by James Somers
Ethan slipped his hand under his cloak and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the short sword Elspeth had given him. He had never fought in a battle before. Now, the feelings of glory he had conjured in his mind, of serving in the militia against Mordred, fled as the dreaded rider approached their company.
Everyone remained tense but still. Provoking this rider was the worst thing they could do. When the Wraith Rider came within fifty yards, he came to an abrupt stop, sending up a cloud of dust around him and his horse. When the dust began to clear, Ethan got his first good look at the warrior. In addition to his midnight-black robes, the man wore a crimson half-face mask which left his mouth and jaw exposed. The hood of his cloak was up. He wore a pair of leather gauntlets covered with steel spikes across the backs of the hands.
Ethan surmised, by the rider’s appearance, the stories were probably true and their reputation well deserved. The rider did not speak. With his robes draped over his black horse, the two almost appeared to be one creature.
“My lord,” Horace said, “may we assist you in some way?”
The Wraith Rider said nothing. Even his horse stood deathly still.
Horace looked at his men behind him. Ethan noticed Horace’s fearful expression. This was the first time he had ever seen the man afraid. He liked seeing him unnerved. Still, Horace was the leader of this expedition, and they were depending on him to know how to handle this without getting them all killed.
“My lord, we are on our way to seek an audience with our Lord Mordred,” Horace said. His flattery was as obvious as he meant it to be. They did not dare attempt to pass the man on the road. “If you would like, my lord, our company will yield the road to you and go around.”
The rider in black said absolutely nothing. Horace turned sideways in his saddle to inform the others. They would go around. “Follow me, lads.”
Only Ethan saw what happened next, as it occurred too fast for any of the other men to notice. Ethan felt the air sucked away as in a vacuum. Time seemed to stagger around him. A bee drifted before his face. Ethan saw each flap of its paper-thin wings. The boy sat in awe of the world around him—sounds never heard before, colors never envisioned. The scene became distinct and overwhelming. The Wraith Rider stood up in his stirrups.
As Horace Howinger bent sideways in his saddle, beginning to turn back toward the rider in black, the warrior reached for a sword upon his back. With one extremely swift, smooth motion, the Wraith Rider pulled the weapon from its place and whipped it forward in a precise arc terminating at Horace Howinger’s chest. Ethan’s benefactor of nine years never even knew what had hit him.
Ethan watched the event unfold, but he felt like a slug in a race. His body could not keep up with his senses. Ethan tried to pull the sword from his cloak, to scream, anything. He felt mired as in a pit of tar.
Voices, like a hundred women lamenting their lost children, echoed in Ethan’s ears. He saw a horde of demons swarm toward his group from the trees. The horses understood the danger. They bucked and whinnied frantically beneath their riders. The men did not know to flee. None of them seemed to realize anything had happened yet—only that Horace had, just that moment, let out a whimpering cry before them.
Whistler went completely wild beneath Ethan. He tried to control the animal. Demons crashed into the men around him like a mighty wave of the sea. The raw power of the attack sent horses and riders tumbling through the air.
Whistler lurched forward, and Ethan lost his grip. He fell from the saddle, hitting his head hard enough to produce stars in his vision. His right foot caught in the stirrup, and Whistler dragged him. Ethan tried to reach up for the saddle horn, but some part of the terrain knocked the wind from his lungs, and everything went black.
GRIM REALITY
Ethan’s head ached as he regained consciousness. He reached up to a sore spot on the back of his head before opening his eyes. When he brought his hand back from the stinging bump at the base of his neck, he opened his eyes to slits and saw fresh blood upon his fingers.
Ethan tried to get up and realized his foot was twisted. His entire right leg ached terribly. A shadow advanced over him. Ethan looked up and saw Whistler standing there next to him. The horse slowly chewed a muzzle full of grass as he grazed. Ethan’s foot was still wedged in the right stirrup.
