The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

“Look,” said Liam.

  Arran looked up from the ancient road. The air had gotten colder as they climbed higher into the mountains, and a constant wind whistled from the looming, snow-mantled peaks. The sky looked like hammered steel. Arran grunted and shifted his pack, his rusting armor rattling. “What is it?”

  Sir Liam strode to a weathered stone resting beside the road. Worn letters had been carved on its eroded surface. “The last milestone on the Rindl road. We’re out of the High Kingdoms. If my memory serves, this road will climb into the mountains. We’re not far from the Grim Bridge.” Lithon twitched his sleep, his small hands brushing Sir Liam’s back. “It’s almost midday. We’d best stop for some food.”

  Arran turned and gave a signal to the four remaining Knights. The men grunted and sat down, digging through their packs.

  Liam knelt and pulled King Lithon from his back sling. “Another eight hundred miles, Arran. Over the Mountains of Rindl, across the Forgotten Vales, through the Broken Mountains, and then we’ll reach the Crimson Plain and the Tower.”

  Arran sat besides the old Knight and the young King. “We’ve been out of the High Kingdoms for months now.”

  Liam frowned. He pulled a strip of jerky from his pack and began tearing it to pieces for Lithon. “We only just passed the last milestone.”

  Arran stared down into the Mountains’ foothills. “There are no more High Kingdoms. Rindl is a memory, and so is Carlisan. We left the ashes of the High Kingdoms behind months and miles ago.”

  Liam began feeding the child pieces of jerky. “We will do what we must. The hardest part of our journey is over.”

  “Indeed?” said Arran. He rubbed the hilt of his brother’s Sacred Blade. “We must cross the Mountains of Rindl. Then we will journey through the Forgotten Vales with its ruins and ghosts. After that, we must survive the passage of the Broken Mountains, and then the horrors of the Crimson Plain. And if we live through all this, then we have to endure the passage of the Tower.”

  Liam took a bite of hard bread. “I see your hope hasn’t wavered.”

  “Hope?” Arran kicked at rock and watched it rattle down the path. “We have no hope.”

  Liam’s eyes flashed. “King Lithon is our hope.”

  “King Lithon is three years old,” said Arran. “Our hope messes himself several times a day.”

  Liam returned his attention to the jerky. “I had thought better of you. I did not think you would succumb to despair.”

  “Despair?” said Arran. “Honesty. Even if Alastarius’s Prophecy comes true, we won’t live to see it.”

  “I will not brook this kind of talk, Sir Arran,” said Liam.

  “Marugon will find us,” said Arran.

  Liam raised a gray eyebrow. “He will not. We have passed out of the High Kingdoms.”

  “You said yourself Marugon heard Alastarius’s Prophecy,” said Arran. “He will follow us, if he thinks the child…”

  Sir Liam’s eyes flashed like swords. “King Lithon.”

  Arran grimaced. “If he thinks King Lithon is a threat to him. He will come for us.”

  Sir Liam wiped the King’s mouth. “Undoubtedly. But we have a long head start. He will have spent time in Carlisan searching for the royal house. By the time he realized Lithon is gone, we put several hundred miles behind us. And the remainder of the High Kingdoms will occupy his attention. Especially Antarese. Antarese is vast. It will take him some time to conquer.”

  “And so here we are.” Arran leaned against a rock and stared up at the gray sky. “Wandering in these bleak mountains, while our home burns and our countrymen die.” He looked at Sir Liam and the king. “We should be fighting alongside them.”

  “To what purpose?” said Liam. “You saw what Marugon did to Carlisan. There is no hope fighting Marugon. Alastarius spoke true. Marugon will have victory for now, perhaps for a generation. But Lithon will bring Alastarius back, and they will restore the High Kingdoms.”

  “You place much faith in the last words of a dying man,” said Arran.

  Liam put Lithon down on the stony road. The child gazed at the mountains, eyes wide. Three years old, and he had not yet begun to talk. “And what else can we do? There is no hope in any other course.”

  “There is one hope,” said Arran, his voice soft.

  Sir Liam’s face darkened. “No! Do not speak of it! They are evil things, Arran.”

  “The guns could…”

  Sir Liam rose. “No!” The other Knights turned to watch, their dirty faces tired. “They will corrupt you. They are dark power, blacker than the vilest magic of Marugon. They are not meant for mortals. Do not think of them, I beg. They will destroy you.”

