A Wizard of the White Council

by Jonathan Moeller

  Katrina nodded. “Sure. Sure…come in. The…the kids aren’t here, Lithon and Ally, I mean. They’re at school.” Simon had never seen his wife this flustered.

  He understood the feeling.

  “Very well,” said Conmager. “I have much I have to tell you, and we have much to discuss.”

  ###

  “How is it that you’re still alive?” said Simon. “We were so sure you had died in that explosion. Why haven’t you contacted us before?” Conmager seemed different. He had once been grim and solemn. Now he seemed…droll, almost, sarcastic and cynical.

  Katrina came down the stairs and settled besides him on the couch. She had taken the opportunity to change into jeans and a T-shirt. Allard stood in the corner, arms folded, trying to look imposing and failing at it. Conmager sat in the living room chair, his cane leaning against his knee.

  Conmager sighed. “It is a valid question. You must understand. After you had found Ally and Lithon, I did not think matters would become so desperate so quickly. I thought we would have ample time to escape the city before Marugon realized that Lithon had arrived on Earth.” He shook his head, his beard rubbing over his jacket. “I did not realize Marugon had sent that seeking spirit after Lithon. He must have created it soon after Carlisan’s fall. That dark spirit would hunt for Lithon over any distance, over any length of time. Once it had found Lithon, Marugon knew.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question,” said Katrina.

  Conmager almost smiled. “No, it does not. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not a complete fool. When I was waiting for Ally and Lithon to appear, I knew that things might become desperate. I might need to fake my death. Or I might need to fake Lithon’s death. So I prepared the sewer tunnel beneath the warehouse.” Simon remembered the red brick warehouse, remembered the light from the explosion glaring through the tunnel. “And I created the staff. I wove it with the most powerful spells I could manage, soaking it with the power of the white magic. When the staff was broken…”

  “Boom,” said Katrina. “How did you live through it?”

  “I did not expect to survive,” said Conmager. He rubbed the knee of his bad leg. “The winged demons shot me before I could break the staff. And I was badly injured in the van crash.” His fingers clutched the handle of his cane. “But I had woven one more spell into the staff, a spell I hoped would take effect when the staff shattered. It was a spell I had never tried before, a spell of transportation…”

  Something clicked in Simon’s mind. “Of course. A spell to whisk you away from the explosion. It worked, didn’t it?”

  Conmager nodded. “I am sitting here before you, am I not?”

  “Where did the spell take you?” said Katrina.

  “I had anticipated serious injury,” said Conmager, “in the unlikely event that I lived. So I prepared the spell to drop me before the front doors of the university hospital of UCLA in Los Angeles.”

  Simon remembered the blood that had soaked Conmager’s shirt, the gash on his jaw. A scar still marked the spot. “Good choice.”

  “Some of the explosion had caught me nonetheless,” said Conmager. “I had two bullets in my leg, burns, broken ribs, a bruised liver, a punctured lung, countless cuts and puncture wounds…I can’t even remember what else. Fortunately, the doctors found me quickly. I spent the next two months in a coma. Apparently I had fifteen surgeries in that time. When I awoke, I was questioned by a small army of police officers.” He laughed. “No one could figure out how a man in my condition had arrived at the hospital, seemingly out of nowhere, when no gunfights, explosions, fires, or anything of that nature had been reported anywhere within a hundred mile radius. I feigned amnesia rather convincingly, and the police gave up.” He grimaced. “Then the started the physical therapy. And the pills. I must have been taking a hundred pills a day. But it worked. I have never seen anything that rivals the skill of this world’s physicians. And the white magic helped, as well. I know some minor spells of healing, and whispered them over myself whenever my strength permitted. After six months, I could walk again,” he rubbed his knee, “somewhat, and could more or less function. So I went on my way.”

  “How did you pay for all of this?” said Simon. “I doubt you have health insurance.”

  “I don’t,” said Conmager. “But I used to be a highwayman. I am rather skilled at…soliciting funding, when necessary.”

  “He is,” said Allard. “That man could swindle anyone.”

