“Have you no pride?” Captain Silvas asked.
“Pride goes before a fall, I’m told,” Horace retorted.
“They killed your king!” Captain Silva said, pounding a fist on the table for emphasis.
“And now we have another king and a vengeful one at that,” Horace replied.
“And what of that king?” Tom Grandee interrupted. “Mordred continues to bleed us dry and take our young men at his leisure for his growing army. It’s only a matter of time, Horace. Then we will be cast aside by this conqueror.”
“Yes, the time to fight is now!” Captain Silva said.
“Or the time to negotiate,” Horace countered.
Ethan’s eyes widened. What he saw shocked him, and it had nothing to do with the conversation between Captain Silva and Horace Howinger. For several minutes, as the conversation escalated, Ethan watched a near-human person moving back and forth between the men—the movement so quick it blurred.
The creature had to be a demon, like those he dreamed of nearly every night. It wore the red and black uniform of Mordred’s army, speaking into the ear of one man and then the other. The discussion grew into a confrontation—the demon instigating it all. The foul spirit whispered into the ear of one, curling up right over their shoulder like a trusted friend with the latest gossip to tell. Then, in a flash of motion, it moved to the other man’s ear, filling his mind with enticing words.
The actual words eluded Ethan’s hearing, but the intent became evident as the situation progressed. He must be one of Mordred’s. Is he trying to halt the militia by using Mr. Howinger? Then an awful thought occurred to Ethan. If demons are working with the warlord, then how can anyone ever surprise him with an attack? King Stephen will surely be killed, and his army ambushed, if they try to enter the land of Nod. Ethan strained to hear what the creature was saying, but only the voices of the council could be heard.
“What do you mean, negotiate?” one of the other council members asked.
Horace knew he had them now. The young whippersnaps desired to go to war, but the older members of the council had been in battle before. Having known the despair of it, they had no appetite for such conflicts.
“Gentlemen, if we plead our cause to Mordred himself while using the good record of our loyalty, then perhaps he will favor us. If I were trying to halt a rebellion, I would certainly be grateful to those towns which remained loyal to me rather than join some local militia,” Horace reasoned.
The twenty council members mumbled amongst themselves. Horace sat back in his chair, smirking at Tom Grandee with satisfaction.
Captain Silva looked exasperated. He glared at Horace Howinger.
“I think we should go to a vote,” Horace said. Better to cinch up his support quickly before Grandee or Silva thought up a new strategy. “We can decide whether we want to get ourselves into a mess with Captain Silva’s militia fiasco, or send a delegation to Lord Mordred in the interests of peaceful negotiations.” Horace twisted the council like putty in his hands. Never had the words come so smoothly for him. Horace Howinger smiled, quite pleased with himself. Little did he know a demon smiled as well.
The men drew out small pieces of paper in order to cast their individual secret ballots. In a moment, when everyone was done, an appointed man collected the slips of paper and counted the votes. When the counting finished, all but five of the council members had voted to send the delegation Mr. Howinger had suggested. Tom Grandee fumed, at least until one of the members asked a key question. “Who will be our emissary to Lord Mordred in Emmanuel City?”
A sly grin crossed Tom Grandee’s face as he cast a knowing eye toward Captain Silva. “It will have to be someone with a lot of experience,” Tom suggested. This statement eliminated all of the younger council members, including himself. Nods of agreement bobbed all around the table.
“A good speaker would be best,” said Captain Silva, following up on Tom’s move. “And someone who commands respect.”
“I vote that we send Horace Howinger to speak on our behalf in this matter,” Tom said.
Howinger stammered.
“After all, Mr. Howinger seems to be well versed in these matters. Who else could do so fine a job with this task?” Tom continued.