He turned his leg to release the toe of his boot. The leg fell numb to the ground with a thud. Ethan wondered if anything might be broken. A horrible tingling took over in the leg as the blood flow returned to normal. Ethan endured a sensation like hundreds of spiders dancing beneath his skin. He turned his head and realized what horrible things had happened during his unconsciousness.
He and Whistler were now some distance from the road where the attack had taken place. Ethan now knew Whistler had saved his life by dragging him away from the gruesome scene depicted before him. He stood to his feet, mumbling, “How can this be?”
Ethan hobbled toward the road. As he came nearer, a curtain of carrion-feeding birds and flies begrudged him the disturbance. Ethan stood there horrified. The delegation bore little resemblance to human beings now. The ten men, and Mr. Howinger, were dead. But, more than that, they had been slaughtered in ways beyond human comprehension.
Some of the company, including horses, dangled like moss in nearby trees. Ethan did not believe a lone Wraith Rider could have accomplished this. He realized the demons he had seen were as real in the physical world as they were in the spiritual. They had crossed the boundary, normally confining them, and had entered the physical world with power beyond comprehension.
Ethan fought to keep gut-wrenching nausea at bay. He turned away from the scene. On the road behind, where he and the others had been when the attack came, Ethan saw one distinct set of hoof prints heading back toward Grandee. Ethan ran to the place where the rider had been sitting stoically upon his mount. He confirmed his suspicion. The rider had not turned and gone back the way he came. He and his demon forces are going to Grandee…and Elspeth!
Ethan flew into a panic. He was a half-day’s travel from his home. He found the overturned wagon where their supplies had been. They had been scattered in every direction upon the ground as though by an explosion. Among the discarded weapons, Ethan found another sword, this one a two handed broadsword which he thought he could handle.
Ethan fastened the scabbard to Whistler’s saddle and took two of the water skins and some jerky. He had not eaten all day and his strength was ebbing away. Ethan climbed back into the saddle and regarded Howinger’s delegation of peaceful cooperation one last time before goading the stallion into a full gallop toward Grandee.
AFTERMATH
Nightfall forced Ethan to stop traveling toward Grandee. But when daylight came again, the first thing he noticed was a huge column of black smoke rising above the horizon. Grandee, he thought.
When Ethan finally cleared the last hill obstructing his view, his fears were confirmed immeasurably. There were about twenty large buildings in the town of Grandee. All but one of them had a plume of smoke rising from it. Ethan rode slower now. Whistler seemed hesitant to continue into the remains of the town. Ethan decided to turn east and go directly to the Howinger farm. He had to know what had happened to his sister. At the same time, he feared what he might find when he arrived.
It took Ethan nearly an hour to make his way around the perimeter of the town and then out to Mr. Howinger’s farm. As feared, a great cloud of smoke hovered over the place where the barns and the home were located. Ethan and Whistler made their way up the road leading to the farmhouse. It appeared mostly intact. One of the barns smoldered in the distance.
Tears streamed down Ethan’s cheeks even as he fought the urge to break down. Nothing moved on the farm as he and Whistler approached the main house. He did not have any idea what he was going to do or even what he could do. Ethan had always depended upon Elspeth.
Mustering his courage, Ethan climbed down from Whistler’s saddle and walked toward the open front door
. As he got closer, it became apparent the door was not merely standing open—it was gone. The entire frame was missing along with it.
The house still smoldered, and light funneled into the main room from a large hole in the ceiling created by the fire. Ethan walked inside. The room was a complete shamble. The furniture, not destroyed by fire, lay smashed into kindling by…something.
Ethan saw no blood and no body. He was alarmed, yet relieved at the same time. Where could she be, if not here in the house? Ethan moved quicker now, emboldened by the lack of his sister’s body. He made a quick survey through all of the rooms in the house, still turning up nothing.
Outside, around the farm, Ethan found seven bodies, all men. He recognized them as the field hands Mr. Howinger kept on regular salary to help work his farm. Some of them had been family men. Casting an eye back toward Grandee and the smoke billowing into the sky above it, Ethan wondered what had become of their wives and children.
