The Destroyer of Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

  Goth-Mar-Dan roared and hammered at Arran.

  Ally’s eyes narrowed, anger rising up within her. Goth-Mar-Dan had killed her blood family. He had ravaged through the High Kingdoms for centuries, bringing blood and murder and misery wherever he trod. He had murdered Alastarius. He had brought her here to torture and kill her. And now he was about to kill Arran.

  No.

  She would not permit it.

  Ally muttered a brief spell, drawing the white magic to her spirit. The world went hazy and cloudy as Ally shifted her body into the spiritual realm. She sat up and got to her feet, passing through the steel cuffs like smoke. She stepped away from the table and shifted back to the material world, the concrete cold and grimy beneath her bare feet.

  Ally turned to face Goth-Mar-Dan, the white magic rising up within her.

  Goth-Mar-Dan froze, his burning eyes falling over her. Arran’s eyes widened in wonder as Ally strode toward them.

  Naked terror passed over Goth-Mar-Dan’s face and twisted into desperate rage. With a cry of fury and terror he sprang past Arran, accepting and ignoring two vicious hits from the Sacred Blades. Goth-Mar-Dan swooped into the air, scimitar raised high, black magic howling around its blade.

  He descended on her with an ear-splitting roar.

  “Ally!” shouted Arran.

  Ally raised her hand and said a word. White light burst from her fingers, shining like a star in the dark factory. Goth-Mar-Dan crashed to the ground, screaming as the light fell over him. He strained forward, howling curses, trying to reach her.

  Ally thrust her palm at him.

  White fire exploded into the winged demon. The spell flung Goth-Mar-Dan backwards and cast him into the wall. He crumpled to the floor, his wings hanging broken and useless against his back. Arran charged at the dazed demon, his blades flashing. Goth-Mar-Dan staggered back, snarling in rage, trying to parry. Arran scored hit after hit, white and azure fire soaking into the winged demon.

  Ally cast another spell and conjured a spear of light. She ran forward, hands clasped around the spear’s glowing shaft. Arran lunged forward and stabbed both his blades into the demon’s stomach, tearing past battered armor plates. Goth-Mar-Dan shrieked in torment, his hands clawing for Arran’s arms.

  Ally stepped forward and stabbed. The spear of light cut through Goth-Mar-Dan’s armor like paper and sank deep, seeking the demon’s heart. Arran went into a frenzy, stabbing over and over again.

  Goth-Mar-Dan stared at her in shock. “This cannot be! I killed Alastarius, I tore his heart from his chest, I slew him…”

  “And now you are slain," said Ally. "You yearn for power so much? Then devour this."

  She plunged the spear of light into his chest with all her strength and weight behind it.

  Goth-Mar-Dan threw back his head and shrieked. The fire from Arran’s blades spread through him, ravaging through him in a storm of white flame.

  And then Goth-Mar-Dan, king of the winged demons, collapsed in a spray of smoking ashes and obsidian bones. His red crown clanged against the floor and rolled away.

  “Arran,” said Ally.

  Arran groaned and fell to his knees. Sweat and blood soaked his clothes.

  “Ally,” he said, shaking. She saw bits of metal jutting from his side. “I’m not…I…I can’t…dying.” He grabbed at the wall to keep from slumping over.

  Ally smiled. “No, you’re not.” She reached down, seized his temples, and muttered a spell. The white magic rose in response to her spirit, flowed down her arms, and shot into Arran. He made a strangled noise, every muscle in his body going rigid.

  The shards of metal fell out of his side. His wounds knit themselves closed, the skin sealing shut. Ally released him, and Arran shuddered once more and climbed to his feet.

  “You’re alive,” he said, staring at her in wonder.

  She smiled. “Thanks to you. He would have killed me, if you had not come.”

  Arran seized her in his arms and held her tight. Ally rested her face against his neck. She wanted to stay like that for a long time.

  “How?” he said.

  “The white magic,” said Ally. “And it’s how you wielded two Sacred Blades at once. The power of your brother’s sacrifice knit his sword to your spirit, but you could not use it until a time of great need. Sir Liam carried his slain father’s Sacred Blade…and your carry your brother’s.”

