The Sword of Gideon (The Realm Shift Trilogy #3)

by James Somers

  Gideon’s progress remained slow going and he had no idea how long he’d been following this wall. Several times his fingers had scrambled across breaks in the corridor, doors that opened to more darkness. He fought the urge to change directions, at least until he’d exhausted this route. It would be far too easy to become hopelessly lost among the tunnels used by The Order.

  After what could have easily been hours searching, Gideon spotted a small shaft of light piercing the tunnel ahead. He stumbled toward it, drawn like a moth to a flame. The darkness seemed all consuming around him. He had to get out somehow.

  When Gideon reached the light, he realized the entire tunnel had collapsed just ahead of where he was standing. The light poured in through jagged pieces of rock piled on top of one another. As he peered through the opening, Gideon noticed other small breaks in the rock allowing light to filter through.

  He was so close to freedom, but still trapped. There appeared to be nowhere else to go. Back the way he’d come, the entrance had been sealed by the ensuing avalanche. Here on this end, it appeared to be the same. All other routes might lead to nowhere in the darkness. Even if he tried the other ways, he might become lost and never find his way back to this place again.

  Despair descended upon him. How had he come to this place? In the back of his mind, this all seemed like divine justice for his betrayal of The Order—his betrayal of Shaddai. Still, he couldn’t will himself to simply accept this fate. He had to try and get free—die trying at the very least.

  Gideon pushed his fingers into the opening among the rocks. Nothing budged as he applied as much pressure as he could stand. He tried again, screaming as he strained to shift any part of the stones piled above him. It suddenly occurred to him that he might manage to shift the stones only to have the whole heap collapse on top of him. But he couldn’t stand it. He had to try anyway. If it crushed him, then so be it. At least he wouldn’t have to sit here and die of thirst, scrabbling desperately at a few rays of sunlight.

  However, try as he might, Gideon couldn’t budge a single stone. All remained locked against him with only the slightest measure of light coming through. He panted as his muscles relaxed. A search of the tunnel itself yielded nothing that could be used to pry the stones. He was trapped indefinitely.

  Gideon slumped back against the wall and sat on the stone floor. His breathing slowed as he watched the light, a beacon in the night taunting him with his hopelessness. He sat watching it for a long time, resigning himself more each moment to his fate. It was over.

  Your child is lost to Mordred and his demons. At the very least, he will die. But if not, what manner of man might he become? Another brutal warlord, only kept alive to amuse the dark lord for his victory over Shaddai’s priest? His knowledge of his own father, if any, would be that of a traitor to his Order, a weak minded fool not worthy of being remembered.

  Voices echoed in Gideon’s mind—but not his own. As he watched the light dim to orange, becoming pale blues and grays, Gideon realized he was not as alone as he might have thought. The voices continued, taunting him, writhing in the darkness around him unseen, disembodied.

  “Who are you!” he shouted.

  Laughter.

  Gideon stood now, his anger burning through his despair. “Show yourself, demon!”

  More laughter, but then the voice took form. An image appeared, almost human in appearance, but decidedly not. The demon hung upon the wall completely oblivious to any constraints of gravity. Gideon stood firm, unafraid. The demon’s appearance was at least a little better than dying alone—he hoped. If it was here, then almost certainly there was a purpose. And maybe that meant he must be freed from his tomb.

  “Enough of your games,” he challenged. “State your business, so I can get on with my dying in peace.”

  The demon smiled at this. “A welcome event I can assure you, priest.” The smile faded. “But Mordred isn’t finished with you yet.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that,” Gideon said. “I’m trapped here and there’s no way out. He can’t command a corpse.”

  The demon didn’t seem fazed by his indifference in the least. “You will journey to Wayland, priest. There you will assassinate King Stephen in a public place. If, in the process, you should find the Deliverer of prophecy, you will also kill him.”

  “To the Pit with you!” Gideon shouted. “I can’t go anywhere now!”

