Ted Dekker - Mortal

Or perhaps it was with those words and those tears that she’d fallen for him.

Now that same young man rode into town on his horse with a boy behind him, face turned against Jonathan’s back, white fingers clutching his waist. Her Sovereign whom she loved more than her own life was bringing a Corpse among the Mortals. One whose name he would never forget.

He stopped adjacent to the steps to the temple ruins, ten paces from a loosely formed arc of expectant observers. Maro took two steps forward and stopped. Roland’s cousin was dark haired, hook-nosed, and famous for his notched arrows that screamed when put to flight.

Silence stood between them. The horse twitched its plaited tail, oblivious.

“What is the meaning of this?” Maro finally said.

“His name is Keenan,” Jonathan said. “He needs our help.”

Jordin eased forward and placed herself just back and off of Maro’s right shoulder, bothered already by the warrior’s tone. Behind Jonathan, Keenan had lifted his shaggy blond head and begun to stare fearfully about him.

“He’s a Corpse,” Maro said evenly. “Bringing a Corpse into our perimeter is strictly forbidden.”

Jonathan considered Maro for an even moment, and then silently lifted Keenan down from the saddle before dismounting behind him. The boy, a full head and a half shorter than Jonathan, was trembling. The closest Corpse outpost that Jordin knew of was nearly four hours’ ride from here. Had the young Sovereign gone expressly looking for Corpses to bring back?

He leaned over and whispered something to the boy, but before Jordin could wonder what it was or move toward them, Maro had stalked forward. The boy staggered a step backward, dirty face wide with fear.

The zealot nodded at Jonathan. “The law protects all of us. No one’s above it.”

“Remember whom you speak to,” Jordin bit out quietly.

Maro turned, saw her, and narrowed his eyes. “Censure from a deserter’s daughter?”

She felt the color rush to her face, hot.

Rhoda, the blacksmith, had joined the fray. “What’s this?”

“Jonathan’s brought a Corpse to camp,” Maro said, stalking to Jonathan’s right, as if to flank him. Surely he didn’t mean to actually confront him. How could any Mortal rebuke Jonathan?

Jordin moved with him, voice thick and low. “Back off.”

“What good is life if ruin finds us before the blood in our veins has come into power?”

“The blood in your veins? That blood in your veins isn’t your own. How dare you question your Sovereign?”

“It’s our blood that will allow us to rule a world of dead Corpses. And it’s our laws that protect Mortals until we can. We defend it to the death.” Maro jutted his chin toward the Corpse boy. “ Against death.”

He turned, looked around at the crowd. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Seriph, the ranking council member, had by now joined the circle of onlookers.

“The dead will bury their dead,” Jonathan said quietly. “But I would give Keenan life.”

“By breaking the law?” Maro demanded. He looked over at Seriph. “What do you say?”

Silence settled in the valley. Even the breeze seemed to take note. There had never been a direct confrontation like this within camp, or between any man and Jonathan. Where were Rom or Roland to set things straight?

Seriph eyed the Corpse boy, seeming to choose his words carefully. “The law is clear. No Corpse may enter the Seyala Valley without council approval. No more brought to life until Jonathan ascends.”

“He breaks the law in bringing a Corpse here. Tell me this isn’t true.”

Seriph hesitated. Accusing a Sovereign of breaking the law was unheard of. Even the Nomads knew that. He seemed very aware that his words might be first of their kind spoken in public by a ranking council member.

“He breaks the law,” Seriph said softly.

“He breaks the law,” Maro repeated, bolder now. He paced again, to his right then back, as an interrogator before a prisoner.

“He is the Sovereign!” Jordin cried, indignation hot in her veins.

“Our valley will not become a graveyard for the dead,” Maro said. “For every Corpse lining up to be handed a life they don’t even understand. And we will not pollute the camp with stench of Corpse!”

Maro slid his knife out of its sheath and strode toward the boy without offering up any explanation for his intention.

Jordin knew what would happen before it did-the moment Maro moved she knew.

She knew that Jonathan would move to protect the boy, regardless of Maro’s intentions. Which he did, boldly and without compromise.

She knew that she would cut in between them to protect her Sovereign. She turned on Maro, who had the audacity to slash at her. Maker, had he lost his mind?

Jordin arched back, steel hissing a bare inch from her chin, her own knife instantly in her hand.

On the edge of the circle-Seriph, staring in shock. Beyond them, Triphon, Rom-coming toward them, Roland behind them. They strode across camp, but not quickly enough.

“Heretic!” Maro hissed, circling to his left. Deliberately, she knew, to draw her from Jonathan. She turned on her heel, holding her ground.

“You know what I think, Maro? That the day before you were made Mortal you stank twice as bad as this boy.”

His eyes narrowed, muscles along his shoulders tensing with his legs. She braced herself-but with a sudden cry, the Corpse boy bolted out from behind her.

“Get back!” she shouted. Too late. Maro rushed straight for the boy. Jonathan flew between them as Jordin lunged, slashing upward. No sparring match, this-she went for the tendons. Maro’s knife dropped free, but his arm, still in full swing, connected with Jonathan. Maro’s hand struck Jonathan’s jaw, snapping his head to the side and sending him reeling back onto the boy.

And then Rom was on Maro, grabbing the zealot from behind. He threw him forward, fell onto his back, grabbed him up by the hair and slammed his forehead into the hard earth with enough force to break his nose with an audible crunch. Not once, but twice.

Maro lay unmoving. Jordin could smell the life in him, but he was mercifully unconscious.

Knee still in the zealot’s back, Rom jerked the man’s head up, his face grisly with blood. Their leader was breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from fury. Jordin had never seen such a look on his face before.

“No one touches the Sovereign!” he roared. He released his grip on Maro’s hair and let his head fall with a solid thud. “Are we clear?”

Those gathered gave no argument.

To Roland: “Take this fool away. See that he’s punished. He’s not to come within twenty yards of Jonathan again or I swear I’ll put him in chains or worse.”

Roland’s face was set as stone, but he gave a curt nod.

Behind Jonathan, soft crying from the Corpse boy. Rom considered the boy for a moment, but when he spoke next, it wasn’t to Jonathan.

“Take the Corpse back to where he came from.”

Jordin blinked. Rom had addressed her. She glanced at Jonathan. Just two mornings ago he had bowed to Jonathan’s wish to turn a Dark Blood… no matter that it had ended badly.

“But-”

“I won’t have our mission compromised. There is far more at stake here than one Corpse. Do as I say.”

She could see it then: the strain around his eyes. The dark evidence of sleeplessness the lines at the corners furrowing deeper than usual. The tension around his mouth.

She glanced from him to Jonathan, whose eyes held on hers for a moment. And then he nodded once…

Jonathan dropped to one knee, leaned in, and whispered to the boy. Tears streamed down the boy’s face. Then Jonathan got up and, with one glance at her, walked through the crowd, which quickly parted before him.