by James Somers
Ethan turned his attention back to the rows of catapults fastened to the deck behind him. Heavy ropes held them secure as the sea rolled beneath the great barge. I wonder what would happen. Ethan suddenly had an idea that brought a smile to his face. He drew his spiritual blade and sliced through the ropes nearest to him.
The ropes sprang away under tension with a sharp whip-crack. Ethan leaped after the other ropes, zealously slashing them all as he came to them. The bindings flew around the deck like the tentacles of some angry kraken. Some of the soldiers had taken notice by now and ran to try and stop what was happening.
The heavy wooden catapults began to shift upon the deck as the ship lifted with the waves. A hybrid appeared behind Ethan and slashed at him with a great broadsword just as he slashed one of the final ropes left holding the war engines in place. Ethan started as the sword fell too late for him to do anything about it.
The heavy blade crashed against one of the giant wooden wheels on the catapult, passing right through Ethan. He suddenly realized the beast might be able to see him, in his ethereal state, but it couldn’t touch him. Whatever these hybrids were, Mordred had apparently overdone himself. Ethan whipped his own sword around and cleaved the bull-faced creature in two through its torso. More deckhands came running as catapults started to teeter and roll across the deck. One began a slow journey away from a dozen hybrids as the ship dipped into the trough of a wave, but then turned back upon them as the ship crested. The catapult rolled over the demonic crew before they could jump out of its way.
Another engine of war slid sideways, taking out more soldiers and stacks of crated supplies fastened to the deck before smashing into the first catapult, both going over the side of the barge, crashing into the sea. Ethan spotted some of the soldiers crawling across one of the war engines, piecing together the cut rope as best they could. He leaped to the catapult and sliced through the lock which held the arm down. It sprang forward throwing soldiers across the deck, flipping its base over in the process.
One of the catapults rolled from its place at the bow of the barge down along the length of the ship as it crested another wave. The huge piece of machinery plowed through deckhands, crates, and anything else standing in its way until it reached the stacked bridge tower where all commands for steering and speed were given. Ethan watched with satisfaction as the ship’s captain, with many more hybrids, clamored along the bridge catwalks and staircases as they realized their doom. The runaway catapult, unabated by any obstacle on the deck, exploded through the bridge tower sending men and a huge scattering of debris into the Azure Sea. The catapult reached the stern of the ship, slowed by the last impact, and ever so gently teetered on the edge before the ship dipped again at the bow into the trough of a wave. The catapult crashed back down onto the deck and skidded sideways back through its path of destruction, before glancing off a mound of wreckage and dumping over the side of the barge, through a dozen portside oar placements, into the sea.
Ethan’s ethereal body prickled with spiritual energy, forcing him to turn around. He barely managed to bring his blade up to block the first strike of a demon in its disembodied form. Their ethereal swords clashed with a bright flash of discharged power. Ethan noticed, behind this reptilian-faced opponent, a host of spirits coming toward the barge. He forced the spirit back and drew another blade to his aid.
While blocking the demon’s strike he retaliated with his second sword, driving the heavenly sword into its chest. The wicked spirit dissolved, a sandcastle blown away by a gust of wind. More demons came at him, but there were too many to fight. He would surely be overwhelmed by their numbers. Isaiah’s sage advice rang true as he realized his foolish mistake in coming onboard the barge in the first place.
Ethan whirled around, flinging first one blade and then the second. A demon blocked the first, but the second cut him through. Seeing a successful manner of defending himself, Ethan flew backward away from the barge, hurling heavenly swords into the throng of pursuing demons as fast as they rematerialized in his hands. It had the effect of hurling rocks at a swarm of bees—only those caught unaware were struck, but it staggered and confused their attack enough for Ethan to remain ahead of them.
The armada had begun to give wide berth to the crippled barge now drifting with the current amidst a huge debris field floating upon the surface of the sea around it. Ethan regretted only having the chance to disable one of Mordred’s ships, but it was all he could manage and, perhaps, more than he should have ever attempted.
The horde of demons began to gain in their pursuit as the mass of ships fell away, becoming only toys in a great pond. Suddenly Ethan gasped in pain. His old wounds, delivered by the Prince of Demons, ached, sending waves of agony through his ethereal form. His flight through the spiritual realm slowed, and the demons gained on him.
Ethan staggered, trying to keep on going. Despite not having to breathe, he felt as though he were suffocating. His pace slowed even more, until the demons came within striking range. Several raised their weapons, which transformed into ethereal bows, and fired arrows of flame toward him. Ethan cried out, “Lord Shaddai, please deliver me! I can’t make it on my own!”
Just as suddenly as Ethan’s strength had been sapped away, it returned unto him tenfold. He shot forward away from the horde of pursuing demons. Their flaming arrows dissipated into nothing behind him as the clouds blurred, his escape now faster than he’d ever traveled on the spiritual plane before.
Jericho hovered high above Mordred’s command ship sailing on below him. The barge, where the boy had attacked, remained crippled and drifting. Several ships of the armada had diverted and were presently trying to moor along side the vessel in order to take on its remaining men and supplies. The operation would take a while, but with the help of his demons, they might accomplish the task in a third of the time.
