On a high parapet made of pure, white granite, a foul malevolence crouched upon the edge of the roof like a gargoyle. Jericho’s yellow-rimmed pupils stared northward, his gaze unblinking. It was true-the Deliverer had escaped him. Mordred had since sent out numerous patrols, hoping to ascertain the boy’s whereabouts but without success.
Thousands of King Stephen’s army from Wayland, as well as those conscripts made from Nodian dwellers during his march to Emmanuel, lay strewn as far as the eye could see. Now, a full three weeks from the day of that battle, the smell had become unbearable.
In keeping with his nature, Mordred had captured hundreds of laborers from the surrounding villages and cities to do the work of body disposal. Using his network of demon spies, Mordred had trained his vengeful eye particularly upon those who had been known to lend aid to Stephen’s attack.
Hundreds of next-of-kin trudged through the blood soaked plain, gathering the remains of their valiant young men-their last hope at freedom from the reign of the Mordred and his Wraith Riders. Their hopelessness only compounded with their sorrow as their taskmasters kept them busy with the horrid task.
King Stephen had ignited the fire of rebellion in their hearts, but had abandoned them, retreating homeward with the ragtag survivors from his army. Now, the only fire remaining was the massive pyre burning two miles from the white walls of Emmanuel. Body wagons made continuous runs from the fields to the smoking heap and back again.
Jericho sniffed at the air, but not for the sake of the burning. That would have been savor enough in light of their victory over Stephen’s army. There was another scent upon the wind-one far less discernable-fear. Its source was human and powerful.
Even though Jericho could not find the Deliverer, he still sensed his fear like ripples spreading through the spiritual plane. Following his defeat, discouragement would certainly gnaw its way into the boy’s mind like worms-in Jericho’s experience with humanity, it always did. The boy would be fertile soil in which to cultivate further failure.
Jericho knew well that while the boy trusted in Shaddai, he could not be defeated. However, if he became unfit for his master’s use: became faithless, defeated, and discouraged, then victory might be attainable and the prophecy nullified. This was Jericho’s primary goal now.
While Mordred controlled the kingdom, it would be Jericho’s task to defeat the Deliverer. Mordred, being mortal, would eventually pass from this world, but the seat of power would remain. Jericho desired this prize. With the Deliverer gone, he could then do whatever he liked with the kingdom.
True to his word, Gideon urged the others back on the move at dawn. They followed the River Sane, fed from the distant Thornhill Mountains. The river bordered between Nod and Wayland and avoided the main roads. Mordred would almost certainly be looking for them, so they shied from the villages and towns as well.
Ethan tugged at a piece of salt jerky, taking time to chew and savor it as they rode. Levi had managed to get them a third horse from those abandoned by fallen soldiers, found wandering in the grasslands following Stephen’s defeat. Their pace remained brisk as Gideon sought to bring their band to the safety of the Thornhill Mountains and the secret location of The Order of Shaddai.
As the trio continued over a large hill, a town became visible in the distance. Smoke spiraled up from the chimneys of nearly fifty houses and other basic structures, spread out over the next several low-lying hills. The center of town lay in a valley between them all. A well-worn road left the town to the east and another meandered away north toward the Thornhill Mountains in the distance.
They stopped long enough to survey the scene. “Is that where we’re going?” Ethan asked.
“Millertown, yes, I know people in this village,” Gideon said. “I was responsible for bringing the Word back to them after Mordred began his reign of terror in Nod. It was actually one of my first assignments from The Order.”
“How much farther to this temple you were talking about?” Levi asked.
“We’ve got another day’s travel into the Thornhills, but we could use a good home cooked meal and some rest in the meantime. The Thornhills are dangerous territory. Not many people live there, just man-eating snakes, dragon beetles, and ropeweed.”
“But if Mordred’s patrols are searching for us-”
“These are friendly people, Ethan. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I have friends here,” Gideon said. He never took his gaze from the village ahead.
Ethan and Levi looked at one another curiously as Gideon urged his horse forward without another word.
“So much for all of our caution eh, lad?” said Levi. He fell into place behind Gideon with Ethan following.
Within twenty minutes time, Gideon, Levi, and Ethan had made it into Millertown. People watched them as they entered the village, but no one appeared alarmed by the three riders. It was several hours past noon and many people were busy in the middle of town, gathering food from the small marketplace or drawing water from the large communal well.
