James Somers: The Order of Shaddai

A thunderstorm threatened the city of Emmanuel for the better part of the day, but it never materialized on the ground. A little thunder and a bit of lightning and then it moved on. The possibility of not getting to hear more of the Old Storyteller’s tale, concerning Ethan, would have been nearly unbearable for the children after the portion to which we had already been privy.

All of us, present the day before, had gathered again at the King’s Fountain, waiting. Everyone looked in different directions for the old man. Many grumbled that he should have been here by now. And we murmured amongst ourselves as to what direction he should come from, since it was the noon hour already.

Almost no one actually watched the place at the fountain’s edge where he had been sitting the day before. I happened to turn back, hoping to spot the man among the market-goers when, out of the corner of my eye, there he was.

The Old Storyteller sat, grinning at me while my jaw dropped-astonished by his appearance as though from the very air itself. He clapped his large hands together. “Well, children, are we ready to begin?”

All eyes were immediately drawn to his voice. There were more children today than the day before. The word had spread quickly, and at least fifteen more children had been added to our eager numbers. Surprisingly, no one asked the question. But everyone was thinking the same thing: how did he get there without us noticing?

Realizing he had our undivided attention, the old man began almost immediately. The idol god, Dyfore, towered ten feet above the storyteller, in the King’s fountain, but no one paid any attention to the golden statue. All eyes fixed upon the white, bushy beard, scarlet robes, and twinkling, kind eyes. The Old Storyteller placed his large, rough hands on his knees, leaned forward, and began to speak yet again of Shaddai’s Deliverer from so many years before.

Many weapons might be used to defeat a man in battle, but one of the most effective had to be discouragement. At three weeks into their journey, Ethan remained sullen. Gideon had tried to be encouraging about their situation. But Ethan could not see past the defeat they had suffered. King Stephen had dragged his army back to Wayland, and Mordred still lived. The Deliverer had failed.

Ethan walked down a stone corridor. Torches, mounted every twenty feet on the wall, cast a pale orange light over everything. A set of large, wooden doors stood at the end of the hallway. Ethan felt drawn to it. As he cautiously approached, the doors began to part.

Ethan walked into the sunlit room beyond. He found himself back in the throne room of Mordred, in the white palace in Emmanuel City. A party was in progress. Lively music filled the room as revelers danced and mingled in the throne room of Mordred, current Lord of the House of Nod.

Ethan watched as skeletal hands fastened to golden goblets and pieces of mutton. Faces without skin, muscle, or sinew tore at the meat, laughed, and drank wine. All of it spilled down through their garments and over their laps. Eyeless sockets gazed round to find their equally horrid companions across the buffet tables, and friendly waves were exchanged. Party gowns hung upon white bone while other patrons clattered and clanked, covered in rusty suits of armor.

To Ethan’s surprise, he was not afraid of these ghastly specters. Rather, he pitied their condition. Such is man apart from Shaddai. Though he may move and have his being, there is no life, he thought.

The music suddenly changed. Trumpets sounded, heralding the arrival of someone important to the feast. Ethan turned to see whom the dead waited for. From a door behind the throne, Mordred entered the room. Ethan had never laid eyes on the man, to his knowledge, but still he knew him.

Mordred was quite handsome to look upon-his features chiseled and roguish. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and he walked with a haughty demeanor. He wore highly polished armor and a breastplate embellished with ebony.

Ethan appeared in his own liquid, silver armor-its mercury form fitted precisely to his lithe body. His sword hung suspended in the air at his side. Ethan drew the weapon into his hand, preparing to charge the dark lord. He felt confidence fill him.

Mordred had fled before when he, Gideon, and Captain Bonifast had stormed the palace throne room through the drain tunnel. He may have been larger than Ethan, but the prophecy stated Mordred would fall to him.

Ethan held his sword aloft and charged toward the warlord. Mordred did not even regard his attacker. He was too busy waving and gesturing to the crowd of skeletons making obeisance to him.

Ethan did not care if he noticed him or not. He intended to end this war right now. When he got within spitting distance of the dark lord, Mordred jerked backward, and a demon of immense power sprang out of the man. Ethan almost fell over his own feet as he skidded to a halt. He had seen this demon before-the wild raven hair, the piercing eyes with wide pupils ringed by stark, yellow irises. It was the demon who called himself Jericho-the same who had inflicted Ethan’s painful wounds.

Jericho leaped right out of Mordred toward Ethan with a broadsword of his own. He bared his teeth at the boy, and their swords clashed as the demon fell into him full force. Ethan staggered backwards from the mighty blow. Fear flooded his heart like a river bursting through a dam. He remembered his defeat at Jericho’s hands before. His wounds had ached to him every night since, reminding him of his failure.

Jericho instantly had the advantage and began to drive Ethan back. The demon batted Ethan’s sword away with every powerful blow. The crowd of bones began to part as their duel surged from one end of the throne room to the other. Ethan felt his arms begin to ache with fatigue.

A massive stained glass pane filtered multicolored light into the room, warming Ethan’s back. Then Jericho did something unexpected. He stood still, allowing Ethan to back away more. The demon raised his hand, almost as though he would wave at his opponent. Then Ethan’s sword obeyed an unvoiced command from his enemy and flew out of his hand to Jericho.

Ethan stood defenseless. Jericho launched his weapon at the Deliverer as he had in their battle before. Ethan couldn’t think. There was no time. The broadsword struck him in the chest just as it had before. Pain coursed through his body as the spiritual armor deflected the weapon but not the wound.

The explosive power of the strike sent Ethan’s body into the air and through the stained glass window behind him. He fell, his body turning and twisting in the air. Colors swirled in his vision, but he could not plant his eyes on anything distinguishable.

Ethan landed in a small clearing among a dense forest of huge trees. He had expected to die or at least to break every bone in his body. However, apart from the pain from Jericho’s attack, he felt nothing. Before him, any sign of the palace’s existence had disappeared.

A low, rumbling vibration traveled through the ground where he lay trying to get up. An intermittent, steady pulse throbbed through the ground, growing louder. Ethan heard the sound of wood twisting and snapping under duress. Then everything became silent-deathly silent. There did not sound so much as the chirping of a bird.