The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set

by William David Ellis

  Sarah gazed at Kusaila with a new wonder. What a wise man. So easy to honor and love him.

  Kusaila gave her a knowing look and smiled. He wasn’t always a mind-reader, but faces were pretty much wide open to him.

  Her natural curiosity bludgeoned the moment. Kusaila knew the instant the fluttering thought had darted across her mind. He sighed and waited.

  “Soooo, what did you dream?” she asked.

  “I dreamed he was in grave danger. He had been captured and—” Kusaila hesitated for the barest instant.

  “And was being tortured!” she choked out, her lips curling and the faintest wisp of smoke appearing before Kusaila could find the right words.

  “Yes, that is exactly what I saw. But Sarah, I am also sure that it was a prophetic dream. Not a dream of what is but what might be. If Harry were in danger now you would know it. Your heart would be frantic and restless whether your mind understood or not. But that is not the case, is it?”

  She paused a minute, checking her feelings. The familiar voice of the living book responded. “It is not the case, Sarah. Kusaila is correct the dragon rider has not been captured. I can sense your feelings more objectively than you can. I distinguish between worry and the honest warnings of danger. He is okay, Sarah, Harry is okay. But that might not last for long.”

  “What do I do? And if I remember right, when two different people, especially dragon people, share the same dream, that means that dream is very significant.” She looked back at Kusaila.

  “Yes, it is significant, my Sarah. And I do not know what to tell you. But I do know and so do you that for the moment Harry Ferguson is safe. But…” Kusaila frowned and seemed to lose his way. It was so unlike him Sarah picked up on it and interrupted.

  “But what, Kusaila?” Her dragon hearing heard the quickened pace of his heart and the increase of his breaths. “What is it, Kusaila?” A tinge of worry seeped through her voice.

  “My Sarah, I am not safe. On the contrary, I think I have been pierced through with a mortal stroke.” He paused again and this time she waited, her eyes widening. “Ever since I ascended to my kingship, I have tried to be brave, to do the right thing, to spare my people suffering. But now I have failed.”

  “What?” she whispered. The word failed coming from Kusaila’s lips confused her. It didn’t help when he slipped to one knee and looked up into her glistening eyes.

  “Before you came along, I was afraid that any woman I loved would always be a target or become a young widow, and I had no right to impose that on a woman I loved. I couldn’t bind her to that life. But then you came, in all your fierce glory. A dragoness. All woman.” He smiled as his mind savored the last word, then he continued, “Who could not only protect herself but also spread her wings to cover my people and… me. You pushed that fear out of my heart, Sarah. So now I find myself in the wonderful and wholly unexplored place of asking you…” He paused, took a deep breath. Sarah’s spirit soared and her breath stopped. “To marry me.”

  Her heart thundered as fear grappled with it. A part of her was overjoyed, another uneasy. Too soon! one part of her cried. Another responded, But who better and how much time do you have? Harry is fine and has his own path that you cannot walk with him. She bit down on her bottom lip. Sweat started to form, causing her body to tingle. She was taking too long and she knew it. Her voice quivered and she found herself kneeling to look Kusaila in the eye. What an amazing and wonderful man! she thought. Her mind raced; she wasn’t ready. How could she love Kusaila when her dreams were haunted by Harry? This shouldn’t be so hard. Kusaila’s face started to register confusion. He was picking up on her struggle. I don’t want to hurt him. Harry is gone.

  She gulped and forced the answer from her mouth. “Yes!” Once it was out the next words came quickly. “I know I love you! I know you will be a good husband. I love your people and would gladly lay my life down for them. Yes, I will marry you!” She knew she should be overjoyed and overwhelmed.

  Kusaila reached down to kiss her. She met him and for a moment forgot her hesitancy. For a moment.

  Chapter 7

  The eerie bellow of a foghorn wailing from a lonely ship moving into the harbor sounded strangely fitting. Harry stood, shivering in the dark fog that wrapped him, Brady, and Raleigh in its wet tentacles. All three had a heightened sense of smell and to them the fog was swollen with the refuse of London. Every rotten piece of trash, dead fish, and untreated sewage that found its way into the River Thames, and curled its way up in fog, pounded away at their senses. Raleigh snarled and both Brady and Harry knew it was not because of any perceived threat but simply because of the reeking mist.

