by James Somers
The stench of wine permeated everything in the palace now. Mordred had immediately set his servants to cleaning it all up. He addressed the people of the city and his army—congratulating them on a job well done.
Jericho decided to depart for a time. He needed to take stock in his resources. This was no time to suppose they had the victory, as Mordred was doing. The Deliverer might have gotten closer were it not for his own precautions. And they still had to be careful while the boy lived.
One man had told Jericho about the Deliverer surviving the attack on Salem. The renegade priest, Mordecai, had known whom the boy traveled with. And this man knew the secret location of The Order of Shaddai and their temple complex. It was time for Jericho to see Mordecai again.
Jericho appeared outside the house of Kane in the small village of Magog. The old sorcerer lived a quiet life in this sleepy village, providing medicines and herbal remedies for the ailing. He also provided the people with spiritism. People feared and revered him in the villages round about.
Kane’s house was a simple dwelling made from logs and pitch with a thatch roof. Various idols stood outside the door and scattered around the structure. The statue he used to worship Jericho had the face of a leopard with four wings on its back and the wide paws of a bear.
Mordecai sat inside the house with a small cook-fire burning. A crutch rested on the floor next to the stool Mordecai sat upon as he cooked the flesh of a small animal on a spit. Jericho entered the dwelling, but remained invisible to the priest.
He had considered putting on some sort of display, perhaps levitating objects in the room, tossing them in every direction like a tornado. However, Mordecai would never cower before him over such trickery. He knew this priest better than that. In his heart, Mordecai was a rebel. He always had been. That was why it had been so easy to persuade the man to seek his own way apart from the strict guidelines of The Order of Shaddai. Mordecai wanted to be the master of his own destiny—most men did. Jericho had used this to his advantage.
He appeared before Mordecai. Jericho stood opposite the priest on the other side of the cook-fire. Mordecai jumped when he noticed the demon, but calmed quickly when he realized who it was.
“Lord Jericho, I was hoping you would return,” Mordecai said. “I was happy to wake in the land of the living.”
Jericho simply nodded. “I see Kane has tended well to your injuries,” he offered.
“Yes, he informed me, after I was feeling better, that you had sent him for me—that you had instructed him to take care of me until you returned. And he said you promised to reward him for his trouble.” Mordecai’s mouth spread into a devilish grin as his gaze found Jericho’s preternatural eyes. “I trust you will be sure to reward him as faithfully as you meant to reward me, before you found I could give you what you want.”
Jericho’s eyes betrayed no hint of injury at the remark. “What is it that you require, Mordecai?”
Mordecai stood up, slightly off balance. Evidently, he still needed the crutch to get around. “Only to live a long life,” he said, “and have the opportunity to kill the man who did this.” Mordecai pulled his tan shirt up, revealing the large wound in his abdomen given to him by the warrior-priest, Gideon. The wound had been stitched up with dried catgut suture and there was an herbal bolster sewn overtop to help it heal properly.
Jericho smiled. “I’m sure I could arrange for you to have that opportunity, especially if he is still traveling with the Deliverer. What I need to know is where they might have gone.”
“If he is traveling with Gideon, then they will return to The Order of Shaddai, at the Temple,” Mordecai surmised. “He will want to bring the boy to Isaiah, the High Priest.”
“A sound enough theory, Mordecai,” Jericho confirmed. “However, I cannot get my forces into the Temple. It’s guarded by the Heavenly Host.”
Mordecai considered the problem. “What about an assassin?”
Jericho showed uncharacteristic glee. “An assassin with an intimate knowledge of the Temple and its many secrets?” The demon smiled. “Rest well, Mordecai—assassin. Enjoy the hospitality of my dear servant, Kane, while you can. I will come for you when you are recovered of these injuries. Then you will have your revenge, and I will be rid of this Deliverer of Shaddai.”
We children sat completely still as the final sentence rolled from the lips of the bearded, old storyteller. When he was finished, he simply stared at his audience, and we stared back. Was this all? Certainly, the story did not end there.
So much had been left unsaid—so much left undone. In fact, it seemed the story of Shaddai’s Deliverer had only just begun. We waited with baited breath to see if the storyteller would continue. The unbearable tension between the grizzled old man and his audience was finally broken when he smiled, clapped his wrinkled hands together, and stood up.
“Is that all?” I said.
“What do you mean?” he replied.
“Aren’t you going to tell us what happened to Ethan and Gideon? What about Captain Bonifast?”
The Old Storyteller turned and retrieved his staff from where it rested on the edge of the fountain. The sun had already begun its slow descent toward the horizon.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “I can’t go on talking forever. Your parents will miss you if you don’t show up for the evening meal, my dears,” the storyteller said. “No, you go and eat, and I’ll do the same. Then, for those of you who are still interested, we will meet here tomorrow and see what becomes of Shaddai’s Deliverer.”
The Old Storyteller turned around, dismissing his audience. He walked into the market with his satchel at his side, his walking stick clicking with every other step against the smooth cobblestones on the street. I soon lost sight of him among the merchants and patrons, but I would return for the rest of the story tomorrow.