  Arran looked away. “Your faith is greater than mine. I see naught but ruin in our future.”

  “You are a young man yet,” said Liam. “Barely twenty and one.”

  “I feel a thousand years old,” said Arran.

  “You will understand when you grow older,” said Liam, his eyes on Lithon. “There are greater forces in the world than the power of men. And often a whisper can be greater than a thunderclap.”

  Arran leaned back against the boulder. “I try to understand your words, but they bring me no comfort.”

  They sat in silence. Arran dug through his pack and removed a strip of leathery jerky. He chewed on it for a while, watching the gray clouds billow across the sky. Liam knelt and bundled up Lithon, slinging the young King over his back.

  “I don’t like this,” said Arran.

  Liam sighed. “I believe you’ve said that before, Sir Arran.”

  Arran shook his head. “No.” He got his feet and walked to the center of the road. He looked down the slopes, past the foothills, and to the broad green expanse of Rindl’s northern forests. “We are too exposed here. We should march until we reach the mountains proper. Any watching eyes can see us from the forest or the foothills.”

  “We need rest!” said one of the other Knights, an elderly man with a long white beard. “We have covered a thousand miles. We must rest before we move on.”

  “Sir Kaelf is right,” said Sir Liam. “We should…”

  A loud growl, like a great hunting cat’s snarl, echoed over the rocks.

  Arran drew his Sacred Blade, the steel glittering in the gray light. The other Knights leapt to their feet, weapons drawn. Sir Liam’s twin Sacred Blades glowed in his hands. The cry rang out again, echoing against the hard stones.

  “What is that?” said Arran.

  “There are many strange creatures in these mountains,” said Sir Liam.

  “I would rather not meet them firsthand,” said Arran.

  “Agreed,” said Sir Liam. “Let us make haste. Once we cross the Grim Bridge, the path is nothing but hard stone. Even the most skilled hunters would have a hard time tracking us.”

  The Knights started up the road into the mountains, Liam in the lead. Arran took the rearguard, watching over his shoulder. His eyes wandered over the bleak gray stones, watching for any pursuers. He scanned the road, the boulder-strewn slopes, the foothills, the distant forest, and then the road again.

  He froze. “Sir Liam!”

  A man clad in dirty red rags shuffled up the road. He looked dead, his head shaved hairless, his skin white as chalk. A thin stream of drool dangled from his lips. His shadow, long and black, trailed behind him.

  “Halt!” said Sir Liam. The Knights turned, their Sacred Blades raised. The pale man kept coming, eyes staring at nothing. “State your name and business.”

  The man said nothing and kept walking. Some drool splattered against the stones.

  “We’ve no wish for battle,” said Sir Liam, “but you must name yourself.”

  Sir Kaelf snorted. “A hermit of the mountains. Such are common, or so I have heard. Or perhaps a wandering madman who has taken up residence here.” He lowered his blade and stepped forward. “You are a harmless peasant, are you not?”

  The man’s glassy gaze fixed on the old Knight, and a deep-throated lau
gh bursting from his lips.

  Arran’s Sacred Blade jolted, and a surge of power went up his arm. “Sir Kaelf! It’s a creature of black magic…”

  The rag-clad man’s shadow stretched and bulged, even as the man himself grinned and crumbled into smoking ash. The shadow remained on the ground, writhing and twisting.

  Sir Liam hissed. “What in the name…”

  A monster leapt from the writhing shadow. It looked like a huge black lion, horse-sized, with its mane and eyes and claws fashioned from raging flame. It leapt forward and tore Sir Kaelf’s head from its neck. The old Knight flew in pieces across the road, his blood staining the cold stone.

  Arran roared and charged the beast, his Sacred Blade flashing. The creature spun, and slashed. The black lion reeled back, the red fire of its eyes burning brighter.

  Sir Liam and the other Knights attacked, their Sacred Blades flashing with sapphire light. The beast roared and backpedaled, clawing at the air. Another Knight screamed as the beast’s claws ripped through his face. Liam spun, his swords cutting in parallel lines. The lion roared and reared back. Arran stabbed and the point of his blade sank deep into the beast’s shoulder. A flash of blue fire lanced up his blade and stabbed into the lion.