A complete search of the buildings on Howinger’s farm still did not turn up Elspeth’s body. Ethan was glad she remained missing, at least as long as she was safe. He just had to find her. The only other possibility was that Elspeth might have been in town for some reason.
Ethan knew he had to go into Grandee. It was likely he would find the same sort of carnage found on the road where Howinger’s delegation had been killed. He climbed into the saddle, urging Whistler back down the road. Reluctantly, Ethan rode toward the town and whatever nightmare awaited him.
One half hour later, Ethan rode into the town of Grandee. Some buildings still burned, but most were spent and smoldering. Homes in the outlying perimeter area were nothing but burnt shells. The bodies of the young and old littered the streets.
As Ethan and Whistler passed the Council Chamber Building, he spotted a body wearing a velvet waistcoat. He turned the horse to pass closer. Sure enough, the lifeless form of Council Chairman, Tom Grandee, lay there on the dirt road. Scarlet stains and dust covered his clothes. His face was a mask of terror. Ethan moved on.
An eerie pattern emerged as Ethan continued to ride through the town. Oddly enough, he could not find any women among the dead. Did the Wraith Rider take them prisoner? Ethan hated to think about why the women would have been taken captive from Grandee while the men were killed. But if that was the case, then at least Elspeth was still alive.
As he continued riding into the business district of Grandee, Ethan heard voices speaking somewhere in the distance. He could not see anyone yet. The sounds came from one street over, so he urged Whistler on in order to investigate.
When Ethan rounded the buildings blocking his view, he saw three men rummaging through the clothes of those lying slain in the streets. He knew nearly everyone who had lived in Grandee. And these men did not. Fury struck Ethan in the chest as he understood what they were doing—looting the dead.
His sword sang out as he pulled the weapon from its scabbard on Whistler’s saddle. The men, so engrossed in their disrespect for Grandee’s fallen, did not notice the horse come into view on the street ahead of them. But when they heard the drumming of hooves on hard ground and Ethan’s war cry, they lifted their heads in stunned surprise.
Ethan gouged his heels into Whistler’s flanks and the horse sprang forward as if he had merely been waiting to be unleashed. Ethan held the blade aloft as he approached the three men. They tried to find their weapons as the boy closed in on them.
The men were all dressed in knee-length, crimson robes tied at the waist with white sashes. Loose fitting crimson breeches became tight at the ankle atop simple slip-on style shoes. One man carried a Bo staff, another carried a sword, and the third produced no weapons at all.
Ethan approached the unarmed man and swung his sword down in a wide arc. He had never used a weapon before. It felt clumsy in his hand. Ethan nearly fell off Whistler as the bouncing in the saddle, combined with the weight of his weapon, threatened to toss him into the street.
The leader of the oddly dressed looters bent backward at the waist halfway to the ground, allowing the point of Ethan’s blade to pass over him. The man actually smiled as Ethan made the pass and missed. It seemed the boy’s feeble attempt to kill him actually amused him.
Ethan barely recovered, straightening himself in the saddle before coming upon the man with the Bo staff. Ethan tried to bring the sword down this time. He aimed for the man’s head, striking out. The man simultaneously dodged his head sideways and struck Ethan in the arm with the end of the staff.
The blow, compounded with trying to ride the speeding horse, sent Ethan over the other side of the saddle and down into the dusty street. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but he did not waste anytime getting back up. His anger and adrenaline gave him more speed and strength than he normally had. However, Ethan simply was not the warrior he imagined himself to be.
When he stood, the three men had formed a tight group in the street. The leader was standing just ahead of the other two flanking him on either side. All three men laughed at Ethan. He located his sword. It had stuck into the earthen street, still wobbling back and forth a little when Ethan reached to pull it out.
