V
ern stared out one of the portal windows and said, “I’m not fighting them again, only to be hunted down and get my neck stretched later.” He eyeballed Abraham. “No offense. I believe the story, but will they? I doubt it.”
Abraham quickly got over the shock of Simon being gone, realizing he shouldn’t have been surprised, for the Fenix came and went as it pleased. He said to Horace, “I need a banner of negotiation.”
“Aye.” Horace hustled away.
“They’ll kill you if you go out there,” Vern said. “The Golden Riders are a death squad. They don’t accept surrender.”
“Maybe they’ll accept some reason.” Abraham looked out the portals. The Golden Riders’ steel armor was trimmed in gold. They wore great helmets fashioned like the heads of lions. The rider in the very front was very big. “Is that Pratt?”
“It’s got to be. There’s no bigger man in the Guardians than him,” Vern replied. “What are you going to do, go out there and shake his hand? He’ll kill you.” Vern took off his sword belt. He handed it to Abraham. “Take this. You’ll need it.”
Abraham put a hand out and said, “No, I’m fine.”
Horace returned to the room, holding a small flag. It had a thin orange stripe in the middle of a white field. “I’ll go with you.”
Sticks hustled over to Abraham. She was bent over slightly. “Me too.”
Together, the three of them strode out into the rain.
Abraham stopped twenty yards from the row of knights. Holding the banner, he said, “Wait here.” He moved ten yards closer to Pratt and lifted the banner high. “I want to talk.”
Pratt removed his helmet and handed it to the rider on his left. Glowering at Abraham, he said in a rugged voice, “Golden Riders don’t negotiate with traitors, escapees, or anyone else, for that matter.”
“You might not like me or Ruger Slade, but when have you known either one of us to lead you wrong?” Abraham lowered the flag. “Can you say the same about Lewis and Leodor, two men that you know tried to kill the king? King Hector took the Brand from them. They are up to their same old tricks.”
“I don’t care,” Pratt said.
“You always were looking for a fight, Pratt,” Horace said.
“No, I’m looking forward to retirement.” Pratt eyeballed the Stronghold. “This might make a suitable place.”
“You can have it,” Abraham said, “if you hear me out. And if you value your men, as I do mine, we can part ways without any blood on our hands. Listen, and if you don’t agree, I’ll come in peace. All of us will.”
“Let me guess, if I don’t, you’ll fight all of us to the death.” Pratt chuckled lowly and rubbed his lantern jaw. “Hmm… I can respect that. Spit it out.”
Sticks rattled off everything she’d told the Henchmen minutes before. She didn’t miss a single detail but added a few.
Tall in the saddle, Pratt sat in silence.
“Come on,” Abraham said. “You saw those tanks. The machine guns. That’s going to take over Titanuus if we don’t stop it. We are the only hope King Hector has.”
Pratt flexed the metal gauntlets covering his hands. He scoffed. “I hate to miss out on an opportunity to fight, but the woman’s words ring with truth. Bloody blades!” He shook his head. “What are you going to do?”
“I have to try to warn King Hector.”
“Ha, you won’t get within a mile of him,” Pratt said.
Abraham eyed the knights, grinned, and said, “Yeah, but I have an idea.”
