The Destroyer of Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Wiseass,” said Kurkov, puffing on the cigarette. “All my pains on your behalf, and you still mock me.”

  “My apologizes,” said Wycliffe. He hesitated. “So…do you have it?”

  Kurkov grinned. “What do you think?”

  Wycliffe stepped back. “Is it dangerous? Is it leaking radiation?”

  Kurkov scoffed. “It’s a nuclear bomb. Of course it is dangerous. But leaking radiation? That is silly. I’ve been driving with the thing for the last two days.” He tugged at his greasy hair. “Does it look like my hair has fallen out?”

  Wycliffe shook his head. “Though it could use a bath.”

  “Funny,” said Kurkov. He walked around to the back of the truck and pushed the door up. “Come here and look at this.”

  Wycliffe peered into the back of the truck. A mixture of old furniture, dusty clothes, and cardboard boxes littered the truck. He frowned with impatient, his eyes wandering over dust and mothballs…

  His heart skipped a beat.

  In the corner, under a battered table, sat a large black metal box. It was the size of a large steamer trunk, or perhaps a child’s coffin.

  “Is that it?” said Wycliffe. Kurkov nodded. “It’s…smaller than I thought.”

  Kurkov grinned, ground out his cigarette, and clambered into the truck. “That mad Pakistani was a pain in the ass, but he knew his business.” He grunted and pushed the trunk to the edge. “Help me with this.” Wycliffe looked at him askance. Kurkov snorted. “Or do you want to call the baggage handlers, explain to this to them?”

  Wycliffe grunted. “No, no. You’re right.” He grabbed the end of the box.

  “Careful,” said Kurkov, climbing down and lifting the other end. “It’s heavy. Wouldn’t want to drop it, would we?”

  “Oh, funny,” said Wycliffe. They strained, lifted, and deposited the bomb onto a nearby flatbed cart. Wycliffe wheezed and wiped sweat from his brow. He had gotten out of shape during the campaign. “That is heavy.”

  Kurkov smirked. “Yes. So very heavy. Now, shall we go tell Lord Marugon, so I can receive payment?”

  “Come along,” said Wycliffe, waving Kurkov to the elevator. They rode it down to the bunker and entered the library. Marugon still sat hunched over the table, muttering spells of the black magic, his fingers tracing sigils in the air. The metal disk hovered a foot over the table, intricate circles of tightly wound black runes marking its surface. The thing looked both beautiful and hideous.

  Wycliffe stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Lord Marugon.”

  Marugon looked up, his eyes dark and deep. “Yes?”

  Wycliffe gestured at Kurkov. “He has returned with the bomb.”

  A strange expression of mixed fear and elation and weariness crossed Marugon’s face, and disappeared once more behind his iron mask. “Has he? Has he, indeed?”

  Kurkov nodded. “I have.”

  Marugon stood. “So. After so long. It comes to the end.” His lips quirked, as if at a bitter joke. “Show me.” He waved a hand. The disk floated up and followed him.

  “This way,” said Wycliffe. “It’s on the main floor.” They returned to the warehouse, the disk floating behind Marugon, and Wycliffe led the Warlock to the bomb.

  “Yes,” said Marugon, gazing down at the black box. “Yes, this is it.”

  Kurkov grinned. “Obtained at great expense, effort, and difficulty, but now standing here at your disposal.” He smirked. “Just give us some warning before you use it, yes?”

  No one laughed.

  Marugon made a quick gesture. The disk began to circle around him, sweeping in broad arcs. Something like black light flickered around its runes. “How does it work? How is it detonated? Tell me?”

  Kurkov flipped open the case’s lid. Four switches stood in a row, besides a slot for a key and a digital timer. “This is how it works. First, you take this key,” he handed the key to Marugon, “stick it into the slot, and turn. The display will light up, and lights will go on over each of the switches. Then you must flip each of these switches in sequence, one after another. After you flip each switch, you’ll hear a chime. Once all four switches have been flipped, the display will flash. After they do, remove the key,” Kurkov mimed the motion, “and the detonation timer is locked on. The only way to stop it is to turn the key again. The timer runs for twenty-five minutes, and then…boom. Big boom.”

  Marugon scowled. “A timer? Is there no way to make the bomb explode immediately?”

  Kurkov blinked. “Um, no. The Pakistani scientist was used to building bombs for wealthy terrorist groups, the sorts that don’t blow themselves up with their bombs. The timer’s wired into the bomb.” He laughed. “Why wouldn’t you want a timer with your bomb, Lord Marugon? Surely you do not wish to blow yourself up with your own bomb, yes?”