Many friendly faces approached, all of them waving and shouting hello to Gideon in particular. He was known here, which brought Ethan some comfort. It meant they could relax their guard a bit-a welcome change after living the past three weeks as fugitives.
One man approached them with a very warm greeting, and Gideon lit down from his horse to embrace him. Levi and Ethan remained in the saddle watching curiously.
“Ah, my boy, how are you?” the man said.
“I’m doing well, Arness, and you? How is your good family?”
“Very well, but missing your face, my boy,” Arness said as he patted Gideon on the back. “You’ll be coming out to the farm later, yes?”
“Of course, we wouldn’t dare miss the opportunity. By the way, Arness, these are my very good friends, Captain Levi Bonifast and Ethan Hawk. We’re on our way to see Isaiah at the Temple.”
Levi, Ethan, and Arness exchanged nods, acknowledging one another. “Of course, gentlemen, any friend of Gideon is welcome in our home.” Then he turned to Gideon. “Will you be along directly? Sarah and her mother are still working at the laundry, but it won’t be long before they’re home.”
“Actually, I thought I would dispatch a message from the Willow Tree and perhaps treat my friends to a cool drink.”
“Even better. That way we can bid you a proper welcome with a hot meal when you arrive at the farm…say in two hours?”
“That sounds perfect,” Gideon said, “Just enough time for us to take advantage of the Willow Tree’s baths before we arrive.”
Arness patted Gideon on the shoulder and waved goodbye for the time being. He walked down the street toward the market.
“What’s the Willow Tree?” Levi asked.
“It’s an inn of sorts-that large building, down the road there,” he said.
“That bath certainly does sound nice,” Ethan said.
“Right this way, lads.” Gideon led his horse and his friends down the street toward the Willow Tree Inn.
Sarah, daughter of Arness, walked across the hard clay street toward the Willow Tree Inn. She was making a delivery of clean linens to their best customer, Mr. Oggle, the proprietor of the Inn. Her golden hair fell midway down her back with a thin braid of the hair cradling the back of her head like a chain.
Sarah carried two full sacks of linen by herself and cautiously weaved through the traffic of pedestrians and horse drawn wagons. She backed through the swinging double doors and carried the linen inside. Sarah hefted the bags through the maze of tables, being sure not to disturb Mr. Oggle’s guests. A young man, Blane, tended the bar where he served various drinks-concoctions of every tasty sort.
Blane was a handsome young man with dark hair and a thin mustache. He was not much older than Sarah and had been Mr. Oggle’s apprentice in the business for several years. He said Hello to the eighteen-year-old girl, pointing to the back room where Mr. Oggle was busy counting some of his stock.
Sarah waited with the bags at the bar where she and Mr. Oggle usually tallied his bill and where she received payment for the laundry owned by her parents. Blane tended to several customers at the other end of the bar while Sarah waited.
“Hey beautiful, how bout some service at this table!”
Sarah turned to find a table of well dressed, middle-aged men, four in all, engaged in a game of Tails-a game played with a die and round wafers of wood with characters etched into both sides. Gold and silver coins lay in different amounts before each of the men.
Sarah smiled politely. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t work here.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you to bring me a drink, exactly.” The man who spoke was a dapper sort with fine clothes and a larger portion of the money sitting in front of him on the table. His thick hair was dark with gray beginning to weave its way through his wavy locks. He wore a thin beard, mustache, and gold rings upon his fingers. He leered at Sarah with his dark eyes. His devilish, toothy grin made his uncouth intentions all too clear. The other men laughed, thinking their friend quite clever.
Sarah disregarded him and turned back to the bar. She looked at Blane, whose gaze moved from Sarah to the man. She heard a chair scoot away from the table behind her and feared the worst. She heard his boots lazily slapping the polished, wood floor as he meandered toward her. “Don’t turn your back on me, girl.”
He grabbed her waist, spinning her to him. The other men laughed and jeered. He grabbed her arms, staying her wrath, and attempted to force a kiss. “Don’t play so hard to get.”
The man’s breath reeked of liquor. He was drunk even though Sarah knew he had not gotten it at the Willow Tree. “Let go of me!” she shouted as she tried to break free of his grip. Blane walked down the bar, attempting to intervene.