  The demon leered at him and then swiped his arm across the rock where the light shone into the tunnel. The mass of stone erupted outward in all directions, leaving a gaping wound in the tunnel for Gideon to climb out.

  The demon faded away in the darkness, its last statement barely above a whisper. “Fail and your Sarah’s child will perish slowly in flame.”

  KING STEPHEN

  Gideon knew well what the demon had meant by Sarah’s child perishing in flame. If his son grew in the care of Mordred, he would be taught to hate Shaddai and would ultimately reject salvation for the wickedness he would be brought up to love. It wasn’t death by Mordred’s hand that threatened his child, but the life he would live and the soul he would lose, if Gideon failed.

  Upon coming out of his rocky tomb, Gideon had found his former home, the Temple of Shaddai, more ruined than he could have imagined. This place where generations of Shaddai’s priests had served their lord for centuries, now stood a gaping crater in the side of the mountain—a smoldering pile of rubble. He could not discern any part of the structure left intact. No one human, or animal, stirred. Of all the priests who had remained to fight Grimwald’s army of hybrids, none remained alive.

  For Grimwald’s part, the same was true. There was no sign of the venomous general or his demonic soldiers anywhere in the great smoking quarry that remained. He had been buried beneath tons of rock with every abomination he’d bred and brought into Shaddai’s Temple. Perhaps this was Shaddai’s will. It pleased Gideon to think that Shaddai’s servants had served him faithfully to their ends. The army Mordred had sent had perished with the prize they had come to take. A fitting end.

  And still, for some reason, Gideon could not discern, he remained alive. Why had Shaddai allowed him to go on when all the others had died in this cataclysm? Perhaps to let him live with the agony of his own betrayal—to see what his traitorous actions had caused. He couldn’t be sure, but one thing remained. His son lived and Gideon would see this mission through in order to save him. It was all he had left.

  Two days more, traveling through the old passages used by his former Order, had brought Gideon to the very edge of the Thornhill Mountains. Before him lay King Stephen’s Wall, the guarded boundary between Wayland and Nod. King Stephen had commissioned its building once Mordred’s power grew in Nod and it became clear that he would eventually seek to conquer Wayland, as well as the other nations around him.

  So far, the mountains and the wall beyond had kept the threat neutralized. In fact, Mordred had not even tried, yet, to enter Stephen’s country. But that wouldn’t last. Gideon had seen the preparations being made back in Emmanuel for just such an invasion. Mordred would come. The only question being when?

  Gideon watched the fortress which stood over the road proceeding into Wayland. The wall itself was virtually impossible to climb over. Not only for the height of it, but that jagged, razor sharp protrusions were the only things to grab hold of. Only a little pressure was necessary to slice right into hands or feet coming into contact with them.

  The only way through the wall was the fortress itself. It was fortified, but only by men. And Gideon had no problem facing men. Fortunately, nightfall approached. Soon he could make his way to the gate and then inside. From there, he would secure any weapons he might need in silence and if possible leave the same way: unnoticed. He didn’t want to be forced to kill any of Stephen’s soldiers, but he would do what he must. After all, what difference would it really make when he intended to assassinate the King himself?

  It was the first thing Ethan noticed, once there car
riage had cleared the inner wall of Evelah City, the capital of Wayland. The King’s palace jutted up above every other building like some great citadel among huts in a village. And with all the other buildings no taller than two or three stories, nothing else came close to it in height.

  This layout might have made for a thieves paradise, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, had it not been for the peculiar manner of construction prevalent in the city. Most of the buildings employed a domed roof with either points or ornaments topping them off. Indeed many of these were adorned with intricate design, but none of them gave so much as a good foothold for a man to stand upon. Stephen’s soldiers definitely wouldn’t be shooting invaders from the safety of their rooftops.

  Levi grumbled next to him in the carriage—actually a steel cage lacking any real covering that might protect them from the weather. In three days travel, they had been rained on for two, and they were still soaked nearly to the bone. “A fine welcome the king sends for those who’ve served him faithfully,” Levi said, leering at the castle rising before them.