  Conmager snorted. “I am grateful for what the doctors did. I left funds to pay for my care, and an additional five million dollars. I believe they used it to add a wing to the hospital.”

  “Why didn’t you come back?” said Katrina. “You could have told us you were alive.”

  Conmager hesitated. “It didn’t seem wise. I did come back to Chicago, intending to contact you. But by then you had moved into this new house. You had both Lithon and Ally in grade school.”

  Simon blinked. “I remember that. Ally learned to read in a week. I was amazed.”

  “You had gone on with your lives,” said Conmager. “I saw no reason to disrupt that. Marugon thought Ally and Lithon were dead, and you would give them a safe and peaceful childhood, something they dearly deserved after all they had suffered.” A cloud came over his face. “It is something they need, given what they will one day face. So I decided to prepare. I raised funds. I prepared safe houses. I developed weapons, mixing technology and the white magic.”

  Allard let out a low whistle. “And did he ever. Jesus, Professor, you should see some of the stuff we’ve got. These big black spears, you flip a switch…” Conmager gave him a look, and Allard stammered to a silence. “Well, go on.”

  “Why did you choose now to come back?” said Simon.

  “It’s because Wycliffe’s about to win the election, isn’t it?” said Katrina.

  “That is part of it,” said Conmager, “but only a small part.” He leaned forward, his face grim. “Marugon is looking for Ally.”

  The words hit Simon like a slap. “What?” His stomach knotted with dread. “That can’t be. He thinks she’s dead.”

  “Not so, Professor,” said Allard. “He’s looking for her, all right.”

  “Allard, surprisingly enough, is right,” said Conmager. “I don’t think Marugon even knew about Ally at first. But he’s seen her, recently. He would have sensed the…power within her, the white magic.”

  “She has magic?” said Simon.

  “Of some sort, though I know not what,” said Conmager. “But listen to me, Simon. Marugon killed all the Knights and all the Wizards. He killed anyone who could ever threaten him. For him to discover Ally here, on this world…”

  Katrina nodded. “He would consider her a threat, and do anything he could to find her.”

  “And so he is,” said Conmager. “You’ve heard of a company called Stanford Matthews Tobacco?”

  Allard sighed and looked at the floor.

  “I…think so,” said Simon. “Some new cigarette corporation. I read that Wycliffe has a controlling share in the company. That’s why I remember it. Supposed to start production next year.”

  “The company is a sham,” said Conmager. “The cigarettes are tainted with a poison of the black magic. The poison can transform a man into a hideous changeling, a creature of the black magic, impervious to bullets and most weapons.” He jerked his head at Allard. “This is how I met my young friend. He had been duped into distributing free samples of the cigarettes. When he found out the truth, he ran, and I found him.” Allard looked ill with guilt, and Simon felt a twinge of sympathy for the man, remembering his own days working for Wycliffe. “Marugon has sent these changelings to seek out Ally, using his black magic to fill them with a terrible compulsion. They seek her like a starving wolf hunting for meat.”

  Simon felt ill himself. “Why haven’t they found her yet?”

  “I have been fighting Marugon’s efforts,” said Conmager. “I have used what white mag
ic I have to baffle the compulsions on the changelings, to make them forget about Ally. Allard has deleted records.”

  Katrina snapped her fingers. “I remember! Ally was complaining that the registrar couldn’t find her records. That’s why. You deleted them.”

  “We’ve destroyed many of Lithon’s records as well,” said Conmager. “I have protected your children to the best of my limited ability. But I cannot continue this forever. Marugon will find her, sooner or later, and when he does, there is a very good chance he will find Lithon as well.” He leaned forward, grasping his cane. “Can you imagine his fury when he does? Alastarius Prophesied that Lithon would defeat Marugon, and Marugon has believed Lithon dead for ten years. And yet for all these years, his greatest enemy has been hidden in Chicago, along with a young woman who may have the white magic. The minute he learns of them, Marugon will do everything in his power to kill them. He will unleash the changelings, hundreds of them, arm the winged demons with every gun and bomb in Wycliffe’s warehouse. If he has to burn Chicago to the ground to ensure the children do not become a threat to him, he will do it.”

