James Somers - The Realm Shift

“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.

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 beyond 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.

“My lord,” Horace said, “may we assist you in some way?”

The Wraith Rider said nothing. Even his horse stood deathly still.

Horace looked at his men behind him. Ethan noticed Horace’s fearful expression. This was the first time he had ever seen the man afraid. He liked seeing him unnerved. Still, Horace was the leader of this expedition, and they were depending on him to know how to handle this without getting them all killed.