  Its splendor didn’t quite rival the palace in Emmanuel, but it was posh nonetheless. Touches of gold played against the dark stone used in the structure to an elegant effect. And the people they passed dwelling in the shadow of Stephen’s edifice appeared to be content. Ethan wondered if they had any inkling of what Mordred was going to send upon them at his earliest convenience. The giants alone would have an easy time smashing their meager dwellings to kindling.

  Only the wall appeared ready for imminent invasion. Ethan had noticed its great width—enough to put many soldiers on. A great river ran at Evelah’s back, beyond several miles of thickly planted forest land. The wall remained the only approach for any army making the attempt.

  Ethan watched Seth. The blind priest of Shaddai hadn’t spoken in sometime and, despite the wet and the cold, he remained passive.

  “I still say, you should get out of here, Ethan,” Levi complained. “Disappear out of this cage and away with you. Stephen’s fury is most likely to fall upon you anyway. You saw how he was toward the prophecy.”

  Ethan smiled, tightening his folded arms against his body for warmth. “I couldn’t leave the two of you. Who knows what this is actually about?”

  “I would agree with the Captain,” Seth added. “Whatever the king’s intentions, this welcome wagon he’s sent for us doesn’t bode well. At the least you might escape and remain free to aid us should it go badly when we come before him.”

  Ethan considered it. Curious eyes followed their progress through the streets of the city. These people didn’t look like they were used to seeing prisoners paraded through their midst on a regular basis. “There’s no rush. I can realm shift anytime,” Ethan said. “I’m actually very curious to see what the King means by all of this. And most likely Isaiah will be somewhere nearby. I’m sure he wouldn’t allow Stephen to do anything rash concerning his priests.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Levi said. “Stephen’s mood, following the loss of nearly his entire army, was nothing like the man who led me to a saving faith in Shaddai. He’s changed and not for the better.”

  The carriage lumbered on until it finally wound through Evelah’s wide lanes to the gate of the palace itself. A wall, two stories high, encircled the entire structure. Archers stood watch at equidistant posts upon the wall, looking, for the most part, bored—past even the hope of something interesting occurring. When they saw the carriage, however, most of them perked up a bit. Perhaps they might get the chance to shoot a fleeing prisoner in the back after all. One of the soldiers grinned at another, pointing.

  They stopped inside the palace courtyard, where a brick pathway led toward the main entry beyond. Several guards had come down from the wall eager to help unload the prisoners—just in case. Despite Levi’s leering at them, Ethan and his companions gave the soldiers no trouble and were led quickly into the palace with their hands still held fast in iron shackles.

  Two great, wooden doors, bearing iron bands, parted before them as they sloshed with their wet sandals upon the cold stones. Beyond, at the far end of a tall and crowded throne room, sat King Stephen upon a high-backed throne of silver. The silver bird of prey, his family’s crest, flew upon a sky of purple on the massive tapestry above him on the wall.

  Ethan might have expected the man to remain disheartened, following the terrible defeat he had faced in Nod at the white walls of Emmanuel City, but King Stephen appeared more vexed than before. On the Emmanuel Road, leading away from the battlefield, Ethan had met a regal king, bloodied and battered to be sure, but still proud and honorable even in defeat. Here, sitting upon his throne now, Stephen held the wild eye of a predator—primal and dangerous.

  At least two dozen guards escorted them down the narrow purple carpet leading up to Stephen’s throne. Ethan watched the faces of courtiers and ladies dressed in their finery. These dangerous prisoners provided the latest intrigue for those who lived for it. Some turned away when he met their gaze. Others mused in whispers with their neighbors, and a few young ladies even batted their eyes seductively at him. Ethan turned away, blushing. He found Levi rolling his eyes at him instead.

  As they approached the throne, Stephen tensed like a cat ready to spring upon a cornered mouse. He placed a silver, jewel-encrusted goblet down upon a tray holding fresh cut fruit and pieces of sliced beef and cheese, almost spilling it all with the force of the gesture. But his eyes never left the men approaching him.