  “Thank you, Luthar,” said Arran, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Come on,” Ally said. “We must go. I have much to tell you. And we’ve not much time, I fear.”

  “We need to find something for you to wear,” said Arran. “You’ve no shoes. You’ll freeze to death outside.”

  “The others,” said Ally. “Are they here?”

  Rage flashed in Arran’s eyes. “Conmager wanted to abandon you. Mary and Lithon and I tried to dissuade him, but we could not. He thought we had to save Lithon at any cost, even your life…”

  Ally raised a hand. “Do not blame Conmager. He would not have left me behind lightly. It would have added another weight to the load of grief he carries. And does not know what I now know. He only did as he thought best.”

  Arran’s mouth twisted. “Erroneous as that was.” He looked away. “Goth-Mar-Dan must have had a vehicle hidden here, somewhere. We can take that, rejoin the others.” He shook his head. “Though how we’ll find them, I have no idea. Conmager must be a thousand miles away by now.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ally, “but it matters not. A moment. I’ll find him.”

  “How?” said Arran.

  Ally closed her eyes, her spirit calling the white magic.

  ###

  Lithon folded his arms. “I’m not going anywhere until we find Ally.”

  Conmager shook his head, thumping his cane against the floor. “We have to go. Now. Your life must be preserved, Majesty. If you die, then everything would have been in vain.”

  Mary nodded. “Lithon’s right. We have to find Ally.”

  “And we can’t leave, anyway,” said Lithon. “Arran’s run off.”

  Conmager shook his head again, despair showing on his face. “Arran has gone mad, I fear.” He beckoned. Allard swallowed and stepped closer. “I don’t want to have to knock you out and take you with me. But I will, if I have no choice, and you’re giving me no choice…”

  The floor trembled. Conmager whirled, raising his cane as a ghostly image of white light appeared in the corner.

  “Master?” said Conmager, lowering his cane.

  But instead of an old man, it was a pale image of Ally Wester.

  “Ally?” said Mary. “My God, it’s Ally.”

  “It is.” Conmager blinked his watery eyes. “But she doesn’t have the skill to cast a spell such as this…”

  “I do now,” said Ally’s image. “Be quiet and listen to me, please. We do not have much time. I’m safe, and so is Arran. You must come to Chicago as soon as possible. Disguise the van, and load it with as many weapons as it can carry. Meet us at the Lake Michigan breakwater near downtown Chicago tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything then.”

  “But…” said Conmager.

  “Do it!” Ally’s voice softened. “Please. I cannot possibly tell you how important it is. But hurry.”

  The image disappeared, its glow fading away into nothingness.

  “Oh my God,” said Allard, his knuckles whitening around his gun. “She’s dead. She’s dead and that’s her ghost.”

  “You’re an idiot, son,” said Conmager. “That wasn’t her ghost. She’s alive. She’s…” Conmager shrugged. “Let’s pack up and get going. She did say to hurry.”

  Lithon grinned and ran to grab his things.

  ###

  “Here!” Arran grabbed at the corner of a plastic tarp and pulled it back. A battered old car sat beneath it, orange rust chewing into its sides. “The keys are still inside.” He opened the door, saw a plastic bag on the floor, and reached inside. “And money. Lots of it.”

 
; “No doubt it belongs to Goth-Mar-Dan,” said Ally. She turned, looked at the glass tanks, and shivered. “Or one of his victims. God only knows to what wicked ends he put the money.” She handed something to him. “Here are the last of your guns.”

  Arran took the weapon and slid it back into its holster. “You…look different.” Her face was paler, highlighting the dark circles that now ringed her eyes. Her dark eyes themselves had turned bloodshot, giving them an eerie look. And he saw not a trace of fear or doubt on her face, only determined focus.

  “Arran.” She touched his cheek. “Much is different. I’ll tell you everything, before we meet the others. But we need to rest. We can use the money to find a motel. But first let’s get out of this pit of misery.”

  Arran nodded and gestured towards the car. “You can drive.”