  The rusted hull of the merchant ship swung in the dark night, swaying slightly as the tide moved in. The gangway rose to the ship, inviting them aboard. Their luggage of guns, swords, and clothes had already been stored, and all that waited was for them to walk on and find their room for the quick trip across the channel. It was only a two-hour trip but it was also a bridge burned. On this side of the twenty-mile stretch of sea was freedom and safety. Once they walked up that gangplank the mission was on.

  Brady, now dressed in a tweed suit with an ear-flapped traveling cap, looked the part; all that was missing was a cherrywood pipe. Harry looked at him and snickered.

  “What?” Brady tilted his head, pretending to be confused.

  “You know, for someone from the Piney Woods of East Texas, you sure do look a lot like an oversized Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Well, my dear Watson, if you must know, I spent two semesters at Kings College when I was working on my doctorate. So when in Rome?” He returned Harry’s studious look with his own. Harry was wearing a leather vest, cowboy boots, and a grey Stetson. “You, on the other hand, my good fellow, stick out like a cocklebur in a nudist colony. I thought this mission was supposed to be secret. Those clothes you are wearing flash like a neon sign to anybody looking that Harry Ferguson and his associates have arrived.”

  Raleigh’s quick yap voiced his agreement with Brady. “Since when are you a clothes hound?” Harry teased.

  Raleigh’s gravelly voice sounded in Harry’s head. “Raleigh know enough not to stick out like smell bad skunk at church picnic.”

  “Ha, well, just so you know, I checked it out with John Timothy before I left. And according to him they already know we are coming, and advertising our presence will help hide those who they don’t know are coming.”

  “Hmmph.” Brady huffed. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or not.”

  Raleigh snarled under his doggy breath, “Me pretty sure is not. Someone watching now… is come here.”

  Harry and Brady turned, both catching the same dark stench Raleigh had. The smell of blood. They saw a man limping toward them through the fog. As he drew close, the smell of blood grew stronger. They could hear his heart failing and his breaths coming slower. They were amazed he was still on his feet. Harry rushed to meet him with Brady a half step behind. Harry caught him and gently lowered him to the ground. Raleigh’s tail lifted and his nose flared as he looked back into the fog.

  Seeing the dog’s reaction, Brady sniffed the air. “Someone… no… something is out there watching. Just far enough out that it can see us under the ship’s lights but not close enough that I can make out what it is. It smells a bit like a Jormungandr but not quite,” he whispered, turning back to the man.

  The man on the dock gasped. He was trying to speak but his throat was bruised. His face had been lacerated, and apparently one leg had been broken. He had run and limped and walked on broken bones to reach them. Harry tried to stanch the blood pouring from his wounds while Brady and Raleigh kept watch. The man’s voice was so raspy and filled with pain it hurt Harry to listen.

  “My pocket. Arti… fact… get it use it… only thing that works… must stop strongman. Artifact. Pocket. Strongman.” The wounded man’s eyes widened as he grabbed Harry’s collar with one hand, desperately trying to pull himself up. His eyes pleaded wit
h Harry to understand. Harry swallowed, forcing back a sour taste; the smell of blood and human waste was overpowering. The man should have died many times over but willed himself to hold on long enough to get to them, and the least Harry could do was to push back his own fear and revulsion.

  The man was staring at Harry. Waiting, holding on through agony. Finally, Harry realized what the man was waiting for—acknowledgment that he had understood. “Artifact received; strongman defeated. You did it, sir. You did it.”

  The man sighed, his last, deep breath leaving his body. He was letting go. Mission accomplished. A smile broke across his torn features. He shuddered and then… he was gone. Harry blew out a long hollow breath. He hoped he had the artifact. He hadn’t checked the man’s pockets before he had lied to him. As he passed his hands over the man’s cold dead stare, closing his eyelids, Harry wondered if it was a sin to lie to a dying man.

