Wood splintered, exploding into the clearing. Ethan saw several giants rush through the trees, holding massive clubs in their hands. Ethan jumped to his feet and ran away toward the trees ahead. A club, the size of a small tree, smashed into the ground where Ethan had just leapt from, spraying earth over the boy as he ran.
Four Anakims, like those contained on the slaver ship, chased him into the trees. Ethan leaped into the branches, springing from one to another as quickly as he could manage. The massive clubs smashed through limbs and tore away great swathes of the green foliage, sending it in every direction, as the bulky Anakims pursued their small prey.
The giants ducked and weaved around the larger trunks they could not push their way through and kept up the onslaught. Pieces of wood battered Ethan as he fled from the Anakims. Finally, they closed the gap, and one of the men swept up with his club of stone, smashing through the large branch where Ethan had just landed. The splintered wood blew upward, flinging him into the air over the treetops.
Ethan cleared the edge of the forest, tumbling, and landed in a wet field. The ground was so saturated that he actually splashed into it. He lay there with his face sideways on the ground, breathing bubbles through the fluid collecting around his body. He opened his eye-the one not submerged-saw the tree line and listened. The giants did not follow him beyond the edge of the forest. He listened for the sound of their footsteps-nothing.
Ethan closed his eye again, breathing. As he tensed, attempting to stand, Ethan realized the pain. Every part of his body ached against his best intentions to move. He relaxed again, taking a moment to rest first.
Ethan blew the warm water away with each exhale, then he noticed the taste. It was bitter and familiar. A sudden, putrid odor threatened to nauseate him. Ethan sprang upright, despite the pain. The field was a dark crimson. Bodies littered the landscape along with spent weapons of war. Horrified, Ethan swiped the liquid from his face and hair, finding blood upon his hands.
He jumped to his feet and saw that the ground was saturated with the lifeblood of these countless souls. A great battle had taken place and the carnage was apparently fresh. A great cloud of birds hovered over the battlefield, sending down feeders and receiving others having taken their fill.
Something attached itself to Ethan’s ankle. He looked down and found a man reaching out from his prone position. When the man turned his head upward to meet Ethan’s gaze, he gasped in horror at the man’s condition. Most of his face was gone-though he moved, he was not alive.
Ethan leaped from his grasp, just as a trembling moan swept across the entire field. Bodies pulled themselves up from the places where they had fallen in battle. They cast horrid expressions at Ethan, trying to reach the place where he stood. He recognized their armor and uniforms as those of King Stephen’s army.
A lament carried from voice to voice throughout them all. “Deliverer, you have failed us! Why have you done this to us? We trusted that you would save us!”
Over again the mournful cry of these war victims assailed Ethan. His fear of failure fell upon him as a crushing weight. His legs refused to move. His feet planted firmly as though roots had sprung from them into the earth. The dead staggered on, dragging their broken bodies, reaching for Ethan. He looked for a weapon. His sword was gone-his quicksilver armor missing. Ethan cried out with soundless screams toward the heavens, receiving no reply as countless dead took hold.
Ethan sprang from his bedroll, screaming and drenched with sweat. Gideon and Levi sat up where they had been sleeping, their hands upon their weapons looking for attackers. There were none-only a frightened boy having nightmares.
“Are you all right, Ethan?” Gideon asked.
Ethan panted heavily. His eyes darted around, finding his friends, the camp, their horses, and none of Stephen’s slaughtered soldiers from the battle with Mordred’s army. He gulped down his fear. “I’m fine, just a nightmare…again.”
These night terrors had been coming with greater frequency in the days since his defeat at the palace. Ethan knew he was not afraid of the demon. It was failure troubling him most-unshakable failure.
“You should try to get some sleep, if you can,” Gideon said. “We’ll be leaving at dawn.”
Already the night seemed waning. In little more than an hour the dawn would break, and they would travel north again toward The Order of Shaddai and their mysterious temple. Levi sighed, pulling his blanket back up with a grumble. These regular middle-of-the-night wakeup calls from Ethan had taken its toll on the others.
Gideon lingered, concern written on his face. “I’m alright, really,” Ethan assured him as he lay down again. He rolled over as Gideon sighed, trying to return to sleep. Ethan breathed deeply, hoping to shake the images he’d just experienced. He knew he had to get control of his fear. In a war where so much depended upon him, a misstep to the wrong side of the razor’s edge could prove devastating.
MILLERTOWN
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