Horace squirmed in his chair as the color drained from his face—a rat in a trap. “Now, just a minute, Tom, I never said—”
Tom interrupted him. “Horace, Horace, don’t be so modest. We all realize you are the only man for the job. Moreover, since this is a matter of utmost importance, I’m sure you will want a team assembled by tomorrow to accompany you to Emmanuel. I will be glad to take care of it for you. We’ll provide horses and a group of strong men from among those who would have fought in our militia.”
All around the council chamber, heads nodded in agreement. Horace cursed under his breath as the other council members came by to shake his hand and thank him for volunteering to go settle the matter for them with Mordred. Each pat on the back felt like nails driven into his coffin. Tom simply smiled, walking out of the council chamber with a smug Captain Silva.
Ethan watched from the attic as the demon, which had manipulated the proceedings so effectively, exited the chamber as well. The creature had finished here, and Ethan wondered if it would now go report directly to Mordred himself about what had happened.
The meeting had produced quite a turn of events. Mr. Howinger would be leaving for a three-week journey to Emmanuel City with three weeks needed to return. Things seemed to be looking up. He and Elspeth would be rid of the man for six weeks at least. Ethan felt especially glad for Elspeth.
With the meeting over, Ethan had to get back to the farm before Howinger did. He’ll be in a terrible mood tonight, he thought. Ethan retraced his steps out of the attic over the council chambers. He found his horse still tied to the tree. Whistler received Ethan cheerfully, and they shot away into the night toward home.
UNEXPECTED TRIP
It was quite late, by the time Ethan arrived back at the Howinger farm and got Whistler settled into his stall. Mr. Howinger would not be far behind, and Ethan had to hurry to get back to the house. He looked toward the house and saw the lantern still lit in the living room window. What would Elspeth say?
When Ethan walked just outside of the barn, he heard a person clear their throat behind him. He turned and found his older sister standing there against the outside of the barn with her arms folded.
“Something to do in the barn, Ethan?” Elspeth’s fingertips rolled along her upper arms as she tried to control her temper.
Ethan winced when he saw her. “But Elspeth, I have important news,” he said quickly.
“Really? And what news could be so important that you had to deceive me and take off into town, when you know Horace will skin both of us alive if he finds out?”
“The council has commissioned Horace to negotiate with Lord Mordred,” he said.
Elspeth’s expression changed instantly. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Howinger was arguing with a knight captain sent from King Stephen,” Ethan said. “He came to raise support for the militia here in Grandee, but Howinger opposed the motion and called for a delegation to be sent, to find out if Grandee’s continued loyalty to Mordred might merit us some relief on our tax burden. The motion carried, but then the council turned around and voted to send Mr. Howinger as the town’s emissary. He has to leave tomorrow!”
Elspeth smiled. “That means he will be gone for nearly six weeks, right?”
“No less,” Ethan assured her. Elspeth smiled wider.
Ethan thought about what had happened at the meeting. Elspeth noticed his changed countenance. “What’s wrong, Ethan? I’m not really mad at you—not after such wonderful news.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I saw something else at the meeting.”
The look on his face concerned her. “What happened?”
Ethan hesitated to tell her. After all, she had not believed hi
m back in Salem the night of the massacre. “I saw a demon again.”
Elspeth’s expression grew intense rather than dismissive this time. Ethan noticed terror in her eyes—terror he had not seen since their departure from Salem.
“Again?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the council chambers during the meeting,” Ethan said.
“And what was it doing there?” she asked.
“I believe it was speaking to the men, although they were unaware of it. It moved from one to the other, whispering thoughts into their minds. That’s when everything turned from the militia being confirmed to this delegation and Howinger’s place in it.”
Elspeth tried to consider the ramifications of what Ethan said. Her brow furrowed with concentration. “Did it see you watching?”
“No. I had been hiding in the attic of the council building, so that may have had something to do with it.”
“Where is Mr. Howinger?” she asked.
“He’s on his way home, I expect,” Ethan said.
“Then we should get you into bed before he arrives. Say nothing of these things to anyone else, understand?”
“Of course.”
