great pains to force Thomas to demand more gold than five men could earn in five years. Enough to provision a small army.
Thomas shivered. Not because of the cold.
How had he known Thomas was not a specter but an impostor on stilts? How had the old man known what Thomas wanted? And howhad the old man deceived them all with a trick of such proportion that it appeared the sun had run from the sky?
The question that burned hottest—Thomas wanted to pound the earth with his fists in frustration—was one simple word. Why?
If this unknown old man had such power, why the actions of the morning? He could have revealed Thomas as an impostor, yet he had toyed with him, then disappeared. Why would—
Thomas sat bolt upright.
For how long had the old man disappeared? Would he suddenly appear to recapture the gold?
Then came another question. Not why— Who?
In her dying words, Sarah had given Thomas his quest. But she also left him with a puzzle that haunted him every day.
“My prayer was to watch you grow into a man and become one of us, one of the Immortals.”
Who were the Immortals? How did Sarah belong to them? How was he to become one of them and why?
And now it occurred to Thomas.
Did the old man have the answer to those questions?
With that final thought to taunt him, Thomas discovered that time could move slowly. Very slowly indeed.
“I’ll not rest until this gold has been safely borne away by the specter.”
The voice reached Thomas clearly in the cold night air. By reflex, he put his hand on the bundles. Reassured by their touch, he listened hard.
“Fool!” a harsh voice replied. “The sheriff has promised a third of this gold to the man who brings down the specter. I, for one, have sharpened my long sword.”
“I’m no fool,” the first voice replied with a definite tremble. “I was there when the sky turned black. The ghostly specter is welcome to his ransom. I only pray we never see him again.”
“Shut your jaws!” commanded a third voice. “This is a military operation. Not a gathering of old wives.”
After that, only the drumming of heavy feet.
Thomas counted eight men in the flitting moonlight. Eight men!
Was he a village idiot to think he might overcome eight well-trained sheriff’s men? And if he did succeed at midnight, what might he face next?
Again, Thomas regretted that he could not pray.
Instead, he silently sang lines from a chant that had so often comforted him in his childhood. A chant Sarah had taught him. She’d shown him how to read and write and how to calculate numbers. She’d taught him herbal medicines. History. Geography. Enough so that when she died just after his tenth birthday, he was able to continue to teach himself. But of all the legacy she’d given him, it was the chant that held the most value to him. His destiny.
Delivered on the wings of an angel,
he shall free us from oppression.
Delivered on the wings of an angel,
he shall free us from oppression.
As the clouds came and went, the mute-and-deaf girl watched from the opposite side of the gallows, intent on the well-armed men setting themselves in a rough circle around it.
She had the power to destroy these men, inflicting death upon them with a weapon none had seen before and would not understand until the last had fallen.
She had a narrow, long tube beside her and a bundle of small darts, a weapon and ammunition easily hidden beneath her clothing. It was a combination that she’d been trained to use with great effectiveness. The tips of the darts were protected by hard wax, for even a tiny scratch would result in immediate convulsions of agony and a slow, shuddering death; she’d seen the poison work on a healthy, full-grown pig. She hoped she wouldn’t need to use the weapon, for that risked revealing too much of why she’d been placed on the gallows. Still, she’d been given her orders. Thomas needed to be protected.
The bells for matins began to ring. Midnight.
The promised phantom
Thomas shivered. Not because of the cold.
How had he known Thomas was not a specter but an impostor on stilts? How had the old man known what Thomas wanted? And howhad the old man deceived them all with a trick of such proportion that it appeared the sun had run from the sky?
The question that burned hottest—Thomas wanted to pound the earth with his fists in frustration—was one simple word. Why?
If this unknown old man had such power, why the actions of the morning? He could have revealed Thomas as an impostor, yet he had toyed with him, then disappeared. Why would—
Thomas sat bolt upright.
For how long had the old man disappeared? Would he suddenly appear to recapture the gold?
Then came another question. Not why— Who?
In her dying words, Sarah had given Thomas his quest. But she also left him with a puzzle that haunted him every day.
“My prayer was to watch you grow into a man and become one of us, one of the Immortals.”
Who were the Immortals? How did Sarah belong to them? How was he to become one of them and why?
And now it occurred to Thomas.
Did the old man have the answer to those questions?
With that final thought to taunt him, Thomas discovered that time could move slowly. Very slowly indeed.
“I’ll not rest until this gold has been safely borne away by the specter.”
The voice reached Thomas clearly in the cold night air. By reflex, he put his hand on the bundles. Reassured by their touch, he listened hard.
“Fool!” a harsh voice replied. “The sheriff has promised a third of this gold to the man who brings down the specter. I, for one, have sharpened my long sword.”
“I’m no fool,” the first voice replied with a definite tremble. “I was there when the sky turned black. The ghostly specter is welcome to his ransom. I only pray we never see him again.”
“Shut your jaws!” commanded a third voice. “This is a military operation. Not a gathering of old wives.”
After that, only the drumming of heavy feet.
Thomas counted eight men in the flitting moonlight. Eight men!
Was he a village idiot to think he might overcome eight well-trained sheriff’s men? And if he did succeed at midnight, what might he face next?
Again, Thomas regretted that he could not pray.
Instead, he silently sang lines from a chant that had so often comforted him in his childhood. A chant Sarah had taught him. She’d shown him how to read and write and how to calculate numbers. She’d taught him herbal medicines. History. Geography. Enough so that when she died just after his tenth birthday, he was able to continue to teach himself. But of all the legacy she’d given him, it was the chant that held the most value to him. His destiny.
Delivered on the wings of an angel,
he shall free us from oppression.
Delivered on the wings of an angel,
he shall free us from oppression.
As the clouds came and went, the mute-and-deaf girl watched from the opposite side of the gallows, intent on the well-armed men setting themselves in a rough circle around it.
She had the power to destroy these men, inflicting death upon them with a weapon none had seen before and would not understand until the last had fallen.
She had a narrow, long tube beside her and a bundle of small darts, a weapon and ammunition easily hidden beneath her clothing. It was a combination that she’d been trained to use with great effectiveness. The tips of the darts were protected by hard wax, for even a tiny scratch would result in immediate convulsions of agony and a slow, shuddering death; she’d seen the poison work on a healthy, full-grown pig. She hoped she wouldn’t need to use the weapon, for that risked revealing too much of why she’d been placed on the gallows. Still, she’d been given her orders. Thomas needed to be protected.
The bells for matins began to ring. Midnight.
The promised phantom
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