Ted Dekker - Mortal

She knew better than perhaps even the old Keeper that Jonathan carried a terrible burden-one she doubted he could carry alone indefinitely.

The blood in his veins had chosen him, not the other way around. He hadn’t asked to take on humanity’s redemption from death, to bleed out for the world, one portion of blood at a time.

Did the others see the torture in his eyes? The questions that followed him like carrion birds? Did they lay awake at night and beg the Maker to ease the way of their savior, as she did? Did they care as much for his life as his blood?

Or was Jonathan only that vessel selected by the centuries to do the Maker’s bidding?

Jonathan, where are you?

She would be the one by his side-not someone who cared only about the promise of what he could bring-but a woman who knew and loved him for the secrets in his heart.

The instant she thought it, she chided herself. He was the Sovereign and savior of the world. She was an orphan who had been saved by his blood. Her role was to protect and love him. His was to right the world.

From here on out, she would vow to keep her mind in its proper-

Her train of thought broke with movement at the edge of her vision: a man, tearing from an alley into a street two hundred paces west of here.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, adrenaline flooding her veins. She would know that running form anywhere-that head lowered into the night, the length of that stride, his braids streaming behind him.

Jonathan, alone, headed for the front of the basilica.

And then not alone. A tall form sprinted around the corner, thirty paces behind him. A Dark Blood. On the side street, the horse-drawn cart meandered on, on a direct path to intersect Jonathan’s flight.

There was no sign of Rom or Roland.

Something had gone wrong.

Jordin reached around for the bow on her shoulder and then stopped. The distance was too great, a low-percentage attempt that would only delay her getting to him. She had to get closer.

She sprang, catlike, over the short railing, bounded across the ceramic roof tiles, seven paces to the fire escape along the back of the basilica. She swung onto the ladder’s guide rails and slid down, palms burning from the friction of rusted steel on skin.

Down two stories. Three. She shoved away from the fire escape, dropped fifteen feet to the ground on light feet. And then she was running before her thoughts had time to catch her, focused on one thing only: reaching Jonathan before the Dark Blood did.

She ran along the basilica’s eastern wall, sprinting on her toes, demanding her legs fly faster.

Around the corner, grabbing for the drain pipe on the turn.

Hand over her shoulder, slipping her bow free.

The main street careened into view.

Jordin pulled up hard, arrow notched, seeing the scene before her: Jonathan running full bore, still a hundred paces off. The Dark Blood closing, not quickly, but too fast for her to reach him in time.

She dropped to one knee, gauged the distance and sighted two feet over the warrior’s head. She drew the compound bow’s string to her ear, held her breath to steady her aim, and loosed the arrow.

It flew nearly two seconds before striking the man in his breast armor. He jerked, caught off guard by the blow from nowhere. But the strike only slowed him a pace before he continued his charge.

Jordin had already notched her second arrow. Pulled back, let fly.

This time the Dark Blood was ready for the projectile, saw it coming, and jerked out of the way with stunning speed. Still running. Fast.

Too fast.

She’d never reach Jonathan in time!

The clip-clop of the horse-drawn cart edged into the street directly ahead of her, driver perched lazily on the cab, reins in hand.

Flinging her bow over her shoulder, Jordin bolted up and tore for the horse. There was only one way to reach Jonathan before the Dark Blood did.

A single strong horse pulled that cart. She needed it. Without warning to driver or animal, she launched herself at the horse, landing on its back like a black-clad wraith. Grabbing it by the neck, she jerked the reins from the driver.

The startled horse snorted and bucked, but she had ridden horses far stronger and wilder than this domestic dog and she hung on, heels digging into flank.

The horse bolted, terrified. She sent a vicious lash of the reins to its right hindquarter. Hooves pounded the cobblestone street as the horse picked up speed, the covered cart a forgotten distraction.

The driver cried out but when she glanced back he was gone, having fallen from his perch or jumped.

Thirty yards.

“Run, Jonathan!” Her scream echoed down the street. “Run!”

He ran directly toward her, face glistening from the dead sprint.

The Dark Blood had somehow picked up his pace. His sword was in his hand. He was going to throw it!

Jordin smashed her heels into the horse’s flanks, pulling it to the right to avoid Jonathan.

“Run!”

But the moment she passed him, Jonathan slowed, following her with wide eyes.

“To the back!” she screamed. She jerked the horse hard to the left, directly toward the oncoming Dark Blood.

She saw it all in a mosaic flash: The alarm on the Dark Blood’s face. The careening cart breaking free of its hitch. The horse jerking its head back at the sight and scent of the looming Dark Blood.

The cart veered to the left and slammed into a darkened light pole.

Then they were on top of the warrior.

He was far too agile, avoiding them again at the last instant, but he’d been thrown off guard.

Keep him off balance.

The simple thought broke into her consciousness even as she acted out of instinct.

The horse was already galloping by the Dark Blood, whose back was now to her. She threw herself backward off the horse, feet over head, snatching her knife from the sheath in midair, twisting so that she would land facing the Dark Blood from behind.

She landed on the run, sprinting silently for his exposed back-four long paces. She was half his size and he was quick, but she now held full advantage, and she couldn’t afford to waste it.

He had just begun to turn back when she launched herself at him.

Landed on his back.

Wrapped both legs around his belly.

Jerked his dreadlocks back with her left hand.

Ripped the blade in her right hand across his exposed throat with a shrill cry.

No one would threaten Jonathan.

Blood gushed to the ground as the Dark Blood staggered forward. She rode him to the ground, breathing hard. His body twitched once under her, and then lay dead.

Her rage caught her off guard. But of course it was rage. She would take a hundred like him if they dared touch the Sovereign. Her Sovereign.

Her head snapped up. He stood twenty paces away, staring not at her, but through the bars at the back of the covered cart that had crashed into the light post. The lettering on the side of the cart finally arranged itself into three cohesive words for the first time.

Authority of Passing.

This, then, was one of the transports that took frail or flawed Corpses to their living graves-Corpses like the ones they had seen on the way in to the city a few hours earlier.

The thought skittered through her mind like a piece of refuse blown by the wind, here, and then gone in the face of far more pressing matters. Where there was one Dark Blood there might be more. They had to get out of the city. And where were Rom and Roland?

She glanced behind her. Clear… except for two shadowed silhouettes running toward them, still nearly a quarter mile away. Mortals. Rom and Roland.

Relief flooded her. They would make it. Jonathan was safe, and she had been the one to save him.