Elspeth ushered Ethan into the house and made sure he was in bed before she settled in with more mending. Ethan lay there in his bed, trying to listen for the sound of hooves walking on the packed earth outside. He heard a wolf cry in the distance, then fell asleep.
Ethan realized Horace was home, when he heard him stumbling into the house, slurring his speech while ordering Elspeth to get him something to eat. Ethan tensed in his bed, but waited. Would he need to run to his sister’s aide? Would Howinger become violent in his drunken stupor? Ethan made up his mind to intervene if the old man did try to harm her in a rage, no matter what Elspeth said about it. The outer room grew quiet. Ethan’s door swung open and Elspeth came into his room. His adrenaline surged.
“He’s passed out,” she said. “I need your help to get him into bed.”
Ethan assisted his sister with getting Horace into his bed. He still mumbled through the haze of liquor after they got him situated and closed the door behind them.
“He must be terribly upset to get into this condition,” Elspeth said.
“I suppose we can’t really blame him,” Ethan said. “Who, in their right mind, would want to go before Mordred?”
“We must get to sleep as well,” Elspeth said. “Horace will not be in a gracious mood when he wakes tomorrow.”
Ethan stifled a laugh. Of course, Horace wouldn’t be in a good mood. His head would ache from the strong drink he had been wallowing in and he had a long journey to Mordred’s palace to think about.
As expected, they watched a very sullen Horace Howinger get ready in haste for his journey. When he emerged from his bedroom, his mood had not improved nor his news.
“What?” Elspeth asked doubtfully.
Horace swallowed the last of his coffee. “I said, ‘your brother is coming with me to Mordred’s palace.’”
Elspeth’s mouth hung open. Ethan didn’t know what to think. He certainly did not want to go on a trip of any length with Mr. Howinger, let alone into dangerous territory. But his curiosity piqued at the idea of getting to travel to the palace in Emmanuel and see Lord Mordred, the man who held the entire kingdom in his grasp.
“Did you suppose I would leave the two of you here alone with all of my worldly goods?” Horace asked bitterly. “If I must endure this journey, then I’ll have someone else along to enjoy my misery. And as you send up prayers for your brother’s safe return, I may benefit by proximity.”
It sounded as though Horace meant to mock their faith. However, Ethan knew the man had just enough superstitious faith to hope Shaddai would protect Ethan and those in his company. Horace was not above taking any advantages he might get.
“Go and prepare provisions for our journey, boy, and bring plenty of water skins filled from my well.” Ethan did not even bat an eye in rebellion.
When all was ready, Horace left final instructions for Elspeth regarding the farm and the hired men. When he seemed satisfied that everything was in order, Horace began down the road on his horse toward town. “Hurry along, Ethan,” he said.
“Fine time for you to start being so compliant with his wishes,” Elspeth said, her words laced with sad sarcasm.
“Would my objections have been any more successful than your own, Sister?” Ethan tried deferring to reason, hoping to avoid an argument before he left.
Instead, Elspeth simply nodded and gave Ethan a kiss on the cheek. He climbed up into Whistler’s saddle. Elspeth glanced down the road to make sure that Mr. Howinger was not looking. She lifted her skirt slightly and reached under for an item she had been hiding. Elspeth removed a double-edged short sword in a wooden scabbard and forced it into Ethan’s hands. “Here, keep this with you under your cloak.”
“Why, Sister, I’m surprised at you. How in the world did you come by this?”
“Mr. Howinger had this and many others in an old trunk in the attic. I believe he used to be a soldier at one time. Now, take this and stay safe. You know, Mr. Howinger was right about one thing.”
“Really, what was that?” Ethan asked.
“I will be sending up prayers to the Almighty for your protection every night. Please be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course, I will. How could I not be, with such a devoted sister praying for me? Try not to worry yourself.” He gave her a wink and turned Whistler around. Ethan gave the stallion a prod to the haunches. He and his horse caught up with Horace just beyond the end of the farm road. Elspeth began praying for Ethan right there on the road as she watched the dust stirring behind him.
