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The Neverborne
James Anderson
Copyright © 2012 James Anderson
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-04-30
Dedication
To Diane, the love of my life.
Acknowledgements
I need to thank my wonderful wife of 34 years, Diane, for her encouragement and support. I also need to thank our daughter, Kristen Anderson Walker, who has the best mind for language I’ve ever encountered. Thanks for the long hours of review and editing, baby. Also, thanks to our son-in-law, Marty Walker, owner of Redcrackers.com, for the great cover art.
Chapter 1
The strongest principle of growth lies in the human choice.
George Eliot
Book One
The Born
The Throne of the Neverborne Kingdom
The Deceiver sat with his back against one of the many black marble pillars which lined his court. One foot rested on the final step of the throne’s approach, and the other near the throne’s base, and, pouting, he stared through the pillars into the open wasteland beyond.
His thirteen counselors, called the anti-quorum, kowtowed before him, their open palms and foreheads touching the polished obsidian floor. They were positioned in a circle around the blood red ring surrounding the huge in-laid upside down cross of the same crimson color. The Deceiver believed he had been so close, so very close, yet, again, he had failed.
He turned his head and looked at the anti-quorum in their black robes. As his eyes went from spirit to spirit, he wondered who was to blame. Did they do all they could to win this last battle? He went over the details in his mind and decided that everything which could be done was planned and executed well.
They had been fighting these battles for thousands of mortal years and were yet to win even one of them. But, one was all he needed. Just one victory and he would defeat the Creator.
This most recent battle was fought against that ridiculous farmer, that boy he was positive would lose against the powerful black robe facing him. But he didn’t lose. What was the name of that place in which he lived? Russia. That was it. The land that had produced so many people of faith yet also so many faithless murderers. The boy was a sickly Russian peasant without two coins to rub together, yet he beat one of the Deceiver’s greatest warriors, just as he had beaten the same foe so many eons ago.
How did the Creator do it? How did he command such loyalty? Where did these pathetic mortals find the faith and courage to wield the power necessary to beat his most formidable warriors? He had never understood that. If he could capture that secret, he would be victorious.
The Deceiver was becoming more concerned with every successive defeat, and this last one was the most upsetting. Each new battle was more critical than the last because time was running out. Time, the one thing he thought would never end, was ending. It was still a fair distance away in mortal reckoning, but he knew the end was coming, and if time ended and he realized no victories, then his defeat would be complete, and he and his followers would spend eternity in this forsaken corner of creation, away from mortals, because mortality would end. He and his followers would be alone and miserable forever.
Yes, he was very worried. Mortal time was finite. There were only a few battles left compared to the many which had taken place since mortals first occupied their world. Now, each successive battle was more important than the previous one because it was one battle closer to his final chance.
But this last one was particularly upsetting. The mortal Ivan, the small man from a frozen land, could neither read nor write, but he endured indescribable pain and torment and all the despair and doubt that the Neverborne could throw at him, and beat the unbeatable warrior. As punishment, the Deceiver threw the defeated black robe in the farthest reaches of his realm to dwell with the most obscene creatures imaginable. If he needed him again, he knew where to find him. But the Deceiver couldn’t think about that now. He must look forward to the next battle.
He glanced down at his kneeling anti-quorum and frowned.
“Stand up, you idiots,” he said. They all stood and, placing the palms of their hands together in the manner of mortal prayer, extended them toward the Deceiver. He liked that; it made him feel a little like the Creator.
“I refuse to hear excuses for this last catastrophe from any of you fools. All I want to know is who battles next?”
The black robe closest to the Deceiver stepped forward and said, “The red robe Alaal, your worship.”
The Deceiver raised his eyebrows. “Really? Is he born yet?”
“Yes, your worship. He is on the earth.”
“Where? Where is Alaal now?”
Another quorum member stepped forward. “In America, your worship.”
“America!” The Deceiver spat out the word. “I hate America! All that freedom offends me.” The Deceiver rubbed his handsome face with his hands and again stared into the wasteland. He listened to the tormented cries of the spirits who walked the nothingness and was comforted.
“Lasting will fight this battle, will he not?”
All thirteen quorum members bowed their heads and said, “He will, your worship.”
“Bring him to me.”
A tall black robed figure instantly appeared and bowed low, touching his forehead to the floor. “I am here to obey your words, your worship,” said the spirit.
“Stand up and come to me,” said the Deceiver. “I want to see you.” The newcomer moved through the quorum members and stood before the Deceiver. He again kowtowed low and waited.
“Stand up, you fool,” said the Deceiver. “I said I want to see you.” The spirit stood and looked straight ahead, careful not to