  “Wise, considering you don’t know how.” Ally got into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition as Arran lowered himself into the passenger’s seat. The engine coughed to life, the heater spitting blessed warmth over her body. She could felt Goth-Mar-Dan’s dark aura over the vehicle. The horror and despair of his victims had soaked into the very metal.

  Ally pushed aside the aura and pressed a garage door opener attached to the windshield. A truck door on the opposite wall slid open, and Ally pressed the gas and left Goth-Mar-Dan’s lair behind.

  Chapter 9 - I Am Become Death

  Anno Domini 2012

  Wycliffe watched the images flickering on the monitor.

  A slender blonde reporter raised her hand, and President-Elect Jones nodded from behind the microphone-studded podium. “Yes, your question?”

  “Concerning certain Cabinet appointments,” said the reporter, making notes on her iPad. “Is it true that the Gracchan Party’s largest donors are receiving Cabinet posts?”

  Wycliffe tapped the microphone on his collar. “Laugh,” he commanded, putting a touch of the Voice into his words. “Politely. And for God’s sake don’t touch your earpiece.”

  Jones chuckled and shook his silver-haired head. “Madam, I can assure you…” He paused for thought, looking both presidential and magisterial.

  “Those rumors are false,” said Wycliffe. “The Gracchan Party has received substantial donations in recent months, yes. However, the presidential campaign was funded entirely out of my pockets and Vice President Wycliffe’s pockets.” Jones repeated the statement word for word. “While the Democrats and the Republicans may give Cabinet posts to the highest bidders…or should I say donors,” Jones’s delivery got a laugh, “that will not be the practice of the Gracchan Party. Instead, we shall find the ablest man or woman for the particular post.” Wycliffe waited until Jones had finished. “A search that may still take some time. No further questions today. Thank you all for your time, and God bless America.”

  The reporters applauded, and Wycliffe rolled his eyes. Jones walked away from the podium and disappeared from the camera’s eye. Wycliffe turned his gaze to a different screen, one that displayed the hallway through the office building. “Now, come back to the control room in 13A and find me. At once, I might add. Don’t dither.” The Voice added force to the last command. Jones jerked and hurried forward, vanishing from the monitor.

  Wycliffe chuckled and leaned back in his chair. The press conference had gone better than he had hoped. Now that Jones was President-Elect, the public could not see Wycliffe taking a dominant role. So he needed Jones for another year or two yet. Let Jones get some programs going, start pushing legislation through Congress. Let Jones fight the political battles, sully his hands with the dirty business of governance.

  And let Jones take the assassin’s bullet at the opportune time.

  Then Wycliffe would take over and ride the wave of popular sympathy for poor martyred Jones.

  Assuming Marugon did not ruin everything, of course.

  Wycliffe bit his lip and got to his feet. Krastiny and Goth-Mar-Dan had been gone for four days, as had Kurkov. Wycliffe paced to the warehouse’s main floor, looking over the stacked crates and containers. What was Wycliffe going to do with all this weaponry?

  What if Goth failed? The worst of the investigation into Marugon’s rampage had passed, but what if Goth brought more trouble on Wycliffe’s head? But it did seem unlikely that Goth would fail. He had been stalking victims in Chicago for years. The police had never come close to the truth. Wycliffe doubted that they ever would.

  “But how long,” muttered Wycliffe, pacing in a slow circle, “does it take to kill one girl?”

  He looked at the rows of meat freezers lined up against the wall. Still, if things went sour, he still had the changelings at his command, over five hundred of them. Any government agent or police officer would receive an unwelcome surprise, should they try to inspect Wycliffe’s compound. And the winged demons remained in residence here. Though Wycliffe did not trust them, they would give any undesirable visitors a warm welcome.

  Wycliffe sighed, staring at the meat freezers. He wondered if he could unleash all the changelings on Marugon at once. Perhaps they could surprise and overwhelm him before he loosed his powers. Wycliffe dismissed the idea with a snort. Even if it worked, the winged demons would kill him.

  The scuff of a shoe against concrete interrupted his musings. Senator Jones staggered out of the security room, his face gaunt and haggard.

  Wycliffe frowned. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the control room?”