DOOMED DELEGATION
On the way into Grandee, Ethan made sure he stayed behind Mr. Howinger. Their benefactor had made it clear over the years that he was interested in Ethan’s work ethic, not his conversation.
As promised, a compliment of men waited for Mr. Howinger when he arrived at the Council Building. There were ten, saddled and ready to go. Even Tom Grandee had turned out for their departure with the other young men on the council who were not going on this dangerous journey. Tom’s lips held an unfeigned smile. Ethan knew a delegation, of any sort, would never convince a warlord like Mordred of anything. Ill tidings of the expedition would return to Grandee before Mr. Howinger’s delegation ever did.
Horace surveyed the crew lent to him for this expedition. All of the men were in their thirties and forties—men whose absence might benefit Tom Grandee in some way. That fact made it clear—Grandee did not expect them to return, at least not anytime soon.
Horace felt a small comfort, knowing all of the men going with him were experts with arms. One of the men drove a two-horse team with a wagon loaded to the hilt with muskets, powder, shot, swords, food, and water provisions. All of the men hunted and, with good game lands along their route to Emmanuel, they would at least eat well.
Tom Grandee acted as if he was about to begin a farewell speech, but Horace simply turned his horse and started out of town. He had no stomach for it. The men all looked at one another and then at Tom. He was smiling, though more smugly now.
When Ethan followed Horace, the other men in their party decided to skip the speech as well and marched after them. Their pace quickened to a trot as they left the borders of Grandee behind them. The Howinger road extended far out in front of them—a dusty, brown ribbon winding through the sparse trees, eventually extending over and beyond the rise of hills in the distance. Tom Grandee’s family had gotten the town for their namesake, while Horace’s family had the road. The irony was not lost on Horace as he rode toward unknown dangers while Tom Grandee remained safely at home.
Horace began to slow his pace a little by midday. The group came into a large clearing where the trees fanned out in a semi-circular ring approximately two hundred yards in diameter. The ground flattened with short golden grass everywhere be
yond the road. In the distance, hills stood covered in the same grass and sparsely dotted with trees.
“Aye, Ethan, how’d you end up on this little jaunt?” one of the men asked.
Ethan looked back and then threw his eyes forward to indicate Horace riding ahead of them.
The man mouthed, Ah, and nodded. “How’s your sister then, lad?”
“She’s well, but I miss her already.”
Horace stopped. The other men stopped their animals as well. Following Horace’s line of sight, they saw what had stopped him. A rider with billowing black robes galloped toward them from the trees ahead. The wind had the garment roiling around him like a pitch-black fire. He rode quickly—a lone knight on the charge.
The men pulled their weapons, ready for anything. “It’s a Wraith Rider,” one of the men said in a hushed tone. Ethan had heard tales of these warriors who served under Mordred. The stories claimed the Wraith Riders had never been defeated in battle. Most of their opponents simply ran.
Ethan slipped his hand under his cloak and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the short sword Elspeth had given him. He had never fought in a battle before. Now, the feelings of glory he had conjured in his mind, of serving in the militia against Mordred, fled as the dreaded rider approached their company.
Everyone remained tense but still. Provoking this rider was the worst thing they could do. When the Wraith Rider came within fifty yards, he came to an abrupt stop, sending up a cloud of dust around him and his horse. When the dust began to clear, Ethan got his first good look at the warrior. In addition to his midnight-black robes, the man wore a crimson half-face mask which left his mouth and jaw exposed. The hood of his cloak was up. He wore a pair of leather gauntlets covered with steel spikes across the backs of the hands.
Ethan surmised, by the rider’s appearance, the stories were probably true and their reputation well deserved. The rider did not speak. With his robes draped over his black horse, the two almost appeared to be one creature.