The Destroyer of Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

  THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS

  Jonathan Moeller

  Book description

  I AM BECOME DEATH, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS

  ALLY WESTER struggles with her newfound powers in the white magic. But her power has drawn notice, and dark creatures desire to claim her for their own.

  ARRAN BELPHON has vowed to protect Ally Wester. And it will take everything he has to defend her - his strength, his heart, and even his life itself may be the price.

  MARUGON is the last of the Warlocks, the greatest wielder of black magic ever to walk under the sun. Now, at last, he possesses what he has long sought, and his true work can begin.

  And the TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS shall burn...

  Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

  Ebook edition published June 2012.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Chapter 1 - Aftermath

  Anno Domini 2012

  “I don’t believe this,” said Senator (and Vice President-Elect) Thomas Wycliffe, staring at the TV. “I simply do not believe this.”

  He paced in his office. President-Elect William Jones, Dr. Krastiny, and Vasily Kurkov sat in his guest chairs, watching the TV. Kurkov looked bored, Krastiny looked grim, and Jones had developed a nervous twitch. Wycliffe couldn’t blame him. He picked up the remote control and flipped to another channel.

  A solemn-faced newscaster stared into the camera. “The city of Chicago remains on high alert tonight after a wave of armed violence unlike anything in the city’s history. Reports are mixed, but it appears a terrorist cell has gone on an armed rampage. At least thirty Chicago police officers have been killed, and reports of additional casualties are still coming in.” The newscaster paused for a moment and ruffled through his notes. “Looting has broken out in some districts, and the mayor has called for units of the National Guard to maintain order. Police are urging all citizens to remain calm and stay indoors…”

  “Damn him,” said Wycliffe. He flipped the channel.

  A pastor in a white robe with red vestments appeared on the screen. “Repent, for the end is at hand! The angels of darkness have been seen over our city. Armageddon is upon us. I urge all members of the flock…”

  “Bullshit.” Wycliffe flipped the channel again.

  The police chief stood at a podium, dozens of microphones pointed at his face. The word “LIVE” flashed over and over again at the bottom of the screen. “Forty-five officers have fallen in the line of duty, and nineteen more have been injured. We will not let this tragedy go unpunished. We will find these terrorists…”

  Wycliffe bellowed and threw the remote away. “I cannot believe this. How could Marugon be so damned stupid?” He kicked the remote across the carpet in frustration. “And the day after Election Day, too. How could he have been so stupid?”

  Report after report had flashed over the TV and the Internet. A house had been burned down in some sort of home invasion attack. Someone had destroyed a half-dozen police cruisers and killed a dozen officers. A running gun battle had been fought in the city, with credible sightings of Wycliffe's black vans. A group of black vans had annihilated a police blockade in the suburbs. The police believed a pair of rival terrorist organizations had run amok in Chicago.

  At least Wycliffe had destroyed all proof that his company owned those black vans.

  Even stranger reports had shown up on Twitter and Facebook. One man claimed to have seen a horde of gray-skinned Martians rampaging through his backyard. Others had seen winged monsters flying over the city, armored in black steel, complete with shaky videos from smartphone cameras. A TV reporter had interviewed a hysterical old woman who claimed to have seen Lucifer and his minions flying over Chicago, with eyes of fire and a black scimitars in their hands.

  “God damn him,” said Wycliffe, pacing. “How could he have done this? Has he utterly lost his wits? And he didn’t even win!”

  Kurkov grunted and lit a cigarette. “How do you know that?”

  “The winged demons have been coming in all night,” said Wycliffe. He punched the power button on the TV, and the screen went dark. “Their armor is shredded. They bear wounds from bullet and spear and sword. Whatever happened out there, I think Marugon lost.” Wycliffe dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. “This is a disaster, an absolute disaster.”

  “An understatement, I should say,” said Krastiny.

  Wycliffe spat a stream of curses. “That idiot. That damned fool! The day after Election Day, of all days. They’re already calling it post-Election Day violence, like this is my fault. This sort of violence, in my own home city!” Wycliffe shook his head. “And the bomb. Marugon wants his precious nuclear bomb so damned badly. Chicago’s going to become a military camp in the next few weeks. They’re going to turn up every stone, look under every rock. There’ll probably even be a nation-wide manhunt for these ‘terrorists’. How are we going to get a nuclear bomb into the city then?”

  Kurkov blew out a cloud of smoke. “It will be difficult, yes. Perhaps even impossible.” He smiled. “The fee will go up, most certainly.”

  “This is your fault, Thomas,” said Jones, his voice quivering. “You did this to Chicago. You let those monsters…”

  “Shut up!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling with command. Jones’s jaw clamped shut. “Go to your rooms and stay there until I call for you. I don’t have the patience to deal with your idiocy right now.” For a moment he considered shooting Jones and dumping his body in the street. Perhaps Wycliffe could use Marugon’s rampage to political advantage.

  No, not yet. He did not need any more complications just now.

  Jones rose and departed with a stiff-legged step.

  The intercom buzzed, and Wycliffe slapped the button. “This had better be damn important.”

  “Sir.” It was the gate guard. “Lord Marugon has returned.”