About the Author:
James Somers serves as a Pastor in Tennessee and works full time as a Surgical Technologist. He and his beautiful wife have five mischievous sons and four angelic dogs. James has written many fantasy novels including:
Fallen (Descendants Saga)
The Serpent Kings (Serpent Kings Saga)
Biotech
Hallowed Be Thy Name
The Chronicles of Soone Series
The Realm Shift (trilogy)
A World Within (Wielder Saga)
Percival Strange (Strange Tales)
Perdition’s Gate: Inferno
Links for James Somers Novels may be found in the sidebar at: www.jamessomers.blogspot.com
Or email James at [email protected]
Books 2 & 3 of the Realm Shift Trilogy Now Available!!
*Special Preview Chapters for: Fallen, The Serpent Kings, Perdition’s Gate, The Chronicles of Soone, A World Within, Hallowed Be Thy Name, Percival Strange.
Preview: “Fallen,” by James Somers
Oliver
Mr. Oliver James sat within the French café, Le Braziere, in downtown London, waiting for his contact to arrive. He had come early in order to scope out the area and the restaurant, ever careful to trust no one. Despite the late hour, a number of patrons were still seated eating their meals, or drinking wine.
Oliver noted several older couples enjoying different pasta dishes. Two young lovers sat nearby, having eyes only for one another. Several waiters milled about between tables, looking entirely snooty and proud of their profession as though they were waiting upon kings, or other great dignitaries.
Despite having lived in London for many years, Oliver had never been fond of French food and so had never dined at La Braziere. His contact, one Samuel Loch, had provided Oliver with useful information about the doings of Mr. Black and his associates for nearly two years. Oliver felt fairly comfortable with the man. Still, one could never be too careful. Loch was already ten minutes late.
Oliver sat quite still with a glass of wine before him. When the waiter had offered him a wine list he had been surprised to find Oliver’s glass alrea
dy full. Oliver, a man of middle age with a gray-streaked beard and slim frame, had smiled politely but had offered no explanation as to how the wine had gotten into his glass. He simply took a sip as the waiter wandered away bewildered, unsure as to what he had been doing at this curious man’s table in the first place. Minutes later he would have no recollection of a man fitting Oliver’s description ever being at the restaurant that evening.
It had been overcast all day. Only five minutes ago, the weather had turned worse as showers came down outside amid a cacophonous concert of thunder and lightning. During all of this, Samuel Loch finally walked through the door, looking worse for wear, completely drenched in his overcoat and cap. He wound his way toward Oliver’s table, ignoring the other patrons completely; something that seemed rather odd for a man that normally would not cross the street without a detailed report of everyone waiting for him on the other side.
Samuel took the chair opposite Oliver and sat down.
“I’m sorry for the delay, Mr. James. The weather’s right nasty out. Anyways, I’ve got something really special for you tonight.”
Oliver took another sip of his wine before he spoke. “Since you’ve made me wait, I should hope so,” he said.
Samuel grinned, scanning the restaurant with his eyes conspiratorially before continuing. “Black is making big moves in London; lots of recruiting among the People.”
“This I know already,” Oliver said.
“But wait,” Samuel said, “you haven’t heard the best part. I’ve a special message from Black.”
When Samuel Loch said this, he stood, pulling a revolver as he did so. When the barrel cleared the table top, he fired it repeatedly into Oliver’s chest. “Mr. Black says your time is up, old man!”
Oliver lurched in his chair with every shot fired. Bloody holes spoiled his white button-down shirt, mingling with the crimson vest worn beneath his suit jacket. Samuel stood over him, firing the revolver until he hit several empty cylinders in a row.
Oliver’s shocked gaze suddenly narrowed, fixing upon Samuel’s face, a wicked grin crossing his lips. He reached forward and took another sip of his wine. Loch’s eyes widened with surprise.
“Did you really think it would be so easy, Loch?” Oliver asked.
His form shimmered in his chair and then vanished while Samuel watched. The other patrons were on their feet, observing the entire exchange with shocked expressions. The image of Oliver in the large wall-mounted mirror behind Samuel suddenly leaped from the looking glass into the real world, pummeling Loch with the silver wolf’s head of his cane.
Loch fell forward across the table, sprawling onto the floor entangled in the off-white table cloth. The other patrons showed their true colors. Each and every one, including even the young lovers, drew pistols and started firing at Oliver.
He lurched away, blurring for a moment as he sidestepped the physical world through a portal of his own making, emerging halfway across the restaurant. Oliver pulled the flame from the nearest gas lamp, sending it into the young couple, igniting them in a blaze that instantly felled the woman while the man ran screaming through the restaurant’s plate glass façade.
Realizing the slippery nature of their target, one of the older couples turned on his new position, unloading their pistols. A wave of Oliver’s hand scattered the bullets into the nearby tables and glassware, shattering and splintering all. Another flick of his finger brought the wall curtains down upon the older couple, binding them fast in a strangle hold the likes of which even an anaconda could not manage.