  Ethan, Levi and Seth came to stand just before the short set of steps leading onto the throne platform. Stephen’s eyes found Ethan in particular, his eyes burning into him as though he might kill this priest of Shaddai with his stare alone.

  Levi bowed before the king, his manacles clanking around his wrists. But Stephen’s eyes didn’t depart from Ethan until the Captain spoke. “Your Majesty,” he said, employing all the diplomacy an ex-pirate might muster. “I’m glad to see that you are well—”

  King Stephen seized upon the intrusion like an adder’s strike. “And why should I not be, Captain Bonifast? Did you think me so stupid that I would not know the mischief you’ve conjured against me with this villainous dog?”

  Levi’s jaw fell slack in confusion. Stephen’s finger trembled, outstretched toward Ethan to emphasize his last syllable. Ethan gulped down the lump building in his throat. Caution was called for, only he wasn’t sure what he could have possibly done to gain the King’s fury.

  Levi interceded before the question could spring from Ethan’s lips. “Your Majesty, I’m quite certain there must be some mistake. Ethan has been loyal to The Order of Shaddai since the time you met him on that fateful day so many months ago. Isaiah himself, I’m sure, would be glad to vouch for his unshakeable character and bravery against our mutual enemy.”

  “You mean to say ally, Captain,” Stephen shook visibly as he spoke, his anger a furnace barely contained. “My spies have brought me word of the young Nodian priest who has turned to ally himself with Mordred. Do not think that I will be swayed by a rogue’s tongue from that which I know to be fact! You are clearly here in Wayland to spy us out before the invasion already on its way around Cape Redemption, set to land on these very shores at my doorstep.”

  He stood now, quivering with rage as he spoke. “Had I not wanted to see you in this villain’s company for myself, I would have had my men execute you on the spot in Fenceton!”

  Ethan could stand no more of these false accusations. He spoke up in a loud authoritative voice, surprising himself. “Your Highness, despite the accusations brought against me, I remain a faithful priest to my Order and servant of the Lord, Shaddai. He has sent me to proclaim the hour of his deliverance and to dispense his justice.”

  King Stephen thrust his finger toward Ethan furiously. “How dare you insinuate yourself into the prophecy? Guards, kill them all immediately!”

  What happened in only a fraction of a second, for everyone else, seemed to drag into long minutes for Ethan. He phased i
nto the spiritual realm, more spectral than truly invisible, passing through the shackles binding his wrists as six of the soldiers standing guard around them drew their bows and released their arrows.

  Seth had begun to react. Levi hadn’t yet. Several guards had started to release their swords with bloodlust in their eyes.

  Six arrow shafts split the atmosphere toward the place where Ethan had been standing and where his friends still stood. He danced elegantly among the arrows, turning to each in turn with gentle glancing sweeps of his hands, caressing them into changes of trajectory—the archers becoming the new targets.

  As six arrows dashed into the right thighs of the six archers who had fired them, Ethan’s spiritual blade split into two, leaping to his hands already in motion. He divided each of the other guard’s swords through their scabbards, barely a blur to the naked eye, even before the men could finish drawing them.

  Ethan became fully flesh once again. His empty manacles completed their descent to the purple runway carpet behind him with a dull clank. Levi jumped, only having just begun to raise his bound hands, trying to ward off the archers he’d known were going to fire. The archers, for their part, fell to the floor in pain, grasping their wounded legs, as stunned as anyone.

  King Stephen stood there, heaving, his mouth agape in disbelief. The court fell silent as gasps of alarm and the sound of severed sword blades hitting the floor died away. After a long moment, staring at Ethan, Stephen said, “You can’t be him.”

  Ethan straightened, a calm assurance he’d never felt before growing in his chest. “I am Shaddai’s Deliverer, Your Highness. In the name of The Sovereign Lord of Creation, I demand that you release us.”

  No one moved. The guards looked at one another, then to their king, dumbfounded. Levi smiled, all teeth, raising his manacles with a shake, intending that someone produce a key to affect his immediate release.