  Wycliffe sighed. “Tell him to go to warehouse 13A. I’ll meet him…”

  “He’s already gone there, sir,” said the guard.

  “Fine. I’ll meet him there, then.” Wycliffe turned to Kurkov and Krastiny. “Come with me.”

  He stalked through the dark office building, fuming. How could Marugon have been so foolish? The incident with the abandoned warehouse ten years ago had been bad enough. But this was beyond the pale. Dozens of policemen had been killed. Hundreds of people had seen the winged demons and God knew what else. The state and federal investigative agencies would turn Chicago upside down. And if they found the truth, if they caught any inkling of Wycliffe’s connection to the rampage, then his political career was finished.

  Wycliffe stormed across the complex, opened 13A’s door, and hurried inside. He gaped at the scene that greeted him. Dozens of winged demons stood around the warehouse floor, their armor damaged, wounds marking their bodies. Changelings skittered amongst the demons and the crates, mewling to themselves.

  “Dear God,” said Krastiny. “What could have hurt the devils like that?”

  “The bullets were enchanted, imbued with the white magic.”

  Wycliffe turned. Marugon stood nearby, Goth at his side.

  “I had not anticipated that.” Marugon’s face was haunted, his black eyes distant and narrowed. “That renegade who escaped your stronghold, who blew him
self up in the warehouse. I thought he had perished.” He snarled. “Lithon Scepteris survived, so why not this rogue wielder of white magic? He must have enchanted the bullets. And a Knight. It was not Liam Mastere. But some other Knight who escaped my notice. They fought against the winged demons and the changelings.”

  Wycliffe sighed. “At least tell me you succeeded. Tell me that Lithon and Ally Wester are dead.”

  Marugon’s breath hissed through his teeth. “They are not.”

  “What?” said Wycliffe. “You’re telling me you turned the city upside down, killed God knows how many people, and yet you didn’t kill those two children?”

  “The girl cast a spell of the white magic,” said Marugon, his voice quiet. “I know not how, but she did it. A mighty spell, one worthy of Alastarius himself. The spell drove off the winged ones and the changelings, and the girl and her protectors escaped before I could reach them.”

  “God damn it!” Wycliffe began to pace. “Do you even realize the mess you’ve made?”

  “Enlighten me,” said Marugon.

  “This has been an absolute disaster. People have seen the guns, the grenades, but worse, they’ve seen the winged demons. You’ve killed dozens of police officers. This isn’t going to go away. They think ‘terrorists’ went on a rampage, and they’re going to tear apart the city looking for these terrorists.” Wycliffe waved a finger. “They might find this place. They might even find the truth.”

  “It matters not,” said Marugon. “Stifle the investigation once you come into office.”

  “I can’t do that!” said Wycliffe. “Some people are already calling this the ‘Post-Election Day Massacre’. My enemies will try to link this to me. They need any edge against me.”

  “As I told you, it matters not,” said Marugon.

  Wycliffe growled. “And it will make it harder to find your precious bomb. Chicago’s going to be like a military camp for months. How do you think we shall smuggle a nuclear bomb into the city then?”

  “It will be expensive,” said Kurkov.

  “I care not,” said Marugon. “Your presidential aspirations are irrelevant in the face of the greater threat.”

  Wycliffe sputtered. “Greater threat? How can you say that? What threat are a boy and a girl with a few spells? How can…”

  “Be silent,” said Marugon, his voice hissing with anger. “You do not understand. Alastarius Prophesied that Lithon Scepteris would undo me. He Prophesied that Lithon would bring Alastarius back. Perhaps the girl is Alastarius’s successor.” He stalked towards Wycliffe, face taught with anger, and a bit of fear wormed its way into Wycliffe’s rage. “But they shall try to undo me, I have no doubt of it. And do you realize what that means? Do you think that you will survive when they come for me?” Wycliffe had no answer for that. “Therefore we must act first. I shall use the Voice to lay compulsion of searching on the changelings. Then I shall release them, all of them. They shall scour the United States until they find Ally and Lithon Wester.”

  “Tonight?” said Wycliffe. “All of them? You can’t be serious.”

  “I shall not be undone now!” Marugon pointed at Kurkov. “You. Ensure that the bomb arrives as soon as possible. Do whatever you must, bribe whoever you must, kill whoever you must. You shall be recompensed, and all costs shall be repaid. Am I understood?”

  Kurkov managed to nod. “It shall be done.”

  “We only have three hundred changelings or so at our disposal,” said Marugon. “More are needed for the search. Therefore the winged demons shall resume kidnapping those who have smoked the cigarettes.”

  Wycliffe licked his lips. “You’ve already kidnapped most of the eligible candidates, those who have no families.”

  “It matters not,” said Marugon. “If we run out of appropriate subjects, then we shall abduct people from the street, force them to smoke the cigarettes, and then transform them.”

  “You can’t be serious!” said Wycliffe. “I refuse to go along with this. In fact, I shall not permit it. You’ve already threatened my position with your escapades, and I will not allow you to harm it further.”

  A dead silence fell over the warehouse.

