by James Somers
WICKED SAMARITAN
Jericho was there when the Deliverer escaped during the ensuing chaos within the throne room. He was there when King Stephen’s army, discouraged and defeated, fled from before Mordred’s army. And he was there when Mordred returned from his self-imposed exile, aboard his private galleon on the Azure Sea, far from the danger of battle.
Mordred had declared himself the victor and King Stephen a coward. The truth was far more sinister. For nearly a year, Jericho had been visiting the dreams of Stephen. He had supplanted the faith of his fathers, who believed the Holy Word of Shaddai without doubt. Jericho had made it his personal mission to destroy Wayland’s efforts from the inside. A faithless king acting against the prophecy could never hope to be victorious. Only the Almighty could give victory over Mordred. Stephen had done exactly what Jericho had worked for. He had gone into battle without faith in Shaddai’s promises.
Now, the man was no longer a threat. The majority of his mighty men lay dead before the gates of the city of Emmanuel. He lumbered home defeated, not just in body but in mind-a much greater victory for the forces of darkness.
Still, the young Deliverer of Shaddai posed a problem. He still lived. He had found his way into the palace. Had Mordred actually been there, then the prophecy might have come true that day. The demon reminded himself of his plan to send Mordred away, just in case-brilliant.
Jericho watched as some of Mordred’s servants lifted the body of General Rommil off the bloodstained throne. He had liked Rommil, at least for a mortal. The man had been an older, more experienced Wraith General. He had been less prone to whim than Mordred-more level headed. And he had held more reverence for the dark spirits which fought with the Wraith Riders. If anyone had understood the way things really were between them, it had been Rommil. He had known Mordred needed the demonic spirits more than the Fallen needed him and his Wraith Riders.
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.
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