The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

“There,” said Liam. The moaning wind ruffled through his greasy gray hair and unkempt beard. “There. The pass to the Crimson Plain.”

  Arran adjusted his sword belt and stared at the bleak mountains. A gash opened in the jagged peaks ahead, a narrow pass that twisted and turned its way to the Crimson Plain. The dim light of the overcast sky filled the pass with dark shadows. “A perfect place for an ambush.”

  “We have not come this far to die only a two score miles from our goal,” said Sir Liam. “We will make it.”

  He set off along the rocky ground. The King hung sleeping from his back. The boy had gotten bigger, despite the poor food.

  Of course, it had been almost a year since they had left Carlisan behind.

  “Come!” said Sir Liam. “We will make it!”

  Arran nodded, but remained silent.

  The two Knights picked their way over the rock-strewn foothills. There had been no roads for the last hundred miles. Arran still felt naked without his heavy plate armor. They had discarded it three months back in favor of greater speed. Besides, the armor had done nothing to block the bullets of the black-uniformed soldiers Marugon had sent in pursuit. One by one, the Knights had fallen, torn and ripped by gunfire, until only Arran and Sir Liam remained to take the King to Earth.

  Arran took a deep breath. The horses had died, and his legs ached from the long journey. The scars he had taken pained him, and his stomach cramped with hunger. And his heart felt like a mass of cold lead inside his chest. He had seen too much carnage.

  Arran put his hand on a boulder and paused for a moment to steady himself.

  “Sir Arran?” Liam glanced back. The old man had thinned in the last year, had become tougher and harder. Yet his eyes still burned with their fire.

  “Just…tired,” said Arran.

  “I know,” said Liam. “But we must keep going.”

  Arran started walking again. “If…

  The crack of gunfire reverberated in the cold air.

  Arran spun, his Sacred Blade whistling into his hand. Liam went into a crouch, his back to a large rock to shield the King from harm.

  A black-uniformed soldier leapt out of a low gully, Kalashnikov leveled Arran’s way. Arran feinted to the right as bullets ripped into the earth. He spun and slashed his Sacred Blade across the man’s eyes. The gunman screeched and dropped his weapon. Arran pivoted and took off the gunman’s head in a spray of blood.

  “Surrender!”

  Arran whirled, seeking new foes. Five gunmen stood atop the nearby boulders and hills, their weapons leveled at Sir Liam. One more stood with his weapon aimed at Arran.

  “Well, my good Knights,” said one of the soldiers, a man with a scar across his forehead. “You’ve led my hunters on quite a merry chase across these empty lands. But it ends here. Lord Marugon wants the boy. Hand him over, and we shall spare your lives.”

  Liam barked a laugh. “To you, Rembiar? You betrayed Alastarius to his death. I swore I would kill you if I ever had the chance. Why should we trust you?”

  Rembiar chuckled. “It’s not as if you have a choice.”

  Arran looked around in despair. There was no way they could break free of the ring of gunmen.

  “There’s always a choice,” said Liam.

  “Quite right, old man,” said Rembiar. He grinned. “Hand over the boy or die. That’s your choice.”

  “No,” said Sir Liam. “I choose to die as I lived, with honor.”

  Arran swallowed. It had all been for nothing. Luthar’s death, the long flight, the battles and the deaths of the Knights. It had all been for nothing. He wanted to fall on his sword. He shuddered in pain and looked at the ground.

  The fallen Kalashnikov of the soldier he had killed gleamed in the dim light.

  “You know,” said Rembiar, “I had always wanted to see the spectacle of Sir Liam Mastere in battle. A pity I’ll never get the chance. Men! Put this old wretch out of his misery.”

  “Master!” said one of the soldiers. “Lord Marugon himself commanded us to bring the brat back alive. We cannot hit the Knight without killing the child.”

  Arran stared at the dropped gun. His heart pounded in his chest.

  Rembiar shrugged. “Pity. Besides, our Lord would prefer the child dead, if it came down to it. Shoot him.” They adjusted their weapons, and the soldier watching Arran shifted his gaze to Liam.

  Arran moved.

  He dropped his Sacred Blade, ducked, and seized the dropped Kalashnikov. It felt cold and heavy in his hand.

  He squeezed the trigger. The nearest gunman’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brains. Rembiar and his gunmen spun, shock on their faces. Sir Liam’s face went gray. Arran sidestepped and blasted another of the gunmen.

  “Shoot him!” screamed Rembiar, opening fire. The other gunmen followed suit. Bullets whined and skipped off the ground. Arran dropped to one knee and shot another gunman. Bullets screamed past him, and he tucked his shoulder and rolled. Arran came out of his roll and fired, spraying the weapon back and forth. Two more gunmen fell, and Arran found himself in Rembiar’s sights.

  The bore of his Kalashnikov seemed like a tunnel into the next life.

  Rembiar’s face twisted with rage. “You trickster bastard…”

  The tips of Sir Liam’s Sacred Blades exploded from Rembiar’s chest.

  “Fitting,” said Liam. He kicked Rembiar’s carcass off his blades. “A traitor stabbed in the back.” His gaze snapped to Arran. “And as for you.”

  Liam stalked forward, Sacred Blades shimmering. Arran backed away. “Stop! What are you doing?”

  “You’ve become like them,” said Liam, his face a mask.

  “But we would have died!” said Arran. “He would have killed us all!”

  “With the hell-forged machine you now hold in your hands!” said Liam. “Damnation, Arran, I had thought better of you…”

  Arran pointed the gun at Sir Liam. The old Knight froze. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “It would have all been for nothing,” said Arran. His eyes began to water. “Everything. The destruction of Carlisan, Anna’s death, all the Knights, my…my brother, it would have all been for nothing.”

  “The cost is too high,” said Liam. “Your heart and soul have corrupted, if you’re willing to use a gun.”

  “We have to keep going,” said Arran. “There might be more soldiers…”

  “No!” said Liam. “I’ll not travel with one who has taken up one of the guns.”

  “Then go!” said Arran, his voice cracking. He waved the gun at the pass. “Go and take the King to safety. Leave me here to be damned. Take him someplace to be safe, and then bring him back to tear out Marugon’s heart.”

  Sir Liam Mastere’s face worked through a dozen expressions. Then he nodded and snapped his swords into their scabbards. He turned and marched away, the young King on his back. Arran watched them go until they were no more than a distant speck against the mountains.

  He fell to his knees and started to weep. He leaned on the Kalashnikov, his Kalashnikov, to keep from falling. He reached over and pulled his Sacred Blade back into its scabbard. He would not die with his sword lying forgotten in the dirt. Arran propped the butt of the gun against the ground, leaned his forehead against the barrel, and reached down for the trigger.

  He held that pose for hours.

  He hated these machines, even more than he hated Marugon. The guns had destroyed his world, destroyed the White Council and the Order of the Sacred Blade, and now they would destroy his soul and his body.

  And then something inside him hardened.

  Arran’s eyes snapped open. He lurched to his feet, his muscles aching.

  “I swear this!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the mountains. “I may have damned myself, but I swear this, that I shall never fall before a gun!”

  He had suffered too much to die now. He would not kill himself with the gun.

  But there were others.

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