Gideon had been kept for unnumbered days in his cell aboard Rommil’s ship. He had been unable to find any way of escape though he had tried many times. He’d lost count of the times Rommil’s men had come down to the brig to beat him. They had learned by now to keep him in chains for it.
By the time he felt the ship come to port, scraping against the pier, Gideon had lost a great deal of weight. Rommil had only given him enough food and water to keep him alive. Many nights, during the voyage, Gideon had seen terrible visions. He knew demons were with them on the ship, but still the supernatural taunting grew maddening.
On one particular night when Gideon wondered if he could take anymore, a light had appeared which drove away the specters. He had heard a voice emanating from the light which strengthened him with the assurance that Shaddai had not forsaken him. It had been enough.
Now he heard the soldiers coming down the outer hall to retrieve him. When they came through the door, they carried swords and pistols. Though he was emaciated, the soldiers still feared the priest of Shaddai.
Five men remained outside of his cage while two others took keys and removed his chains. The skin had been worn away at Gideon’s wrists and ankles. The soldiers kicked at him to get up, but he barely had the strength.
“Pick him up,” the guard captain ordered. The two soldiers lifted Gideon up and dragged him out of the cell with his legs trailing limp behind him. He tried to walk as they reached the stairs, but it proved difficult.
The sun stung his eyes when the soldiers reached the main deck with him. He’d not seen it in weeks now. Gideon shut his eyes against the glare, but enjoyed the feel of it upon his pale skin. The soldiers brought him before General Rommil, who had been waiting for him on deck. “Well, priest, how are you feeling?”
Gideon didn’t bother with a reply. He knew, of course, that Rommil had no care for his feelings. Rommil had made sure, rather, that he received poor treatment the entire way. He wouldn’t give the Wraith General the satisfaction of his moaning. Instead, Gideon got his feet under him and stood up between the men escorting him.
“I see,” Rommil snarled. “Still some pride in you yet. I trust Lord Mordred will break it from you. He is waiting to meet you, priest.” Rommil turned and walked down the gang plank toward the pier below. The soldiers pushed along after him with Gideon in tow.
They carried him down the pier to a wagon which sat waiting for him. Essentially it was a cage on four wheels. The soldiers unshackled Gideon and threw him inside, all under Rommil’s watchful eye. The Wraith General mounted a black steed, larger and more muscular than a normal horse. The look in the animal’s eye warned that only the Wraith Riders could tame his kind.
The march from the shores of Nod toward the White Palace at the city of Emmanuel began. Gideon turned back to see the ship and the harbor. He recognized it as the same one they had attacked aboard Captain Bonifast’s ship with the mercenary fleet which had ultimately betrayed them. That meant the journey up to the city would only be several miles.
Soon he would meet Mordred himself. By now, Gideon supposed they must have kept him alive for some purpose. Either they desired sport of him through torture, or Mordred intended to use him as bait in a trap for Ethan. Perhaps, they meant to do both.
The procession of soldiers, with General Rommil at the head, wound its way up the cliffs by way of a road paved with stones. The few horses among them clip-clopped as their hooves struck the road. The caged wagon wobbled a great deal. Gideon groaned as his sore body bounced on the rough timbers constituting the floor of his mobile prison.
He grabbed the bars over his head, trying to relieve the pain by hoisting himself up a little. His arms strained and trembled against his own weight. Gideon looked into the sky, closed his eyes, and prayed: for deliverance if possible, but more for strength to endure whatever lay ahead of him in the city of Emmanuel and Mordred’s palace.
The walls of the city stood as tall as he’d ever seen them, but the glory of them was gone. The once-polished, white stone had grown dingy with mold and caked with dust. Great thorny vines clawed upward from the base, thick and gnarled. Gideon wondered if it was a lack of care, or if they had been planted on purpose to dissuade attackers.
Double iron portcullises rose into the upper portion of the wall as their procession approached. General Rommil led them through the gates, but when they entered, there was no applause. Gideon supposed Rommil’s return, along with his capture, might have given Mordred’s faithful reason for celebration.
