James Somers: The Realm Shift

Horace put on his coat and boots, then stepped toward the door. He glared at Ethan and Elspeth-not an uncommon occurrence-then opened the door and went out into the yard where Ethan had tied up one of the horses for him.

Dusk approached as Howinger set off for the council meeting. Ethan watched Mr. Howinger disappear down the road, then he helped Elspeth do the dishes and clean up the house a bit. All the while, Ethan counted down the time in his head. When it was almost dark, Ethan said, “I’ve left something undone in the barn.”

Elspeth gave him a suspicious look. She sat in a rocker, mending some of Mr. Howinger’s clothes with a needle and thread. “Ethan, won’t it keep until tomorrow? It’s getting late. You should get to bed soon.”

“You wouldn’t want me to get into trouble with ole Horace now would you? If I don’t finish my work, you know he’ll rant all day tomorrow over it.”

She thought about it for just a moment and then conceded. “Oh all right, but take a lantern with you. It’s nearly dark already.”

“Thank you, sister.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek before rushing out the door with his coat and one of the lanterns in hand.

When Ethan arrived at the barn, he went straight to the brown stallion’s stall. Whistler stirred-eager to run. Ethan looked back toward the house where Elspeth was still doing housework. “I hate to mislead her, boy,” he said, petting the horse’s muscular neck. “But I didn’t lie to Elspeth. I really did have something to do in the barn.”

Whistler snorted as Ethan mounted the saddle. “Well I did,” Ethan said. “Don’t you want to go into battle? Then we can all leave Howinger’s farm together: you, me, and Elspeth.”

Whistler bobbed his head with a whinny, and Ethan patted him again. “Then let’s get going. The meeting will start without us if we don’t hurry. I don’t want to miss anything.”

Horse and rider trotted through the stalls. The other horses acknowledged them with snorts and whinnies. They came to the open barn door. Ethan watched as the last rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon. He goaded Whistler with his heels, and they sprang into the night.

Tumble-brush rolled along the ground, and clouds swept by the moon as though on parade. Ethan left Whistler tied up to a tree one hundred yards behind the council lodge. The building had better construction than most of the structures in town. Moreover, it had a large attic over the council chambers and an access door to the roof used for repair purposes.

Men, posted at the entrance, guarded the tan building, but Ethan avoided them by coming up behind the building. The branches of a sycamore tree hung over the edge of the roof at one of the rear corners. Ethan ran silently from the darkness and leaped to grab the lowest sturdy branch. In a moment, he had climbed halfway up the tree.

Ethan balanced on the overhanging limb and dropped silently onto the corner of the rooftop. He hurried to the access door and entered the attic. For some reason, no one had ever thought to lock it.

Once he was inside, Ethan moved very slowly, hoping to avoid any creaking of floorboards that might alert someone to his presence. He heard voices. The meeting had already begun. The heated debate resounded clearly in the attic.

Ethan crept over to one of the circulation vents cut into the attic floor. The attic had small fans set with gears connected to larger fans on the roof. As the wind rotated the rooftop fans, the gear moved the attic fans to pull air through the vents.

Fortunately, this spot gave Ethan an excellent view of the entire council chamber twenty feet below. When he looked through the vent-slits, into the chamber beyond, Ethan saw a tall, commanding man with bright blonde hair and a suit of silver armor dominating the discussion. He and Mr. Howinger had already locked horns in debate.

“Mordred will squeeze your towns and villages dry if you continue to hold your allegiance for him,” the man said. Two men, with the same armor, stood on either side of him. They bore the crest of King Stephen of Wayland upon their breastplates-a purple silhouette of an eagle in flight, its talons extended for an unseen prey.

“That may be,” Horace said, “but what will he do if Grandee turns against him? Your army is in Wayland with your king, Captain Silvas. If Mordred attacked, it would be at least several weeks before you could come to our aid. None of these towns, you have been making turncoats of, has enough men in their militias to fight off Mordred’s Wraith Riders. You’re going to get them all killed before you even get your king’s army inside the borders of Nod.”

“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.