the greatest life.
Since the notion that the boy might possess superior life in his veins had first presented itself to him, no amount of reason had yet dislodged it. Saric had spent half of the night in preparations with his generals, considering every possible approach to the Mortals’ valley and every tactic to ensure crushing victory. He had rehearsed them all relentlessly. That he harbored any concern despite his army’s massive advantage was somewhat of a mystery to his officers, he knew.
In reality, it was the conflict raging in his mind regarding the nature of Jonathan’s life that motivated his anxiety, something his children could never know. The questions had kept him awake until their predawn march.
In the end he submitted himself to a simple resolution. His need to rule superseded his need to embrace any potentially greater life. And yet even the thought of opening the boy’s jugular haunted him. One Maker, slaying another. What source of life might he extinguish, never to be seen again? What if he was making a terrible mistake?
Saric’s reverie was broken by the sound of drumming hoofbeats, approaching from the north. His eyes snapped open.
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
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.
“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
