Ted Dekker - Mortal

But when it came to the overall protection and guidance of the Nomadic bloodline, only these three advised him directly: Michael, who was his highest-ranking warrior; Seriph the zealot, who ranked politically in the highest favor; and Anthony, his leader of domestic affairs. Though any chief was welcome to visit Roland’s quarters and voice any grievance to him personally, matters affecting the whole tribe, present or future, always came before his council.

Michael sat on a stump, arms crossed, staring in the direction of the valley just west of them. Seriph paced nearby, frowning. Anthony, the eldest at nearly fifty, took a long pull from a canteen. Known for keeping his words to a minimum, for never speaking quickly, he was viewed throughout the camp as something of a father figure-a man as kind as he was, by Nomadic standards, rotund.

Roland had quickly briefed them, saying nothing about the reversal in Jonathan’s blood. Everything else, they now knew:

Jonathan could not be Sovereign unless Feyn handed the office over to him.

If Feyn died, Saric would be Sovereign.

That Jonathan had become, of late, obsessed with the plight of Corpses without demonstrating any plan for his dominion over them.

That Saric had raised an army of Dark Bloods to crush any enemy to Feyn’s rule-namely Jonathan and those Jonathan had brought to life.

Mortals.

Nomads.

Now, in the last three days, the entire future of the Nomadic bloodline had come under direct threat.

“How many?” Anthony asked.

“Three thousand,” Michael said. “If the one we took was telling the truth.”

“Until we know better we assume he was,” Roland said.

“Can we take them?”

“We could take twice that number,” Seriph said.

Roland nodded. “Yes. But their reflexes and strength are surprising. He’s bred them for war.”

Seriph paused his pacing. “Our only sure course of action is to go after Saric directly.”

“And invite a war?” Anthony settled to a stump.

“Yes. On our terms,” Seriph said. “Better that than waiting for him to flush us out and attack with the advantage.”

“You’re assuming war of any kind is prudent.”

“If it saves us, it’s prudent,” Michael said. “We’ve skirmished for years with earlier clandestine guard without ever learning their origin. Now we know they were some precursor to these Dark Bloods. We handled them easily enough, but now we face a more dangerous enemy. As long as they exist they threaten our kind. We can’t give them the chance to wipe us out!”

“Agreed,” Seriph said. “It’s clear.”

“Nothing is clear!” Anthony thundered, getting to his feet. Even Roland blinked at the sound. He so rarely raised his voice-but then again, rarely were they confronted with such stark choices. “Going against a superior enemy is fraught with danger, regardless of the situation.”

“We either go against the enemy or wait for them to root us out.”

“Not necessarily. There is another way,” Anthony said, his gaze settling on Roland.

“What way is that?” Seriph said.

“We go into hiding. Deep. Far from here, where we may live in peace. We have all that we need-including lives that have been extended far beyond those of any Corpse. Saric will die one day, but we will still be alive.”

“You’re suggesting we just wait them out?” Seriph said. “As we have for five hundred years? No. This is the time for our kind to rise! It’s what we’ve waited for. What we’ve anticipated-all of us. And now you say, ‘Run and hide’?”

And so in two minutes the basic tension felt by all Nomads was laid bare. Fight or hide.

Anthony eyed him again. “What say you, Roland?”

Roland sighed and stared off toward the horses tied at the edge of the clearing.

“That each of you is right. That time will dictate which course we take.”

“We don’t have time!” Seriph hissed.

Roland glared at him. “Time. Will. Tell.”

The man fell silent.

“The more immediate question is that of Jonathan’s sovereignty. If he can take his seat, our course will be very different.”

“And if he can’t?” Michael said. “You’ve always said that the time for our people to rise and rule has come.”

“Through Jonathan.”

“Yes, of course. But his seat is taken! If he can’t reclaim it-”

“Then we will see!”

He was surprised at the edge in his own voice. Crossing his arms, he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, exhaled, and then said, “For now we have a delicate play in motion. We must let it unfold as planned.”

“No news since Pasha went missing?” Anthony said.

“Only that he was taken the day before yesterday.”

Michael’s face darkened. “If they kill him I will personally cut Saric’s throat-”

“Yes. But until then, you will do exactly as I say. We fight for Jonathan’s ascension. We play our hand as directed by Rom. We give him Feyn if we can, and we let him spin his magic. She’s still our best option until proven otherwise.”

“You’re sure you want to deal with Saric alone?” Michael said, her brows drawing together. “I would be by your side, brother.”

What a warrior she was! A fearless soul with royal blood in her veins. “If you insist, sister. But let your passions get the better of you and I will send you away. Is this clear?”

“I only wish to serve.”

“Then serve me with your trust.”

She dipped her head.

“You risk too much for him,” Seriph said.

“Truly, Seriph?” Roland said. “Your zealots seem to have forgotten what the boy has given us. Now that you have his blood you would use it for your own gain, is that it? Conquer the world? Rule? Who needs Jonathan now that we have what he has to give?”

Even as he said it, he wondered who he was trying to convince-Seriph, or himself.

“Are you saying you haven’t thought the same yourself? Jonathan is no leader of men. We have as much power as he has now. He’s one boy, born within Order while our heritage extends-”

“You think your Prince has forgotten his history? I don’t need a lecture, I need your obedience.”

Seriph inclined his head, his eyes still fixed on Roland. “Of course, my Prince.”

Hooves, pounding the forest floor. Word was coming.

A cry rang out. “They’ve been sighted! Coming this way from the south.”

Roland turned to Michael. “Your men are ready?”

“Always.”

“Then let’s see if we can work our own magic and give Rom what he wants.” He headed for his horse. “Michael, with me. Seriph, Anthony, take your horses to the trees. I don’t want you seen.”

JORDIN HADN’T FELT SUCH FEAR as she had these last few days. The prick of anxiety, yes, when she couldn’t find Jonathan. That moment of hesitation when she realized that he was missing from camp. But never true fear because he always appeared, as though in response to her unspoken call for him, just as he had yesterday when he had returned to camp with the Corpse boy, Keenan.

But now, as they skirted the southeast edge of the city, she was afraid. Haunted by images of Dark Bloods, afraid that the day would come when there would be more than she could protect him from. Terrified that they would take Jonathan from her.

That she would ultimately be without him.

They shouldn’t have come. But Jonathan was set and would have come with or without her. And leaving his side was as unacceptable to her as losing him.

They’d ridden straight through the day, only stopping when necessary to rest and water the horses or relieve themselves, eating in the saddle, speaking little. She did not need to ask where he meant to go, or why. She knew. And what her Sovereign wanted was as good as a directive in Jordin’s mind.