When he saw the few people actually roaming the streets of the city, he felt pity for them. There remained no joy in their expressions. Fear had taken residence now. Civilians were in short supply, from what he could see. The military seemed to encompass nearly the entire city now.
As the procession passed through the once-thriving business district, Gideon saw the palace in full view. It too had been allowed to deteriorate. The walls appeared dirty, and the spacious gardens had been left to grow wild, or had been trampled under foot by soldiers. Ivy, mingled with thorns, grew up the sides of the palace walls and it seemed to Gideon that goodness and purity itself was being dragged down into the pit.
The golden statues, wrought by artificers shortly after Mordred’s takeover of the city, stood covered in bird droppings-a testament to their true value.
Gideon saw, to his left, long rows of plain buildings which had been erected on the spacious, manicured lawns. Doors far to tall for a normal person opened at the ends. In the courtyards, where many soldiers trained, he saw the reason for them.
Giants, like those described by Ethan, sparred with one another in tunics of crimson and red. They wielded large maces and clubs, which looked like small trees. Some of them might have been ten or twelve feet tall. And there appeared to be enough of them to make an army themselves. But they were not alone. Thousands of men trained on similar quadrangles all across the city, from one wall to the other, several miles away.
A foul stench of decay filled the city, and smoke billowed into the sky from smelting plants where weapons of iron and steel were being made. Great engines of war filled another part of the city, towering higher than the dingy white walls. Gideon realized Mordred was preparing for battle.
Rommil, his troops, and the carriage all stopped in front of the great steps leading into the palace itself. A royal welcome seemed to be waiting for them. Then Gideon realized it was not for them, but for Mordred himself.
General Rommil dismounted from his horse, then walked back to the carriage holding Gideon. His guards opened the door while others prodded Gideon with swords to be sure he obeyed and came to the exit. He had little choice but to comply. Gideon crawled to the door and outside where the guards chained themselves to him on either side.
Gideon followed as the guards turned to look upon the warlord himself. Mordred sat astride his midnight stallion at the base of the great stairs of the palace. He wore regal attire like that of a king, albeit crimson and black remained the dominant theme. His raven hair fell across broad shoulders from which a stout muscled frame extended.
Gideon couldn’t help but find the man very handsome. He had never actually seen Mordred in person. His natural supposition had been that such a brutal conqueror must be grotesque-a bloated, dingy slob smelling of sweat with most of his teeth missing.
Mordred was exactly the opposite. No wonder people follow him, he thought. When Mordred finally spoke, it only confirmed that opinion. “Ah, the valiant priest from The Order of Shaddai. Hello, Gideon.”
Gideon raised his eyebrows curiously. The guards pulled him toward their master. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
Mordred smiled-every women’s dream, but beneath a nightmare. “You will find, Gideon, that I know a great deal about you-more than you would want, to be sure.”
Now Gideon looked puzzled. What was Mordred talking about-Ethan? The Order’s location? What could he possibly know about him?
Mordred seemed to sense his bewilderment. “Try not to worry yourself about it now, Gideon. There will be plenty of time for you to regret being so careless-plenty of time for you to wish you’d never met me.”
Gideon swallowed a lump gathering in his throat.
Mordred regarded General Rommil, grinning. “But not yet. We’ve prepared a place for you to rest until your official audience with me in my throne room. General Rommil?”
Rommil straightened. “Yes, my Lord?”
“See that our guest is tucked in comfortably. Then you may join me in my chambers.”
Rommil bowed obediently. Mordred turned his stallion and rode down behind the line of soldiers toward the stable. Rommil stepped in front of Gideon and looked him in the eye. He chuckled to himself. “Welcome to Emmanuel, priest.”
Gideon’s face hardened. Rommil turned and ascended the stone stairs toward the palace proper. Gideon’s guards followed the general, forcing him to come along. As they neared the top of the stairs and the great doors beyond, he wondered if he would ever see his friends again. And more importantly, would he ever see his Sarah again?