He stopped when he found a curious set of prints in the dirt road. The tracks he had been following led to this point. The three sets of shoe prints matched the shoes he was wearing-shoes worn by the temple priests.
He examined the area more closely. A brief scuffle had taken place here. Four feet away, a sword lay on the ground. The men he was tracking had not caused all this carnage. They were opportunists, not butchers. However, they had fought with someone here and disarmed them. There was no body. Perhaps they’ve taken a prisoner.
The other set of prints, too big to be a woman’s, made him curious. Why would they bother to take a man as a prisoner? These priests were not hostage takers. Hostages cost time and energy, especially when you’re on the run from justice. There must have been some reason why they would consider this person valuable, bothering to disarm him without killing him and then to slow themselves down by dragging him along.
The young man found where the trail continued out of town. If his assumption was correct, they were heading for Emmanuel-another curious move for them to make. He climbed onto the saddle of his patchwork horse, goading the animal forward into a quick gallop. He would have to make good time, taking a little known pass to get ahead of them. He hoped their hostage would slow them as much as he expected.
GIDEON
“Get up!” Mordecai shouted. “If you keep trying to run, then I’m just going to have to tie you up even more and throw you across the rear of my own horse. And believe me that would make for a very uncomfortable trip to Emmanuel.”
One of the other priests, Bo staff, picked Ethan up by his upper arms and pushed him bodily back up into Whistler’s saddle. Ethan had tried to goad the horse forward to break the rope binding him, or at least pull it free from Mordecai’s horse. For the second time, it had not worked.
“Why are you taking me to Emmanuel?” Ethan asked.
Mordecai pulled up close to Ethan’s horse with his own. Then he grabbed Ethan’s arm and yanked the sleeve back, placing his index finger right on top of the boy’s birthmark. “This is why I’m taking you to Emmanuel, boy,” he hissed.
Ethan looked at the birthmark, then gave Mordecai a puzzled look. “You’re taking me there because of a birthmark on my arm?”
He saw no deceit in the boy’s eyes. Mordecai stifled a laugh. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Let’s just say, this birthmark makes you the most valuable person in this kingdom. You’re worth a king’s ransom to me, once I turn you over to Mordred. So don’t try any more escape attempts. If I have to shatter your bones to keep you, then I will. It won’t make you any less valuable to me, but I think you might not enjoy the experience very much.” Mordecai grinned fiendishly. He read a new compliance in Ethan’s eyes, nodding, before turning his horse to proceed.
Mordecai only half heard the distant twang from the trees ahead. The slightest flutter of feather fletches stayed the courses of the two thin, wooden shafts cutting through the air. On pure unconscious instinct, born of his training, Mordecai slid sideways in his saddle, hiding behind the side of his horse. “Get down!” he shouted to the others.
Ethan watched the entire incident unfold-his eyes still faster than his reflexes. He saw the two shafts glide through the air. The air vibrated back to the place where the arrows had originated-air currents only his enhanced perception could discern.
The arrows found their marks, sinking with deadly accuracy straight into the breastbones of both priests traveling with Mordecai. It had been an amazing double shot fired from one bowman in tree up ahead of them on the road.
One of the priests slung backward out of his saddle to the ground. The other had been about to speak when the arrow stole his breath and his life. He slumped forward in his saddle with a look of anguish on his face.
The arrows were odd in color-plain brown, wooden shafts with crimson fletches. Only when Ethan saw the second priest slump over on his horse, did he consider the fact that he was sitting there on Whistler as an easy target for the next shot. He had no way of knowing whether this was a rescue, or some bandit intending to kill them all, to rob them of their valuables.
Mordecai hugged against his horse’s flank like a conjoined mutation. He wasn’t risking his neck for the boy. He peeked over his saddle and saw the man who had done this. The young man wore the same type of garment Mordecai and his fellow priests were wearing. Only the colors were different, a brown knee-length robe and breeches tied at the waist with a scarlet sash. The stranger was not shaven like Mordecai and his fellows. He had short black hair neatly trimmed and no facial hair. Gideon.
“What’s going on, who is that?” Ethan asked.
“Vengeance,” Mordecai whispered.
He reached for his sword, still attached to his saddle. Mordecai placed the scabbard strap over his shoulder so the blade rested on his back. Then he picked up the fallen priest’s Bo staff and began to walk toward their attacker.
When the two men met in the grassy meadow, twenty yards from where Ethan remained on the road, they stopped. Gideon tossed his bow to the ground. He carried no quiver of arrows.
“So they’ve sent the best for me, Gideon?” Mordecai said.
“Just a priest who hasn’t forgotten his vow to The Order and the Almighty,” Gideon said.
Mordecai moved quickly, whipping the grounded end of the Bo staff up toward Gideon. When its arc placed the end toward Gideon’s chest, Mordecai thrust with the end of the staff in order to jab it into his ribcage. Gideon countered just as quickly, rotating around the strike, following through with a roundhouse kick, striking Mordecai on the cheek. Gideon snapped his heel as he completed the kick, bringing it down through the middle of Mordecai’s Bo staff. It busted in half as Mordecai reeled back briefly and tried to recover.
Mordecai drew his sword before the Bo pieces hit the ground. He waited to charge, knowing the wrong move could quickly be fatal. Gideon was one of the few people whom Mordecai actually feared, though he would never admit it.
Mordecai swung and missed. Gideon dug his toe into an anthill next to his left foot. One exact flick of his ankle sent the grains of soil and angry ants into the air toward Mordecai’s face. He swiped at it by mistake. Gideon lunged. The brown robed priest got well inside of Mordecai’s line of attack. With his right fist, Gideon pummeled Mordecai’s grip on the steel weapon. With his left hand, open and stiff as a board, he smashed Mordecai directly in the throat.
The sword fell from Mordecai’s hands as he stumbled backward, falling to the ground, gasping for breath that refused to come. Gideon seized the Mordecai’s sword from the air, then slammed it through his abdomen, pinning him to the ground.
Mordecai screamed. He clutched the weapon, but he could not remove it. Within seconds, all of his strength ebbed away as he bled into the soil. He lost consciousness while death closed in like a predator.
Ethan was astonished. He had never seen such elegant precision in a warrior before. Fear crept up his spine. Would he be next? He decided to speak up and find out. At least from this distance, he might get Whistler into a run before the young man got to him.
“What are your intentions, sir?” Ethan shouted.
Gideon turned, walking toward Ethan and his mount. “That depends upon your relation to these men.”
Ethan held up his bound wrists. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“And how did you become Mordecai’s prisoner?”
“These men were looting the bodies of my people in Grandee. They were thieves,” Ethan said indignantly.