The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

Mists swirled over the road.

  Liam peered into the gloom, moisture condensing against his armor in the chill air. He had been riding for a day and a half. Heavy swamplands stood on either side of the muddy road, stretching as far as his eye could see. Huge, twisted trees stood in the murky water, their roots gnarled and thick. The buzzing of a thousand insects filled Liam’s ears.

  He patted his horse’s trembling flank. “A bit more.” Liam looked back and forth. The road ended in a heap of slimed rocks. Beyond that he saw nothing but endless swamp.

  “Damnation.” Liam pulled off a gauntlet and rubbed a tired hand over his face. “We’re lost.”

  He had hoped to cut through the expanse of the Old Mire, shaving a day off the ride. Castle Bastion stood astride the main road through the Old Mire, guarding a five-mile stretch of highland that rose from the quagmire. Anyone traveling from the Border Woods of Narramore to Castle Bastion would have to circumvent the Old Mire and travel south. Marugon would have to take that way, if he planned to take Castle Bastion. Liam had hoped to cut through the Old Mire and reach the castle at a day before the last of the Warlocks.

  Instead, he was lost.

  “Rest a bit,” Liam told his horse, sliding from the saddle. The weight of his armor bore down on him. He stumbled and only just kept from falling into the water. “See? I am tired as well.”

  He stalked to the pile of rocks and looked over the swamp. He saw small, grassy islands standing in the water, amidst the towering trees, but no path. He grimaced and kicked a stone into the water.

  It landed with a wet plop.

  “Hold, outlander.” The rough voice had a strange accent.

  Liam froze. His hand crept towards his swords.

  “Move an inch and we’ll feather you.”

  “I’ve no quarrel with you, whoever you are,” said Liam. They had said “feather”. They had arrows, not guns. “I merely wish to pass through the Old Mire.”

  “Well.” There was a pause. “Sir Liam Mastere. Old Two Swords himself. Who would have thought?”

  “Might I ask who you are?” said Liam. “Or am I to stand here and converse with stones?”

  The voice laughed. “Very well. Turn about.” Liam whirled, dropped into a crouch, and drew his Sacred Blades…

  He blinked. A dozen rough-looking men in ragged furs stood on the road and perched in the branches of the surrounding trees. Blue war paint marked their faces, and every man held a short bow and a quiver of arrows. A man about Liam’s age, with silvery hair and a wolfskin cloak, stood besides Liam’s horse, a short bow drawn in his hands.

  Liam blinked. “Targath?”

  Targath’s leathery, blue-painted face creased into a grin. “So you do remember, man of Carlisan.” He waved his hand, and the other men lowered their bows. “I heard your horse blundering along, and I wondered what kind of fool would take a horse into the swamp.”

  “How did you get here?” said Liam. He slid his Sacred Blades back into their scabbards. “Your tribe was on the edge of the Wastes, five hundred miles north of here, last I saw you.”

  “That was five years ago,” said Targath. “After the great victory over the Black Council. The winged demons had fled into the Wastes, the Warlocks were slain, and Marugon himself had fled for the Crimson Plain and the Tower.” His dark eyes flashed. “Much can change in five years, man of Carlisan. Much can change for the worse.”

  Liam saw more men behind Targath, and women and children and animals as well. “Your tribe has moved to the Old Mire?”

  Targath nodded.

  “Why?” Liam frowned. “For two thousand people to come…”

  Targath grimaced and unstrung his bow. “We were two thousand. Now only four hundred.”

  “Gods. What happened?”

  Targath’s eyes blazed. “Marugon. He came back from the Tower with the guns, green fruits that explode, and liquid fire. The tribes gathered to fight him on the edge of the Wastes. He had a hundred men. We had ten thousand fighting men, all warriors skilled with bow and spear.” Targath shook his head. “It…was a slaughter. I have never seen such horror. They had guns that spat a hundred bullets in a second. His men cut us down like a reaper cutting wheat. Barely a thousand men escaped from the ruin.”

  “Why would Marugon attack you?” said Liam. “The tribes were no threat to him. His enemies, the Knights and the Wizards, are south in the High Kingdoms.”

  Targath’s lips twisted. “The last of the Warlocks did not come to wage a war on us. He came for revenge. He came to annihilate. We were long a thorn in the Black Council’s side, and we fought alongside the Knights and Wizards to overthrow the Black Council. Marugon did not come to conquer. He came to destroy.”

  “How did you wind up here?” said Liam.