The dapper gent whistled, and a behemoth lurched away from where he had been standing in the shadows near the door. “Virgil, this kid needs a lesson,” the dapper gent said, gesturing toward Blane.
Virgil stood seven feet tall and as thick as an oak tree. Muscles rippled and flexed through his massive arms and chest-the latter bound only by a leather vest that seemed strained to contain him. Virgil came to his master’s side, flexing his arms and making strained grabbing motions with each hand, causing his knuckles to pop repeatedly. Blane swallowed the lump in his throat, standing down his protest.
“That’s better,” the dapper gent said. He whipped Sarah around like a top into Virgil’s grasp, then tossed several gold coins onto the bar. “Now, if you don’t mind, the little lady and I would like to get better acquainted.”
“I’d like to get better acquainted with you too,” Gideon said.
All eyes instantly fell on three men standing in the doorway. Blane smiled when he recognized the priest of Shaddai. Some of the Inn’s patrons moved away from Virgil and the dapper gent. A few left the Inn altogether.
Ethan and Levi stood in the doorway behind Gideon. Mr. Oggle came out of the back room, surveying the situation in his inn. “I don’t want any fighting in here,” he began, but a flick of Virgil’s wrist sent a throwing knife into the wall beside Mr. Oggle’s head, silencing him.
“I’ll handle this,” Gideon whispered.
Levi and Ethan shrugged at one another, then stepped out of the way. Neither of them had any doubt about Gideon’s ability, but the hulking mountain of muscle ahead of them stood nearly twice as tall as any of them. The tension in the room felt as though it would snap like an over-wound dulcimer string at any moment.
Virgil laughed under his breath. “This little pipsqueak needs a lesson.” He shoved Sarah back toward the bar and his master, but the dapper gent was too busy getting out of harm’s way to bother with her anymore. Sarah smiled at Gideon and he returned it. By the time his eyes centered back on the massive bodyguard’s movements, it was too late.
A throwing knife, one of many carried around Virgil’s waist, snapped through the air, glinting sunlight for the briefest moment between the big hand and its target. There was a brief whistle of air and a snap as the blade hit flesh. Everyone stared in disbelief. The sound had been Gideon’s flesh hitting the blade-specifically the weapon had been caught between the priest’s two palms at chest height.
“We’ve not even been properly introduced, and you’re already giving presents?” Gideon said. Rather than return the shiny silver blade, he let it fall harmlessly to the floor where the heavy blade stuck into the stained hardwood.
Sarah breathed a noticeable sigh of relief, once she realized Gideon remained unharmed. Virgil’s expression quickly flashed from astonished to angry. With surprising speed, for a man of his size, he whipped three more throwing knives from his belt. Three dull clunks sounded as each stuck into the wooden wall narrowly missing the priest-Gideon’s lithe movements a blur of evasive action.
A glimmer of astonishment crossed Virgil’s chiseled features again, but only a glimmer. That was all he had time for. His next facial expression was pain.
Quick as a flash, Gideon closed the gap between them, smashing a thick fist into Virgil’s left mandibular joint, shattering his jaw. Virgil yelped in pain, but was unable to close his mouth-his jaw having locked into a slightly open position.
The bodyguard tried to grab Gideon, but he was much too fast. The priest ducked beneath Virgil’s muscular arms and double kicked his right knee: once to the front and once to the side. The knee buckled as the second precise impact popped an important tendon. The bodyguard staggered and fell across the table where his master had been gambling-his great bulk smashing it to kindling.
Virgil moaned in pain, holding his jaw, but he did not get up. Gideon looked toward the dapper gent. “Would now be a good time for you and I to get acquainted, sir, or would you rather apologize to the young lady?”
He tipped his hat nervously toward Sarah. “I sincerely apologize, ma’am.” Then he and his companions left Virgil where he lay and hurried out of the Willow Tree Inn.
“Mr. Oggle, I think your physician should probably take a look at this man,” Gideon said, indicating the muscular bodyguard writhing on the ground among the broken furniture.
“Blane, go get the healer and bring the magistrate as well,” Mr. Oggle said. “And tell him he’s going to need some good men to help him.”
Blane obeyed instantly. He leaped over the bar, smiling, patting Gideon’s shoulder as he passed him. “Good to see you again.”
Gideon smiled at the young man, then turned to Sarah. “Did they hurt you?”
“No, I’m all right,” she said. “It’s good to see you, Gideon.”