  Dozens of red-glowing eyes turned Wycliffe’s way, and he swallowed. There were fifty winged demons and three hundred changelings in the warehouse. And if Marugon ordered them to attack, ordered every last one of them to kill him, what would happen them?

  Wycliffe wouldn't make it three steps before they tore him to shreds

  Marugon stalked towards him. “You will not permit it?” His voice was quiet, but Wycliffe felt the Warlock’s black magic rising in response to his rage. “You think to command me?” He glared down at Wycliffe. “Do not overestimate your value, little man. You are to me as Senator Jones is to you. I need you not. Question me further and I shall kill you. Or I will use the Voice to break your mind, as you have done to Senator Jones. I have far greater things to do than safeguard your petty ambitions. Am I understood?”

  Wycliffe swallowed. “All right.” For the first time in years, he regretted bargaining with Marugon. But he could ride this out. He could survive. Time was on his side.

  Once Marugon had his bomb, he would be gone forever.

  Chapter 2 - Safe House

  Anno Domini 2012

  Arran watched the flickering images in the television’s glass panel.

  “And here’s Channel 9 Action News, with the early bird report!” said the TV. Colorful graphics flashed across the screen, and the picture switched to a television reporter, standing in a Chicago street with a microphone in hand.

  “A week has passed since the violent attacks that rocked Chicago,” said the reporter, a slender blond woman in a gray suit. Most reporters, Arran had noted, were slender blond women in gray suits. “Yet police remained baffled as to the identity of the terrorists.”

  “Fools,” muttered Arran. “Search Senator Wycliffe’s stronghold. Then you will find your villains.”

  “The FBI has been unable to trace the ownership of the destroyed black vans found throughout the city. Many witnesses reported seeing an additional gray van. Police are still searching for this vehicle, but have yet to find anything.” Knowing Conmager, they never would. The reporter assumed a solemn look. “Furthermore, despite the hundreds of eyewitness reports of strange winged creatures flying over the city, no evidence of such creatures has been found.” Given how the winged demons could masquerade as men, this did not surprise Arran. “A joint funeral service is scheduled this weekend for all the police officers killed in last week’s violence. In addition, the funeral service for Dr. Simon Wester and Katrina Wester is scheduled for Sunday. No word yet on the Westers’ children,” a family picture flashed across the screen, “who remain missing. Vice President-Elect Wycliffe gave the following statement today.”

  Wycliffe appeared on the screen, clutching the podium. “I mourn with those families who have lost loved ones, and I vow to bring the perpetrators of these deeds to justice…”

  “Then shoot yourself in the head,” said Arran, “betrayer and deceiver.” He picked up the remote, stared at it for a moment, and hit the power button. Wycliffe’s image winked out. Arran only wished he could kill the real Wycliffe so easily. The news programs either disgusted or amused him. None of them had come even close to the truth.

  Arran stood and walked to the living room’s windows. He saw a broad sweep of snowy fields stretching to a forest in the distance, wooded hills rising against the sky. A dilapidated red barn stood some distance away, surrounded by rusted farm machinery. Arran supposed the farmhouse and its barn looked like any other farm in Wisconsin, or the thousands of other farms scattered around the region of the United States called the Midwest.

  In truth, the farm was Conmager’s lair. The barn stored a vast arsenal of guns and enchanted bullets, and a safe in the basement of the rambling old house held tens of thousands of dollars. And Conmager had laid wards around the farmhouse, spells that would turn aside the eyes of Marugon�
��s minions. Arran hoped Conmager’s spells worked.

  Then again, Conmager had once been a highwayman. He would know how to prepare a secure hiding place.

  Arran opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The air smelled cleaner here than in the city, free of the smoke of cars and machines. A light flurry of snow fell, the white flakes almost invisible against the gray sky. The winter in Wisconsin reminded him of the winters of Rindl. Arran had spent a winter in Rindl, years ago, preying on Marugon’s soldiers. He remembered hiding beneath the trees, the ground cold, watching red blood soak through the white snow…

  Arran shivered and pushed aside the memories.

  He stepped back into the living room and closed the door. The smell of frying bacon brushed his nostrils, and he strode through the living room, past the dining room and the steep stairs that led to the bedrooms, and into the kitchen. Mary Lucas stood at the stove, working over pans of sizzling food.

  She shot him a glance. “You’re up early.”

  Arran sat at the table, watching the trees through the window. “I do not sleep well.”

  Mary grunted and began to pour pancake batter onto a griddle. “Where’s Conmager?”

  “He left for town about an hour ago,” said Arran. “He wanted to purchase some food and expected some packages at the courier’s office.”

  Mary sighed. “Enough guns and bombs to blast this place to dust, probably.”

  “No doubt,” said Arran.

  Mary used tongs to lift the bacon from the pan and put it on a rack. “Do you always carry that around?”

  “What?” Arran touched his Sacred Blade’s hilt. “This?”

  “That and the gun,” said Mary. She pointed at his belt with her spatula. His Sacred Blade rested on his left hip, a Glock pistol on his right. He had tucked the ammo clips he had dipped in Siduri’s blood next to his gun.

  “Peril can come on us at any time,” said Arran. “It is best to be prepared.”