Ted Dekker - Mortal

The second knife sliced through the Dark Blood’s clavicle instead-a searing slash that would slow a weaker man, but that did nothing to stop this man’s sword, arcing toward Roland’s head.

Roland threw himself back, just avoiding the Dark Blood’s blade, his advantage gone along with his knives. The Dark Blood didn’t allow the momentum of his swing to compromise his balance, but used it, spinning for another strike.

Rom, still taking in the implications of the speed of Saric’s dark warriors, didn’t react in time.

Neither did he think to stop Jonathan, who flung himself past Rom and crashed into Roland’s legs from behind so that they buckled, the Dark Blood’s sword hissing harmlessly over his head.

Rom’s hands flashed, palmed the carved handles of his knives. He surged forward, throwing his upper body into the uncoiling of his wrists as he whipped both forward from his hips, underhanded, not bothering to steady his aim. The target was hard to miss.

It happened in slowing ticks, the spring of time having forgotten its tensile strength: Jonathan, landing on his shoulder as Roland started to rise, lips stretched back in a snarl.

Rom’s blades slamming into the Dark Blood’s chest, a single hand span apart.

Jonathan, rolling to his feet.

In one smooth motion, the boy swept low, fingers curling around the hilt of the dead Dark Blood’s sword just as the man’s companion, stunned by Rom’s knives, started impossibly forward again, weapon drawn back.

With a feral cry, Jonathan whirled 360 degrees, sword extended in a deadly arc. The heavy blade severed the Dark Blood’s arm just above its wrist, flipping hand and sword end over end, overhead.

Roland stretched for the weapon, snagged it from the air with both hands-one on its hilt, one on the fingers that still grasped it-and swung the blade with a roar that smothered the echo of Jonathan’s cry.

The sword sliced cleanly through the Dark Blood’s neck. The headless body faltered for a long count, then toppled back onto the cement.

Rom, Roland, and Jonathan remained crouched for a suspended instant longer.

More Dark Bloods were coming, running heavily down the stone steps of the palace. Alarm spread through Rom like fire.

“Jonathan! Blade!”

Jonathan flung his sword at him. It was good to see that their future Sovereign could handle himself in real fight, but the look on his face betrayed a horror that Rom feared would compromise him next time. Violence beyond the games wasn’t in his nature.

Or was it?

“Hurry!” He rushed by Jonathan, tugging at him as he passed. “Roland, rear!”

Roland spun just in time to engage the two Dark Bloods sprinting to the gate, three others behind them.

Rom pushed to keep up with his charge, who had proven himself among the three fastest runners in the camp numerous times. “Ahead-the alley to the left.”

Jonathan threw a glance over his shoulder. “Roland?”

“Can handle himself. He buys us time.”

Rom twisted back to see Roland’s blade in full swing, cutting down one of the Dark Bloods with the precision Rom had come to count on. Having miscalculated their speed once-with nearly fatal results-Rom knew Roland wouldn’t be taken off guard again. No one of Saric’s making could match the fighter’s skill. He was sure of it.

But Rom had another problem; that darker smell of death, so obscured by the Corpses of the city, came to him from farther ahead.

They had nearly reached the alley when a dark shape stepped into their path, blocking their way. Beyond him, two more Dark Bloods ran across the street. The place was crawling with them!

Ignoring a stab of panic, Rom turned to Jonathan, who he knew to be unarmed. His escape was the only thing that mattered now.

“Through that alley to the Basilica of Spires. Get to Jordin. Stop for nothing. We’ll meet you outside the city.”

Without waiting for a response, Rom veered to his right, straight toward the first Dark Blood. “Roland!” His cry rang down the street. “More!”

He swung his sword as the closest one moved to block Jonathan. With a single blow, he buried the heavy blade into the man’s chest.

“Run!” he shouted. “Now!”

Jonathan dodged the falling body and ran, sprinting around the corner. Alone and running. Gone.

Maker help him.

Rom was so distracted by the thought of this newest risk to him that he only narrowly avoided an oncoming blade. He blocked it at the very last instant, dancing out into the street, away from the alley. Away from the path of Jonathan’s flight.

There would be blood on this street tonight, but at least it would not be Jonathan’s.

The two Dark Bloods converged on him at once.

“Roland!”

AN HOUR HAD PASSED since the others had entered this city of death. An hour that Jordin had spent fighting her own battle-namely, the terrible fear that harm might find Jonathan.

What if the Dark Bloods were already in the Citadel? What if they were more formidable than Roland said? What if there were hundreds of them?

What if, what if, what if?

She had reminded herself that he was with Rom and Roland, who could maneuver and fight their way through the thickest spot. That Jonathan himself was fast and surprisingly skilled. But the truth was that if it came down to it, she wasn’t sure he had the heart to kill.

What if Jonathan was wounded or taken? Or simply unwilling to use his blade?

She should have gone!

Nerves raw, Jordin had hurried through the city, her hood pulled low over her forehead, taking as many back alleys as she could find with the two horses, avoiding the pungent odor of death wherever it was strongest. But any concern for her own discovery had been wholly overshadowed an hour ago by her sheer need to see Jonathan at her side again, unharmed and beautiful.

She had tied the horses to a utility pole tucked behind the basilica and then climbed up the fire escape to the roof. From there it had been an easy matter to climb up the exterior ladder of the tallest spire and swing beneath the rail of the narrow walk near the top.

Byzantium, city of the dead, stretched out before her, its stone-and-brick buildings looking to her eye like nothing so much as a mausoleum. From here she could see the Citadel just to the south, the broad wall around it, the rare, dim outdoor electrical lights of its grounds. For half an hour she’d searched the gates, the streets leading to the far entrance, for any sight of them, looking for any Mortal movement beyond the occasional truck or cart or dead pedestrian ambling by. With each passing minute her anxiety twisted her gut tighter.

The sound of hooves drew her attention to a closer side street intersecting the main way. There a horse-drawn covered cart wobbled in the moonlight, alone. She could smell the human contents from here.

Corpses, Corpses, everywhere.

Too strange, to think that but for the blood she might be oblivious to the odor of death. That she might see in Byzantium a world as alive as the Nomad camp. To think that apart from the external factors of custom and dress, there had once been no difference between Nomads and those of the Order.

That was before Jonathan’s coming, when they had celebrated life without having it.

Without knowing it.

She studied the streets for sight of the others. Her vision had grown more acute the last few years as Jonathan’s blood had matured in her veins. But no amount of Mortal vision could conjure him from the shadows.

She willed herself to be still and to master the cold creeping into her fingertips, to relengthen her breath.

Until tonight, her greatest concern for Jonathan had been that he’d be misunderstood. That the uncertainty and gentleness in his eyes would be seen as weakness by a people who lived by a code of vigilant strength and wild life.