  “Stab it!” said Arran, his sword raised in guard. The dark lion roared and batted at him. His parry took off one of its claws. “Stab it! The power in our blades can harm it…”

  Liam and the remaining Knights attacked. Arran drove at the beast’s face, his sword flashing at its eyes. Liam circled to the side. Lithon stirred on his back and began to scream.

  The beast quivered, its ears rising at the sound of Lithon’s cries. Then it spun with a roar and lunged for Sir Liam, claws extended. Liam stumbled back, his blades raised in guard. Arran shouted and swung his blade in a two-handed chop. His sword sheared through the creature’s left rear leg. The lion stumbled and struck the ground. Liam jumped back, the creature’s front claws missing his legs by a half-inch.

  Liam raced past the lion, whirled, and brought both his Sacred Blades down in a sharp stab. His swords sheared into the beast’s shoulders. It shuddered and howled in agony, its maw yawning wide. Arran lunged, his blade plunging into the dark lion’s mouth.

  The beast shuddered, azure fire burning through it. It twitched, collapsed, and lay still. Liam yanked his blades free, and Arran pulled his Sacred Blade from the creature’s mouth with a grimace. Black blood covered his blade, but his sword’s glow soon burned it to stinking smoke.

  The carcass shuddered, and as Arran watched, it twisted and writhed back into the form of the rag-clad man, now marked with garish wounds.

  Arran took a step back. “What hell spawned this thing?”

  Sir Liam sheathed his Sacred Blades with a grimace. “I’ve seen such a beast before.”

  Arran looked at him. “Where?”

  “In the Wastes, during the war against the Black Council,” said Liam. “They are things of black magic, a monster from the black voids between the worlds. A Warlock can take a man and slay him with a black spell. A dark spirit then possesses the corpse.” He pointed to the mutilated body. “The dark spirit can change to its form as it wishes.”

  “A Warlock created this thing?” said Arran.

  “Perhaps it survived the war,” said Liam.

  Arran shook his head. “No. Marugon made this beast. He sent it after us.”

  “We cannot know that,” said Liam.

  “We can!” Arran pointed at the King. “It came after you when it heard the King crying. Marugon sent it after us…no, he sent it after the King.”

  Sir Liam looked down at the corpse. “Such a thing is possible. Marugon could have worked a seeking spell into the creature…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “What?” said Arran. He followed Sir Liam’s gaze and swore.

  The corpse’s wounds had begun to seal themselves shut. Arran watched as pale flesh writhed and crawled. The stab wounds Sir Liam had given the creature through the back and chest began to heal. A fresh finger grew from the bloody stump on its hand.

  “Gods,” said Arran, his voice a croak. “It’s healing itself.”

  The corpse began to lift its head. Arran yelled, drew his Sacred Blade, and severed the corpse’s head in a flash of blue flame. It bounced away down the road.

  “We killed it!” said Arran.

  “We cannot kill it,” said Sir Liam. “I told you, I have seen such beasts before. We can destroy its physical form, but we cannot drive the dark spirit back to the black voids. It will rebuild the corpse until it can walk the world once more. The only way to destroy such a monster is to drive the dark spirit back to the black voids. And only a Wizard has the power.”

  “And there are no more Wizards,” said Arran. The wounds on the corpse’s torso continued to close. “Do you mean to say we cannot kill this thing?”

  “We have not the power,” said Liam.

  “We cannot hope to fight this creature, again and again and again,” said Arran.

  Sir Liam drew one of his Sacred Blades. “We need only delay it. Cut it apart. We will scatter the pieces as we travel. With luck, it will take the creature much longer to rebuild itself. By then we will be long gone. I doubt even this thing could track us through the Tower of Endless Worlds.”

  They set to work. Arran seized an arm and flung it behind a boulder.

  “We shall take the other pieces with us, and scatter them as we climb,” said Sir Liam.

  They started up the road again. Some blood dripped from the corpse’s hacked limbs. The droplets of blood would provide a fine trail for anyone seeking to follow them.

  “We must hurry,” said Sir Liam. The arm he held began to writhe. He slapped it against the ground with a grimace. “Marugon may have sent other pursuers, as well.”

  They struggled higher into the Mountains of Rindl.

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