He glanced at the men again, sneering at them as he prepared to unleash his fury upon these criminals. But they did not appear the least bit threatened by the armed, angry boy before them. The leader motioned to Bo staff with a nod. He came forward with his six-foot piece of hickory, twirling it around his body in tight circles. The wood became a circular blur. The man brought it around, stopping its motion precisely, taking a defensive stance. He then curled his index finger, challenging Ethan to charge him.
Ethan thought twice about making another attack. Then he thought about it again, supposing that his steel blade could cut the wood to splinters, if he could just hit it. Ethan took a chance and charged. At the last moment, he swept up with his blade. It clattered off the staff as the man deflected his strike and countered, whacking Ethan in the back, toying with him.
Ethan faltered, but realized he was near the leader who was just standing there laughing. Without warning, Ethan turned and swiped horizontally at the man’s neck. He was close enough to have decapitated the man. But instead, the man deftly fell backward, arching his back with his hands on the ground behind him. In the same swift motion, his feet came up under Ethan’s hands, striking the hilt of his sword. The weapon flew from Ethan’s grasp as the man completed his back flip and stood up again.
It happened too fast for Ethan to react. He was now unarmed, and his wrist ached terribly. The man followed his maneuver by leaping into the air toward the boy. His body rotated elegantly in mid-air and brought the back of his foot around, smashing Ethan across the side of the face. The blow was bone jarring. Ethan spun in place like a top, falling over like an old drunk.
MORDECAI
“I can’t believe that kid thought he could actually win against priests of Shaddai,” Bo staff said.
“Maybe he didn’t realize who we are,” the leader said.
“He must have been living under a rock then, Mordecai. Anyone who knows anything knows about The Order,” the man with the sword said.
“Let’s see what he’s got then. You two check his horse,” Mordecai commanded.
Whistler stood only thirty feet away. The men ran over to the horse and caught him by the reins. Whistler normally might have fled from these strangers, but the animal remained loyal to its master, Ethan.
The two men rummaged through the saddlebags, but did not find anything more than a few more weapons and some food and water. Mordecai began to rummage through the young boy’s clothing. He found nothing of consequence, no money. But when he pushed back the sleeve on the boy’s right arm, his eyes transfixed on something he never expected to see.
The boy’s right arm held the mark of Shaddai’s Deliverer. There could be no mistaking it. Mordecai had seen the same image within the secret Temple of Shaddai, while training there as a priest of The Order. A lump rose in his throat.
The implicati
ons settled on his mind, while a smile settled upon his lips. The Deliverer, thought killed many years before, was here—alive! Mordecai needed only to deliver the fool to Mordred and his fondest dreams of power and prestige could come true—he could name his price.
“Find some rope,” Mordecai told the others as he stood up.
They turned to him. Both had puzzled looks on their faces.
“We’ve just struck gold, boys,” Mordecai said.
The two men looked down at the unconscious boy, surmising he must mean rope to tie him up. They dispersed into a nearby mercantile. The building had been bashed in by something monstrous.
Mordecai stood in the street, hovering over Ethan, staring in wonder at what the Almighty had chosen to use as a deliverer. This is it—a boy with no fighting skill whatsoever?
Within several minutes, the other two priests emerged from the mercantile with a suitable length of sturdy rope. Mordecai took it and began to wrap it around the boy’s hands and then loop it around his neck. If he attempted to strike out with his bound wrists then at least he would choke himself with the effort.
“Bring the horses,” Mordecai said, “and his.”
One of the priests fetched three horses, which they had stolen in another village, while the other retrieved Whistler. When Mordecai felt satisfied with his knot, they hoisted Ethan onto Whistler’s saddle and secured him to the horse with more rope. He could ride now even while he was still unconscious. Perfect, Mordecai thought. The very end of the long rope he fastened securely to the horn of his saddle. Then the three riders, plus their prisoner, set off on horseback for the city of white walled city of Emmanuel.
The wind carried light debris and dust through the streets in Grandee. Another man strolled through its death filled streets. He led a horse, white with patches of brown. The young man’s face remained passive. He surveyed the town like someone who had seen this all before and had learned to remain detached from the tragedy of it.