  They hated not being able to hand the brave messenger’s body over to the proper authorities. But to do so would have caused them more problems than they had time to deal with. So, after checking his coat pocket and finding a small cloth-wrapped package, they picked up the body and, with the most tender of care, laid him out of sight of the ship but in a place the morning light would expose to dock workers. Then they boarded the ship and found their room. None of the merchants’ hands or officers had seen the man or observed the delivery of his message.

  Taking off his bloody shirt, Harry cleaned himself up and threw the shirt out the porthole. He weighed it down with a heavy bookend they found in the cabin and watched it sink beneath the cold waves.

  Brady and Harry carefully opened the package. Two layers of cloth covered a small wooden box, hardly larger than a matchbox. The first layer was relatively new; the second was ancient, yellowed, and extremely fragile. Brady handled it with delicate care, but a part of it still crumbled beneath his large fingers. The wooden box was hand-carved but not with the intricate detail of an artisan. It looked as though it had been carved with a pocketknife and that by a person not particularly skilled. The wood was dark with age but hardened to iron. A small seam ran the length of the wood. Gently Brady pulled it open. The box came apart and another small cloth, tied with wool string, covered the contents. Gingerly he tried to undo the knot. But he could not untie it; age had caused whatever rosin it held to weld it tight.

  Finally, Harry said, “Here, cut it,” and handed Brady his pocketknife. The knife was razor-sharp and Brady placed the tip of it beneath the knot, hoping to pull it apart. The knot would not break. The blade slipped and cut the tip of his index finger. “Damn!” he yelped, stuffing the bleeding digit in his mouth. A small bead of blood had dropped on the cloth, soaking into it. The string began to dissolve.

  “That is really strange, never seen a knot just dissolve like that!” Harry exclaimed.

  Brady continued to tug and carefully parted the frayed knot. As he pulled the last vestige of cloth back, a slender brown thorn was revealed.

  “Huh? A thorn?” Brady sat back in his chair, scratching his chin.

  Raleigh moved in close to the artifact and sniffed. The large dog whimpered and lay down on the floor, staring up at Harry.

  “What is it, Raleigh, what do you smell?” Harry wondered why the dog could sense what he could not.

  Raleigh answered, “Bad, bad… so bad… make Raleigh sad.” The whimpering continued.

  Harry looked at Brady, who shrugged. Then a familiar voice Harry had not heard in several weeks spoke. “Harry, that is not just a common thorn. It was taken from the Euphorbia Milii, commonly known as the crown of thorns. And if you look closely you can see the tip is blood-stained.”

  “Whoa!” Harry’s mouth fell open. His eyebrows shot to his hairline and his hand covered his mouth.

  Brady gasped, “My God!”

  Harry croaked out, “Kinda what I was thinking too! What are we supposed to do with it? I don’t want to touch it! If that is really… Oh my Lord!”

  The speaker’s voice continued, “Harry, when you get through your jerking spell, cover the thorn back up and put it in the box. But before you do that, spread the inner cloths out very carefully and let me look at them. Okay?”

  “Speaker, how can you be so calm? That is a thorn from the crown of thorns, you know. The one… HE wore!”

  “Harry, I know I never told you, but, ah, now is probably a good a time as any. Did you ever wonder why when you hold my literal sword form it glows, especially in the middle of a battle?”

  “Ah, well, I guess I mean I wondered, but I didn’t pursue the thought very far.”

  “Holy things react to evil. They are repositories of the people who touched them and bled into them. The more powerful the person, the more residue was left behind. If the power was deliberately imputed, then the power is even greater. Harry, next time you look at my literal form, examine the handle. You might be surprised at what you find. But now carefully spread those cover cloths out. And let me look at them.”

  Ό, τι ο Σατανάς που προορίζονται για κακό Θεό έχει στραφεί εναντίον του. το αίμα γυρίζει πίσω ο κατήγορος και δεσμεύει τον. Αν ένας υπάλληλος του πονηρού είναι διάτρητος από αυτό το αγκάθι θα να ρίχνει μέσα σε απόλυτο σκοτάδι.

  The speaker read the ancient letters slowly, translating the Greek into English.