  Simon swallowed. “So what are we going to do?”

  Katrina stiffened. “The same thing we would have done the first time. We have to run.”

  “Where?” said Simon.

  “I have safe houses set up in remote regions of the country,” said Conmager. “We can go there, wait for Lithon and Ally to mature.” His eyes grew distant. “Then we must travel through the Tower of Endless Worlds to my world. For it is there, I think, that Lithon must face Marugon.”

  “You said you had…new weapons,” said Simon, groping for some strand of hope. “Can’t you use them, stand and fight…”

  Conmager scowled. “Don’t be a fool!” He pointed at himself. “This is what happens when we stand and fight! Your wife spent weeks in the hospital. I am a highwayman and a half-trained apprentice Wizard. Allard almost went to prison for tax fraud. You’re a historian. Your wife’s a writer. Tell me, what do you think will happen if we stand against Marugon? We will lose!” He calmed. “No, we must run. It is not for us to defeat Marugon. That is for Lithon…and for Ally, I think. She will play some role that I think no one, not even Marugon, has foreseen.”

  “We’ll have to call Ally, tell her,” said Simon. “She’s nineteen years old. She’ll have to make her own decision. At Lithon’s birthday dinner, the day of the election. We’ll tell them everything.”

  “Very well,” said Conmager. He stood. “I shall come soon afterward. Then we must decide what we shall do. We don’t have much time left. I can feel it in my bones.” Allard walked to his side. “In the meantime, we shall continue to watch over Ally. Take care, Simon. I pray you make the right decision.”

  They left, and Simon watched their van drive away.

  “Simon,” said Katrina, her voice soft. “What are we going to do?”

  “The only thing we can, I suppose,” said Simon.

  ###

  Ally sat in her dorm room and stared at the wall.

  Arran’s tale played through her mind over and over again.

  He had told her of the fall of Carlisan, of his flight to the Tower of Endless Worlds with Sir Liam Mastere and Lithon Scepteris. He had told her of taking up the guns, his years as the Ghost of Carlisan, of the fall of Antarese and King Septimus Stormrider’s foolish stubbornness. His despair and the Desert of Scorpions, the Ildramyn, and Siduri’s death.

  “Find Alastarius on Earth,” said Ally. Those words had driven him across his world, through the Tower, and to Earth.

  It was a fantastic tale, utterly unbelievable, filled with impossibilities.

  Yet Ally believed him.

  Every word resonated in her mind. She felt as if she knew many of the names and places he had mentioned, had heard them long ago. Was her brother Arran’s Lithon, the King of Carlisan? Ally didn’t know anything about her life before she had been adopted.

  But if Arran’s story was true…no wonder her parents had never spoken of it.

  Her iPhone rang, and Ally picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Ally.” It was Simon. He sounded shaky. “How are you?”

  “Thinking,” said Ally.

  “So am I.” He paused. “Are you still coming to Lithon’s birthday dinner tomorrow? Seven o’clock.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. We…we have a lot to talk about. A lot to tell you.”

  “I know,” said Ally. “Have Mary come pick me up. I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up and continued to think.

  ###

  Krastiny’s smartphone rang.

  He put down his camera and took the call. “Watson Exterminators. You have them, we’ll kill them.”

  Their cover was a bad joke, to say the least.

  “Hacker,” said Schzeran, his voice tinny on the phone’s speaker. “The trace I put on our target’s iPhone?”

  “Yes,” said Krastiny. He glanced out the window at the Westers’ house. “What about it?”

  “Just heard one of her calls,” said Schzeran. “She’s coming to the house tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

  “Terribly convenient,” said Krastiny. He tugged at his exterminator’s coverall. “All of them in one place.”

  “Yeah, I’d say,” said Schzeran. “Guess her brother Lithon’s having a birthday party. On election day, of all things.”