The horde of demons which had taken up pursuit, chasing the Deliverer away, were now returning, a black cloud on the horizon, approaching fast. They began to disperse to clean-up duties as Jericho’s thoughts directed them. One of the demons returned to Jericho directly. “My Lord, we’ve chased the boy away from the armada.”
Jericho’s eyes burned into the demon lieutenant before him. “You mean he escaped, don’t you? I wanted the boy destroyed, or captured at the very least.”
The abased demon bowed his head. “My apologies, my lord. We thought we had him, before his prayer allowed him to escape.”
Jericho closed his eyes slowly, frustrated. “Of course it did. Organize the cleanup of this debacle and get the armada moving again as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, my lord,” the demon lieutenant said, snapping to attention. He flew straightway to the barge and the other demons already beginning to help align two of the other vessels so they could transport the salvageable materials onboard for the remainder of the journey to Wayland.
Jericho descended to the bridge of the renovated Man-o-war, now serving as Mordred’s command ship. The warlord stood on the poop deck, watching the progress of those ships diverted to the cleanup. Jericho became visible to him with a flash of light meant to draw his attention away from the sea.
Mordred turned, as expected, clearly unsurprised to see Jericho standing there. “What news? Was it the boy?”
Jericho stood stiff, emotionless. “Yes.”
“Did your demons destroy him?”
“No.”
Mordred seemed to prickle at the news, though he likely had suspected as much. “I see. Well, you seem to be unconcerned by this turn of events. The boy will certainly deliver news of our imminent attack to Stephen.”
“I doubt very much that our voyage has managed to remain hidden. The ships we encountered and destroyed near the Northern Cape almost certainly got away a distress call by messenger hawk before we ever engaged them. The boy’s report will make little difference. At least his retreat tells us that he is as weak as we might hope.”
Mordred considered that piece of wisdom with a sligh
t smile, but then relented. “Could he have seen the new ships?”
“Very doubtful, My Lord,” Jericho said. “Your modifications to the Man-o-wars would appear as nothing but more sail stowed away in extra compartments. They will not expect what is coming.”
Mordred smiled. “Yes, of course they won’t. How could they? And Wayland will be broken for their insolence once and for all.”
KING’S ADDRESS
Gideon heard the mass of people long before he ever saw them crowding through the streets of Wayland’s capital. He had breached the wall with ease, using a secret tunnel left by The Order of Shaddai. The tunnel had been shown to him years before by Isaiah as one dug for an emergency escape in the event of a siege. For whatever reason, the tunnel had remained unguarded and perhaps even forgotten all these years later.
With his bow in hand, Gideon crept threw mostly deserted streets. Dusk was fast approaching, but still everyone in the city had gathered at the central palace courtyard. The King must be addressing the people.
Gideon noticed there were few flat rooftops in Evelah. Finding a place close enough to the palace and away from the crowds for an assassination would be difficult at best. As he followed the flow of people, he finally came to see thousands gathered before Stephen’s palace. High above the crowd stood several guards upon a lone balcony made of polished marble, bearing a tapestry with the King’s crest upon it. His target would be easy enough to find if only he could find the right place to shoot from.
To his right, Gideon saw a wall leading away from the palace itself. That might do very nicely, he thought. The crowd consisted of mostly women and children with the elderly sprinkled among them. The debacle at Emmanuel had hurt Stephen more than Gideon had previously realized—thousands of husbands and fathers had never come home to their families.
Gideon latched onto that thought. Perhaps there would be some justice in his actions today. The King who had disobediently assumed the role of Shaddai’s Deliverer, and caused these people so much pain, would soon be dead.
Dusk had come sooner than Ethan had expected. As he passed over Evelah, heading for the Temple, he noticed the crowds gathering below at the palace. Something important must be about to happen. Ethan flew over the thousands assembled before the wide marble veranda as King Stephen appeared, flanked by his royal guard. Ethan came in close, still invisible to the naked eye, and perched against the vertical wall to Stephen’s left side.
As the King stepped up to the marble banister, the crowd below became quiet, eager to hear what news could be so important that it must be shared at this late hour in the day. “My good people,” the King said in a deep booming voice which, due to the walls enclosing the courtyard lawn, managed to reverberate to the fullest extent of the crowd. “We have suffered here in Wayland with the loss of so many of our esteemed warriors at the hands of that vile fiend, Mordred, and his demonic hordes. And I had hoped to spare our citizens any further pain, However, I have just received word that Mordred plans to invade Wayland.”
Murmurs rose among the crowd. Cries of distress also rang out here and there as the realization of what was coming began to fill them with dread.
“Please!” King Stephen cried over the escalating din. “We must not despair! We will fight against him! We still have an army and enough weapons to place a sword in the hand of every capable man, woman, and child. We will not go down quietly without fighting for our lives! Now is the time for all Waylanders to come together against this scourge and send him back to the pit from whence he came!”