  Harry echoed the speaker’s words so Brady and Raleigh could understand.

  “What Satan intended for evil God has turned against him. The blood turns back the accuser and binds him. If a servant of the evil one is pierced by this thorn, they will be cast into utter darkness.”

  Brady stared at the thorn. Still in his Sherlock Holmes mode, he took out a magnifying glass and held it over the ancient barb.

  Harry chuckled. “I can’t believe you brought along a magnifying glass! Really, Brady?”

  “Came with the kit,” the large man grumbled, trying to deflect Harry’s teasing. “I got the cap, the pipe, and the coat at a discount store for tourists, and they threw the glass in as a bonus. Seems to be coming in right handy now, though, isn’t it?”

  Harry smirked and shrugged. “Yeah, it is.”

  Brady slowly examined every millimeter of the thorn. “Amazing!” he whispered, his voice trembling. He handed the box and the magnifying glass over to Harry. “Don’t drop it,” he warned. “Tell me you see what I see. Look at the tip of the thorn.”

  Harry peered through the thick glass, moving the box closer to it. “Gosh! Dern! Oh hell! Sorry, sorry… didn’t mean to say that.” He looked around, expecting an angel with a bright sword to smite him or a thundercloud to manifest in the cabin and strike him. When it didn’t, he said in a respectful whisper, “That can’t be right.” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the back of the hand holding the magnifying glass. He pulled the thorn box closer and stepped back so the ceiling light would shine directly on the glass. “It’s still wet! How can it be wet? But wait, Brady, you cut your finger, that’s your blood!”

  “No, Harry, it is not mine; look at the cloth. My blood stained the outer wrap but didn’t touch the inner one or the one enclosed in the box. It’s not my blood.”

  Harry set the box down on the worn nightstand by the bed. He waited for the speaker to interrupt but only silence answered. “Speaker, you there?”

  The familiar sword’s voice answered, “Yes, Harry, it’s blood, it’s still wet, and it’s His.”

  “No wonder a demon is cast down when it comes in contact with it!” Brady croaked.

  Harry’s brow furrowed and a frown etched across his puzzled face. “Only one question: How do we get close enough to an angry fallen archangel to scratch it with the thorn?”

  Chapter 8

  Lizzy was anxious. She had spent the day laughing and playing with her little munchkins, but her mind had been pondering a dozen different scenarios, each a litt
le crazier than the last. The dinner with the Huslus had to be perfect. She didn’t need to make any missteps or ask the wrong questions or imply the wrong things, and she needed to guard her thoughts and especially her blunt mouth that seemed to be welded ass-backwards into her brain and… and… Finally, Gracie, one of her more observant little girls, put her little hands on her little hips and said, “Miss Lizzy, you have six hours until your dinner with Bradley and his family. Would you mind paying attention to us for at least three of those?!”

  “Caught me red-handed, Grace. I am sorry. And I don’t expect you to understand. I just want to make a good impression, and the Huslus are important to me. You know that.”

  Easton piped up. “I understand perfectly, Miss Lizzy. Bradley and I are best friends and plan to start living in a treehouse together! And no girls allowed!” he shouted in the general direction of Maggie and Gracie. Ryan, Lizzy’s cowboy, nodded at Easton, egging him on. The girls pretended not to have heard Easton, but Lizzy could tell it bothered them to not be invited to his treehouse.

  Of course, once he inevitably did ask them up, that would be the end of his boy cave. It would suddenly be public domain and the home of dolls, puppies, and teacups and need to be swept twice a day. Rusty nails and empty soda cans wouldn’t be allowed to litter the floor and, well, they would just take over, or so Easton feared.

  Lizzy watched the interplay and was surprised to see the new little boy, Bradley Huslu, look at Easton with a puzzled tilt of his head. Bradley had not said much compared to the other chatterboxes that attended Lizzy’s library time. He was a bit shy and very conscious that he towered over his new friends. But Lizzy wasn’t too worried, and chuckled when she saw Maggie and Ryan grab him by the hand and push him from behind, claiming him as their help with their projects. Once those two had gathered him under their wings, the other children took to him like he was their long-lost cousin.