  “Yes, indeed…” An electric jolt went down Krastiny’s spine. “What did you say?” he barked.

  “Election day?” said Schzeran.

  “No, no. Her brother. What is her brother’s name?”

  “Um…Lithon, I think that’s what her father said. I could check the recording again…”

  “No. Good work. Very good work. Head back to the compound. I think we have enough to report to our employer.”

  “Roger.” Schzeran hung up.

  Krastiny put away his phone and looked at Bronsky in the driver’s seat. “Drive. Back to the complex.” He sighed and looked at the Westers’ pleasant little house. What horrors would befall them at the hand of Marugon? “We need to have a long conversation with Lord Marugon.”

  Bronsky grunted and put the van into drive.

  Chapter 12 - Kill Them All

  Anno Domini 2012

  Cheers filled the campaign command center.

  People packed the vast room, standing on desks and chairs and tables to get a better view of the speaker’s platform. Men and women with Gracchan Party badges on their shirts popped open bottles of champagne. Red, white, and blue balloons bounced around the room.

  Wycliffe watched the scene from behind a curtain, unable to contain his own grin. Markham knew how to throw a good party.

  “We did it, Thomas,” said Senator Jones, his worn face animated with a smile. “By God, we did it.” Wycliffe bit back an acerbic comment and nodded.

  A hush came over the cheering crowd. Markham walked up to the speaker’s platform, a glass of champagne in his hand. He grunted, tapped at the podium’s microphone a few times, and set down his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention.” A few whoops rang out. “If I can have your attention…thank you.” He beamed. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce the president-elect and vice president-elect of the United States of America…William Jones and Thomas Wycliffe!”

  Thunderous applause rang out.

  Wycliffe thrust aside the curtain and walked onto the speaker’s platform, Senator Jones at his side, the cheers washing over him in an unending wave. Wycliffe scanned the crowd, grinning. Gracchan campaign workers had packed the command center, and rows of TV cameras lined one wall, focused on the speaker’s podium. Wycliffe caught a glimpse of Goth, standing in the corner like a dark statue. A few other winged demons wandered the crowd, hidden in their slouching thug disguises.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Vice President,” said Markham.

  “Thank you, Markham,” said Wycliffe, “and congratulations to you as well. N
one of this would have happened without your diligent work.” They shook hands, and Markham joined the other campaign managers in the front row.

  Wycliffe gripped the podium and spoke into the microphone, summoning the Voice into his words. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. At least, I think it’s still evening.” He glanced down. “Markham, what time is it?”

  Markham glanced at his watch. “Um…quarter past one, actually.”

  “Well, then, let me amend my words. Good morning to you all.” The crowd laughed. “I know it is customary for the president-elect to give a speech. However, Senator…rather, President-Elect Jones feels it would be inappropriate to gloat after such an astonishing victory. So, rather, he has tasked the gloating to me.” Laughter rang out.

  Wycliffe spread his hands and took a step back. “But what cause have we to gloat? So what if in a year’s time we have taken the Gracchan Party from obscurity to national leadership? So what if we carried 396 electoral votes, one of the largest victory margins in the history of our country? So what if we had about seventy-seven percent of the popular vote, again one of the largest victory margins ever? And so what if the House of Representatives now boasts fifty-seven Gracchan members, and the Senate fifteen?”

  In retrospect, it had all been so easy. The countless speeches and the endless campaigning had paid off. The Voice had inflamed the voters’ emotions, driven them to the polls in record numbers. Marugon had been wrong. True power did not lie with technology. Instead it lay with the black magic, with the Voice.

  “Impressive victories, yes,” said Wycliffe, letting the Voice carry notes of triumph and elation. “But, I say, we have no cause to gloat! For it was the American people who elected us, the American people who voted us into office, the American people who turned out in record numbers to vote Gracchan. This is a victory for the American people, and it is not we who have cause to gloat, but they!”

  His speech rose to a shout, the Voice roaring in his words, and the crowd roared back at him. Even the cynical reporters and cameramen gazed at him with rapt awe. Another storm of applause rose up.