  Targath sighed. “We fled the battle once we saw there was no hope against the power of the guns. We came here to take refuge in the Mire.”

  Liam shook his head. “This is no place for women and children. Come south to Carlisan. I will prevail upon the King to provide you with lands.”

  Targath shook his head. “No. We will not beg.” He waved his arm over the expanse of the Old Mire. “This land is not so different from the bogs near the Wastes. It is a hard land, but we are a hard people.”

  “I hope you are right, my friend,” said Liam.

  “Marugon comes for the High Kingdoms now,” said Targath. “How goes the war?”

  Liam grimaced. “Badly. Narramore has fallen.”

  Targath’s breath hissed through his stained teeth. “That is ill. Marugon will do to Narramore what he did to us.”

  “The war is not yet over,” said Liam. “Six of the High Kingdoms yet stand, as does the White Council and the Order of the Sacred Blade. The hosts of the High Kingdoms march, and the White Council has gathered for war. We will strike back at Marugon, and drive him back into the Wastes.”

  “Your hopes cheer me,” said Targath, “but I fear they are empty. You have seen the power of the guns. I can see that in your eyes.” Liam nodded. “I do not think the Wizards and the Knights will prevail against Marugon.”

  Liam scowled. “Would you have us surrender, then?”

  “No. For Marugon desires not surrender, but destruction,” said Targath. He shook his head, strands of silver hair brushing his blue-painted face. “I think Marugon will do to the High Kingdoms what he did to the tribes. He wishes to destroy them. And with the guns and bombs and liquid fire, he can do it.”

  “Come with me,” said Liam. “There is yet hope. Your warriors can do much against Marugon’s rabble…”

  Targath laughed, his voice bitter. “Did you not listen to all that I said, Sir Liam? We are defeated. Most of our tribe lies dead, their bodies shredded by bullets. There is nothing left for us in this war. We came to the Old Mire as a last resort. Marugon’s wrath will destroy the world. We shall stay here, and hope Marugon’s fury passes us by, for we cannot stand against it.”

  “That is despair,” said Liam.

  “And we have despaired,” said Targath. His eyes were distant. “You will understand, once Marugon destroys Carlisan, as he will.”

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Very well,” said Liam. “I think your choice is folly, but I cannot choose for you. I ask only this of you. Show me the way out of this swamp. I must move with great haste, and have been delayed too much as it is.”

  Targath gave him a brief nod. “I will aid you, Liam Mastere, for you have always been loyal friend to the tribes. What is your errand?”

  “I came to the Border Woods to collect a force of five hundred footmen and bring them to Castle Bastion,” said Liam. He clenched a fist. “The gunmen found them first and killed them all.”

  “A grievous blow,” said Targath.

  “My companion, Sir Adrian, tried to ambush a courier,” said Liam. “He was slain, but I managed to kill the courier. I read his letters. Marugon expects Castle Bastion to fall within three days.”

  Targath loo
ked troubled, but shrugged. “Castle Bastion is a strong fortress. But Marugon’s bombs will rip down the walls, and his guns will slay the men within. Castle Bastion cannot stop him.”

  Liam gripped Targath’s arm. “The entire White Council has gathered at Castle Bastion under Alastarius himself. If he thinks Marugon can take Castle Bastion…”

  Targath’s lips thinned. “Then he has a way to kill the Wizards. The guns, of course.”

  “But how?” Liam shook his head. “The Wizards have their magic. They can protect themselves from the bullets.” Though Wizard in the meadow had been slain. Perhaps the bullets had finally overwhelmed his magic. “And their spells could sense Marugon’s gunmen coming from miles away. Marugon’s only hope is to ambush them…”

  Targath flinched. “He may have the means to do so.”

  “How?”

  “Three hours before we found you. We saw dark shapes over the Mire, flying to the west. That is why we moved the camp. We feared Marugon had found us, and sent his minions of the black magic to destroy us.” Targath rubbed his bow. “It seems he had another target in mind.”

  “Then I must get to Castle Bastion as quickly as possible,” said Liam.

  Targath grimaced. “I can lead you to the edge of the Old Mire, but no further. I dare not risk bringing Marugon’s attention to my tribe. We have suffered too much already.”

  “I understand.” Liam climbed back into the saddle. “But we must make haste! If Castle Bastion falls, if Marugon slays the Wizards…” He did not want to think of the consequences.

  Targath nodded. “We shall move with all speed. This way!”

  ***