without looking back.

Saric heard the soft whoosh of the arrow before he saw the shaft cut across the plateau, narrowly missing his man. A glance in the direction of the cliffs failed to reveal the source of it. They had known that archers would be a challenge but had not known to expect such accuracy.

But in truth, it was the audacity of the direct challenge that bothered him more than anything.

“Hold!” he said.

His line held without the slightest twitch. Brack might have been caught unaware by the first shot, but now that he knew the direction of the archer, he would have no trouble avoiding a second.

But a second one did not come. And then Roland was retreating at full speed and Brack was returning at a trot. So then the shot had been a warning? What did they even hope to accomplish? Surely no show of individual bravado could be expected to shake his army.

“Well?” he snapped, as Brack pulled up.

The general hesitated only a moment. “He says to ask you how so many generations of Nomads could produce only a thousand children,” the general said.

The question had already been asked and answered. The Nomads lost most of their numbers to attrition, leaving only the most dedicated to carry on their hard life. Now Roland wanted them to think they had many more. A pathetic ploy.

“And?”

“He said you would know your end when the sky begins to scream. He claims that Feyn has led you into a trap. The rest is utter nonsense.”

The image of Feyn cut through his mind at mention of her name and in that instant he considered the logic of such reasoning. In one fell swoop she could rid herself of all threats to her rule by pitting Mortals against Dark Bloods.

What if it were true?

His eyes flashed across the plateau, searching for any sign that there were more than the seven hundred they’d come expecting.

Nothing. The Nomadic Prince had vanished from sight over a slight rise. How many had hidden there beyond their line of sight?

His scouts had reported only seven hundred.

“Tell me the rest,” he said.

“My Lord-”

“Speak!”

The man dipped his head quickly. “He offers to spare the army if you surrender yourself.”

Silence settled between them. Saric’s gaze dropped over his general like tar.

“And did you for an instant wish that I would, so that you might save yourself?”

“Never, my Lord! I serve you with my life.”

Saric looked away, toward the rise.

“Is there any possible credence to this notion that they may have more numbers than we’re aware of… or that Feyn has betrayed us?”

His chief strategist, mounted to his right, said, “Unlikely, my Lord.” The man waited a beat then spoke on. “I only wonder what kind of enemy would be so bold as to offer terms they knew would be dismissed. They are begging for engagement.”

“So it seems. Only Feyn and our scouts have verified their numbers. Is there any possibility our scouts could have been misled?”

A long silence.

“It’s possible,” Varus said slowly. “The number first came to us from their scout while in our custody. It’s possible he could have fed us misinformation. The Nomads could have hidden an army in the badlands. If Feyn-”

His words were cut short by a sound that Saric first took to be screeching birds taking flight to the west. He turned his head and saw the black flock rising, screaming.

Those weren’t birds.

The screech became a whistling scream-a cloud of arrows darkening the sky. He’d heard of Nomads notching their arrows so they whistled as they flew, but he’d never imaged such an unnerving sound.

“Defend!” Brack thundered.

The terrifying sound had confused men and horse alike, locking them in indecision without a clear path of action. Too late, they recognized the unfamiliar threat of incoming arrows and threw up their shields while attempting to steady their mounts.

The first volley had not reached his cavalry before another horde of screaming arrows took flight from the west.

“Defend!”

His shout was lost in the squall of incoming projectiles. They had been carefully aimed to strike the leading cavalry, and they sliced down with blazing speed, cutting deep into leather, flesh, and hide.

It occurred to Saric in a momentary flash that if his children had been more given to panic, they might have bolted and avoided more of the heavy razors now cutting into their ranks.