  “You weren’t there,” said Jones, his voice almost a whine, “and you told me to find you.”

  “Oh.” Wycliffe frowned. “God, you look terrible. We’ve got to get you some better makeup. We can’t have you looking half dead.”

  “I feel half-dead,” said Jones. “Thomas, I’m not a young man. I can’t keep this pace. Two press conferences already today. And then I’m supposed to give a speech and a dinner address.” He stepped forward and tried to grip Wycliffe’s arm, but Wycliffe’s glare sent him a step back. “I need to rest. You’ll wear me out with work. I’ll suffer a heart attack.”

  Perhaps that was the better approach. Wycliffe had risked so much already. Maybe he should take the prudent course and let Jones die of enforced overwork? No one could trace that back to him.

  Jones went even paler. “You’re…you’re considering it. Oh my God. You’re…you’re planning to let me die.”

  Wycliffe scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous, Mr. President.” Besides, if Jones died of a heart attack, the stigma of ill health would fall over his successor. No, better to let an assassin’s bullet take Jones. Perhaps during a State of the Union address…

  “You’re going to kill me.” Jones began to shake, his voice small and reedy. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Haven’t I spent the last year getting you elected?” Wycliffe’s lip curled in disgust. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to see a man your age weep?” He summoned the Voice and poured the black magic into his words. “Go back to your rooms and sleep. I’ll send someone to rouse you when it’s time for your speech.” Wycliffe had found it expedient to keep Jones here. He did not want the broken old man out of his reach for an instant. “Go, already! I have better things to do besides watching you whine.”

  Jones stalked away, his hunched shoulders shaking.

  Wycliffe sighed and returned to the security room. He dropped into the chair, watched the monitors, and made sure Jones returned to his room. Wycliffe considered returning to his office and dismissed the idea. Warehouse 13A was secure, and Wycliffe could keep an eye on the compound through the security cameras. And the Internet, television, and telephone would allow him to monitor the political situation. He could rule the nation from here like a spider in a web of telecommunications, with Jones and the Gracchan Party as his mouthpiece.

  And most of all, the bunker would provide a needed refuge should the situation turn dangerous.

  He sat back and considered Cabinet appointments. Despite Jones’s speech, most of the posts would go to Gracchan loy
alists, men and women Wycliffe had conditioned with the Voice. Some appointments would have to go to token Republicans and Democrats, but a few sessions with the Voice would transform them into loyal Gracchans.

  A shiver of excitement went through him as he considered the possibilities. No one in American politics, or on Earth, had anything to match the potential of the Voice of the black magic. Wycliffe could do anything he wanted. He could become a shadow king, ruling the United States and the world from behind the scenes, keeping the fiction of a republican government in place. Or he could become a beloved magnate, a political titan, ruling through the system, manipulating it to his will. In either case, he would have as many women and as much money as he wanted.

  Now if only Marugon didn’t ruin everything…

  The beeping of the control board’s phone jerked into his musings. Wycliffe scowled and picked it up. “What?”

  “Sir,” said the gate guard, “there’s a…gentleman here who demands to see you.”

  Wycliffe pecked at the control board, and the central monitor shifted to show the front gate. The guard sat at his booth, looking irritated. A small U-Haul truck idled before the gate, the driver leaning out the window. Wycliffe zoomed the camera on the driver.

  Vasily Kurkov gave the camera the finger.

  Wycliffe sighed. “Let him in. Tell him to come directly to the warehouse 13A. Third truck dock. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the gate guard, sounding confused. “But…”

  “Less talking, more sending,” said Wycliffe. The U-Haul truck rumbled through the opening gate. Wycliffe got up and strode into the warehouse floor as the U-Haul truck drove inside and parked besides a stack of crates.

  Vasily Kurkov opened the door and slid out.

  Wycliffe burst out laughing.

  Kurkov scowled and lit a cigarette. “Is something funny?”

  Wycliffe shook his head. “Not at all.” Kurkov wore battered blue jeans, a flannel jacket, and scuffed cowboy boots. “That’s a splendid trucker disguise, that’s all.”