Ted Dekker - Mortal

She pressed the whistle to her lips and blew three long notes.

“Even with the reserves we’ll only be five hundred to their six thousand,” Michael said, shoving the instrument back in her pouch. “We’re down to a handful of arrows. Once we enter the canyon, we’ll be caged. If they don’t follow us-”

“I know the risk,” he said through gritted teeth.

“We could still break off and escape north. We could return later with guerilla tactics.”

“Saric will rebuild quickly and be twice as wary. He knows our strengths now. No. We fight to the end. If they don’t follow, we retreat north.”

“It’s not the retreat I’m worried about. It’s the battle into the valley. How many more will we lose, drawing them so close?”

“Do you want to lead? We knew the price of freedom would come at great risk. Don’t forget that the lives of those who’ve died today are on my head!”

“Forgive me.”

Roland looked away toward the line of Nomads just joining them along the shallow rise. “Today a new race rises, Michael. All along our people assumed victory would come under Jonathan’s rule. We were wrong. You and I, not Jonathan, will lead our people to victory. The world has never been reshaped without bloodshed. Today it’s our turn to spill what we must to ensure the place of our kind for centuries to come. We live or die for the sake of this race. These Immortals.”

“Immortals?”

“The zealots’ term. The Keeper says the power in our blood is strengthening, even as Jonathan’s weakens.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “Jonathan’s?”

“Is now nearly dead. His blood has reverted to that of a Corpse.”

She blinked, aghast.

“Keep this to yourself, sister.”

He spurred his horse and rode down the line of Mortals gathered along the small rise. A stream of Dark Bloods was already fast approaching.

“Follow my lead!” he shouted. “We sweep west! Hold in the valley until they pursue. Hold your lines past the ruins until I give word. Today we prevail. Today we rise!”

Without a glance back, he veered to the west, leaned low over his mount’s neck, and spurred it into a full gallop.

The first thunder rumbled high above.

“They run!”

Saric spun to the cry of Varus, who’d held close at his demand. Nearly a thousand of his remaining eight thousand children had formed a thick wall of protection around his position, shielding him from skirting attacks as the enemy tore into his force with the fury of a lion rushing in to attack-only to retreat and attack again.

As he’d known, attrition had been the Mortals’ downfall. He’d cut down a full half of their forces in the last hour while suffering massive losses himself, but they were losses he could afford for the sake of the victory before him. His army was still a full eight thousand strong.

Meanwhile, Brack had fallen in the battle, taken by Rom Sebastian’s sword. The naïve artisan who had thwarted him nine years earlier had found a backbone and the skills to keep it intact.

He followed his man’s line of sight in time to see the Nomadic Prince bent low over his mount, leading a growing contingent of his warriors as they streamed south along the plateau’s western edge.

“They flee!” Varus said.

Or they regroup, Saric thought, as Roland plunged past the southern lip and galloped down the slope toward the valley below. His men followed without hesitation, flying past formations of Dark Bloods outmatched by the horses’ speed.

“Into the valley,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.

“They lead us into Feyn’s trap.”

He considered the meaning behind Roland’s sudden shift in plan. Feyn intended to betray him; that much had become clear. The precision of their preparations could only mean that the Mortals had fully expected him to arrive and engage as and when he had. Something more than conjecture-or some one -had informed them. They had baited him and attacked with brutal efficiency.

But he had prevailed.

“The valley will only limit their movements,” he said. “A trap would involve more.”

“The canyons beyond,” Varus said, stilling his shifting mount.

“Yes, the canyons.”

His gaze swept the vacated valley to his right. The ruins with their bloodied courtyard sat unoccupied along the eastern cliff near the mouth of the valley. The valley floor narrowed as it ran north, ending at the mouth of a gorge that led into a canyon with a river along one side. The sandy wash provided ample room for ten horses abreast to pass. Even twenty.

By his count, the Mortals had initially brought only four hundred warriors to bear on the plateau and then replaced them as their own forces were depleted. But they were fewer than the seven hundred Feyn had reported, which meant the rest were either gone with those Mortals who could not fight or being held in reserve.

“If they enter, we hold back,” he said.

“More are coming,” Varus said. “Reserves.”

Dust a mile south.

“They intend to enter the canyons knowing we’ll be eager to pursue,” Saric said.

“And so we hold here.”

“No. They’ll advance slowly in order to draw us in. And so we will take the battle to them in the valley, but hold by the ruins and wear them thin. Patience will win this war. Give the signal. We descend in full pursuit.”

Varus hesitated only a moment, then spun and issued the command. A horn blast and Dark Bloods from across the plateau broke into a fast run for their position as Varus issued a string of commands that quickly translated to the flags. And then he turned the army south at a fast jog as those behind fell in line. Like a black river, his vast army spilled over the hill and angled toward the valley.

Overhead, clouds had cut off the sun. Saric scanned the heavens, momentarily struck by the movement in the sky, like ghosts rushing to meet an unheard call. A storm was gathering with astonishing speed, hastened by a strengthening wind. The Mortals’ archers would be compromised. Rain would slow their horses.

The sudden turn was a good omen.

Dust rose to the south, trailing a visible gathering of horses racing to reach the valley’s wide mouth before his Dark Bloods could block their entrance. If the Mortals could be divided, half of his children could engage those caught outside the valley while the rest of his forces fought the Nomads inside. The Nomad prince would be far less likely to flee into the canyons while some of their own remained outside.

“Varus, take a division at full sprint!” He rose in his stirrups, as he plunged down the hill. Thrust his arm forward. “Cut them off!”

Varus roared the order to one of the division commanders. His men rapidly broke ahead of the main body. Like a cluster of black hornets, they swarmed down the hill and cut east, passing through the river as if it were made of fog. They were moving at only half the speed of the mounted Nomads but then, they had only half the distance to cover.

Ahead of them, Roland glanced back at the pursing Dark Bloods, motioning frantically at the approaching Mortals to speed.

It would be close.

The arrows came from the riders then, fired into his sprinting division. Not in massive waves as in the Nomad’s first attacks on the plateau, and not with the same accuracy in the face of the wind. Several of his men went down, forcing those behind to leap over their bodies. But the swarming horde did not falter or slow.

“Varus! The rest! Full sprint!”

Barked orders. The flags went up. The rest of his army tripled its pace and flooded the low ground.

Saric gave his horse its head as the two armies angled for the valley’s mouth at breakneck speed, each vying for first position. His blood ran cold as anticipation flooded his veins.