Despite the grand noise of the King, panic continued to build among those assembled to hear his report. Gideon listened from his place upon the wall on the right side of the massive green courtyard. Two of the King’s guards lay behind him unconscious. Gideon waited, still wearing the soldier’s uniform taken from the fortress outpost, until Stephen had finished delivering the bad news. From that point, Gideon had no longer been able to hear what the King was saying—so great was the cry of despair now echoing around the courtyard below.
So, Mordred was coming for sure. The King hadn’t said when Mordred would arrive, but given the nature of his speech, Gideon guessed the warlord must already be close, no doubt coming with a fleet of carrier barges and Man-o-war battleships at his disposal. But any attack upon Evelah would require nearly a day’s march from the sea in order to bring them to the city walls.
Perhaps this was exactly the reason why Gideon had been given this assignment to assassinate the King. So that Evelah would have no leadership and surrender easily. Gideon felt the bow in his left hand, squeezing upon the wood. He flexed the fingers of his right, the knuckles popping. He could turn around now and walk away. He didn’t have to obey Mordred’s command. The warlord would likely never know.
But Gideon remembered his son. His child was still under Mordred’s control. If he abandoned this assignment then he also abandoned his son. The thought of his and Sarah’s child growing up in the care of such a villain gripped his heart so that he felt he could not breathe.
Gideon pushed the rebellious thought from his mind and focused upon his task. He whipped an arrow from the quiver slung onto his back and nocked it to the bow. He raised the weapon and placed the arrowhead on the distant breastbone of King Stephen, who was even now trying to persuade his discomfited citizens that all hope was not lost. With a final whisper—forgive me—he released the bowstring.
Ethan barely noticed what had happened amid the despairing cries ringing out from the courtyard below them. King Stephen raised his hands, trying to restore some order among his people and calm them enough to give them instructions for what had to be done. Mordred would be upon them within two or three days and they had to get organized into some semblance of a fighting force by then. But just as Ethan thought the time had come for him to go ahead and return to the Temple, where he could report back to Isaiah, his senses locked into overdrive—every voice heard, every leaf blowing, every insect crawling.
The world slowed itself so that Ethan discerned each part in detail, especially the arrow shaft driving now toward the King. He reacted instinctively despite his confusion. Who in Wayland would possibly want to assassinate King Stephen? Ethan launched away from the side of the palace, his ethereal blade flying to his right hand.
The arrow itself was inconsequential. It burned away into scattered ash as he batted it down with his sword. Ethan’s focus remained on the trail of vibrating air leading back to the shooter upon the right flanking wall of the courtyard. There, stood a man in Wayland armor, the string of his bow still vibrating with the release.
As Ethan closed in, he noticed the familiar face of Gideon. Elation at seeing him safe was quickly swept away by burning anger at his betrayal—this man who had been like a brother to him. Isaiah had called for his destruction, and now the traitor stood within his grasp, easy pickings. Ethan came upon him, still invisible, and swept upward with his ethereal blade. But at the last he pulled his reach back.
The blade sliced through the marble banister, where Gideon had been leaning, like butter. It divided his bow in half just below Gideon’s left hand, the string popping with a twangy hiss. Had he not restrained his arm, his strike would have caught Gideon completely unaware, cleaving him in two. Ethan wanted answers first.
He became visible as he landed in front of Gideon, smashing his mentor in the face as the pieces of bow fell from his hands. “Why?” Ethan screamed as he followed Gideon to the ground, pummeling him with blows anywhere he could land them. “Why did you do it?”
Gideon had been caught off guard, but it didn’t last. He thrust his legs up and threw Ethan over as he rolled back to a crouch. Ethan came back like an angry lion giving no heed to caution. His anger had boiled to the surface, vengeance for Gideon’s betrayal of himself, The Order, and anyone else he could think of. “We trusted you, and you betrayed us!”
They traded blows: fists, feet, grappling, then breaking away again. Ethan breathed hard as Gideon stood apart, bloo
d oozing from several cuts across his face and head. A large bruise grew darker from his right cheek down to his chin.
Ethan drew the physical sword from the scabbard on his back. Gideon pulled one from his side. Neither of them advanced. “Well, aren’t you going to give me some sort of answer for what you’ve done?” Ethan shouted. “I’ve been ordered to kill you. Don’t you have any explanation?”
Gideon stood there with his sword ready to defend himself. He looked torn, as though he wanted desperately to speak his mind, but wouldn’t. “What’s done is done…the reasons don’t really matter,” he said finally.
“Of course they matter! You were a brother. You were a servant of The Most High…Gideon, look what you’ve done.”
Gideon gritted his teeth, trying to shut out Ethan’s words. “It’s not finished yet.”
Ethan’s brow creased. “What else could you possibly destroy that you haven’t already?”
Gideon glared at him. “You.”
Ethan stood there speechless for a long moment. “You can’t mean that, Gideon…I know there’s more, some reason why this all makes sense to you. Just let me help—”
Gideon flew into him at that moment, his sword thrusting repeatedly. Ethan parried, attacked, blocked and was driven back. Gideon struck at him again and again, each time driving Ethan further back. “Why don’t you disappear?” he said.
“Is that what you want, for me to flee?” Ethan asked as he blocked another attack and brought one of his own. “I thought you wanted to kill me, brother! Don’t you think you could do it?”