Oliver turned to four more assassins, posing as patrons, coming around a division among the tables. One of them actually had brought a stick of dynamite to the party. Were they so desperate, he wondered? The fuse was already lit. The middle-aged assassin flung the TNT into the air toward Oliver. As he gazed upon the infernal object it unrolled itself, revealing the tightly packed powder. All of the explosive contents blew backward upon the crouching assassins along with the lit fuse, hissing and squirming like a scalded snake. The powder ignited mid-air showering the assassins in a cloud that blossomed into an inferno around them.
Oliver surveyed the scene. Dead or severely wounded assassins were scattered throughout the restaurant. When he went back to the table he had previously occupied, Oliver found Samuel Loch missing. Apparently he had fled the restaurant.
He sat down at the only nearby table that had not been touched by fighting. Around him the restaurant stood ramshackle and burning. Oliver picked up an empty wine glass in pristine condition, raising it before him. Red wine filled the glass from the bottom up as he gazed upon it. Oliver sniffed the aroma, approving of the vintage he had reproduced. “To you, Mr. Black,” he toasted.
The hammer of a revolver clicked as it was pulled back into firing position. As Oliver turned, a waiter standing directly behind him was tackled from the side by a young girl. The waiter fell heavily to the carpeted floor of Le Braziere with the girl attached to his neck. His gun discharged in no particular direction. Within seconds of her attack, he was completely incapacitated.
Oliver stood, watching the girl feed for a moment before she looked up at him with red-rimmed irises glowing in the candlelight of nearby tables. Not a drop had been spilled. Her skin flushed, suddenly vibrant where it had been pale and gray a moment before. The assassin’s pistol, ready to have placed a bullet into the back of Oliver’s head, still lay in his hand, a single cartridge discharged.
Oliver sighed, smiling at the young girl now standing before him wearing black clothing that matched no particular fashion of the day. Clearly it had been designed for practical purposes like ease of movement only; breeches and a blouse with a hooded robe covering all.
“Do you always leave such a mess?” she said, surveying what was left of Le Braziere’s once elegant dining room.
“Thank you for your assistance, Charlotte,” Oliver said. “As always, your timing is impeccable.”
The girl did not acknowledge the compliment. Constables would soon be on the scene following the gunfire and the charred corpse lying outside. The Fire Brigade would follow on their heels but most of Le Braziere would be destroyed. By the time Oliver James gathered himself and exited Le Braziere, the girl had vanished as mysteriously as she had appeared.
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Preview: “The Serpent Kings,” by James Somers
DEATH WALKING
Donavan stood smiling at the small crowd of villagers who had stopped to listen to him. He had just concluded his dissertation examining the current state of kingdom affairs, the true nature of their dragon gods and the imminent return of their long forgotten Creator. One of the men nearest to him looked as though he might have a comment, to which Donavan offered, “Yes?”
A meaty slab of fist slammed into his jaw, sending stars across his vision and his body backward into the wall of their town hall. He bounced off of it back into the man’s pudgy hands, stammering for a word as blood gathered in his mouth. The small crowd of less than twenty persons jeered at him, picking up mud and stones from the street to throw in his direction.
The thick man turned around, holding him by his shirt, then tossed Donavan away from him into the street. It had been raining the day before when Donavan had come to the village, carrying Ezekiah’s message of hope of Elithias’ coming. He landed sprawling in the muddy street. The rocks and clods of mud followed him. They bounced off of his back and legs and head, stinging him.
He was assaulted with insults besides. Even the women congregated around him were swearing at him and lobbing their share of projectiles in his direction. They cursed him by their dragon gods, calling him an ignorant fool.
Donavan had not come unprepared to hear such things. Ezekiah himself had warned his disciples that the citizens of the kingdom would likely not want to hear their message. “This world and their serpent gods are the only things they have ever known,” he had warned. “Do not think that they will welcome you into their midst.
Man’s heart has been turned from Elithias for nearly a thousand years. We cannot expect to undo the resulting damage in a day. They will despise you and spit upon you or worse. Only, do not be afraid of them. Remember that Elithias watches over us.”
A fist sized rock smacked the back of his head. His vision blurred, then went black. He felt a warm trickle down through his hair onto his neck. The voices grew distant and muffled. The impact of stones seemed little more than small pricks at his skin.
Donavan opened his eyes, coming back to himself and his situation. He waited for the rocks pounding his flesh, but they did not come. The voices had grown quiet. In fact, now that he listened, the whole village had become eerily still. He lifted his head, but did not see anyone standing around him as they had been only a moment before.
Feeling the back of his head with his hand, Donavan came away with congealed blood on his fingers. The bleeding had already stopped. Still, he could feel a sizeable knot where he’d been struck.
He moved, getting his hands and knees under him. Donavan could feel bruises all over his body. His jaw was still hurting. He hoped it wasn’t broken where the man had punched him. Rocks of various sizes lay around him in the street along with broken clods of dirt.
Donavan raised his head, noticing the sky for the first time. The sun had been high overhead during his preaching. Now, it was hovering just above one of the distant mountains in the west. Dusk was approaching. Soon the sun would be down completely. Had he really been unconscious for hours?