  Marugon said nothing.

  “Ah…you aren’t going to blow yourself up with this, are you?” said Wycliffe. The thought did not distress Wycliffe a great deal. But he wanted to make certain he was many miles away, preferably worlds away, when Marugon set off the bomb.

  Marugon ignored him, staring at the bomb. The disk whipped faster and faster around him. “Years of labor and toil. At now, at last, it is at hand. After so long.” He shuddered, and a half-mad smile spread over his lips. “Yes, very long, indeed.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Wycliffe.

  Marugon leveled his hand and muttered a spell. “Of course you don’t. You don’t have the capacity to understand.” The disk jerked to a halt, hovering above the bomb. Marugon reached down and closed the lid. “Robert Oppenheimer.”

  Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “I…ah…I beg your pardon?”

  “The man who led the scientists who built the first nuclear bomb. I read of him, in the books you provided. Do you know what Robert Oppenheimer said, when the first nuclear bomb was exploded?” said Marugon.

  Wycliffe shrugged. “Something about destroying worlds, I think. Or was it a John Donne poem, the one about the Trinity?”

  Marugon smiled, his dark eyes tense and gleaming. “Yes. If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst into the sky…I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.” He laughed, the sound sending unpleasant chills down Wycliffe’s spine. “What a foolish thing to say, is it not? The first nuclear bombs only destroyed two cities. A few hundred thousand people. What is that? Nothing.” He paused. “Do you know what the irony is, Senator Wycliffe? Do you?”

  Wycliffe blinked. “Um…no.”

  “Oppenheimer’s project destroyed two cities. Even now, the nations of Earth have the capacity to destroy themselves ten thousand times over, but that is still the destruction of but one world. One world. Nothing in the face of the infinite blackness between the worlds.” Marugon snorted. “The Destroyer of Worlds, indeed. But this bomb, this bomb that will destroy…” He blinked and stared off into space for a moment, his face both exultant and terrified and exhausted.

  “Lord Marugon?” said Wycliffe, unnerved.

  Marugon shook himself and looked up. “I shall depart into the Tower shortly. You will not see me again.” He smirked. “Enjoy your power and wealth, Thomas Wycliffe. Enjoy it well.”

  Wycliffe blinked. Was it to be so easy after all? “Are you leaving at once?”

  “Soon,” said Marugon, lowering his gaze. The disk settled on top of the black case. “Some preparations must be yet made.” He muttered a spell. The disk vibrated, flashing with shadows, and sank into the black metal.

  Wycliffe stepped back. “That might make the bomb go off.”

  Marugon fixed him with an irritated glare. “It will not. Now leave me.” He returned to his spell casting. Wycliffe shrugged, turned away, and headed back to the control room, Kurkov following.

  “You know,” said Kurkov, dropping into one of the chairs, “I always thought he was mad. Now he’s gone absolutely batshit.” He lit a cigarette.

  Wycliffe scowled. “Do you mind not smoking? You'll get ash into the equipment.” Kurkov
ignored him. “Perhaps Marugon does want to kill himself. Go out a blaze of nuclear glory among the ruins of Carlisan, perhaps.” He sighed and settled into a chair. “Tragic, I suppose. But what is that to us? If he wants to destroy himself, then let him! So long as he does it on his world. It wouldn’t do to start Jones’s term with Chicago reduced to nuclear ashes.”

  Kurkov grunted and blew out a cloud of smoke. “And you’d probably be dead.”

  “There is that,” said Wycliffe. “And I have more important things to worry about.”

  “Such as my fifty million dollars, for instance,” said Kurkov.

  Wycliffe gritted his teeth. It was a small price to rid himself of Marugon. “How do you want the money?”

  “Some of it in cash,” said Kurkov. “Others in assorted stocks and bonds. A large percentage of it into various Swiss bank accounts. The rest into various dummy corporations that my organization controls. The money will need to be thoroughly laundered before I take possession.”

  Wycliffe nodded. “For my protection.”

  Kurkov snorted. “And my own, more importantly.”

  “This will take a few days to arrange,” said Wycliffe. “I doubt you’ll want official attention.”

  Kurkov waved a hand. “Of course not. But the process should be underway immediately.” Wycliffe nodded. “Have Dr. Krastiny and his men reported back yet?”

  “No,” said Wycliffe, “and it’s starting to concern me.”

  “Another potential scandal?” said Kurkov. “Don’t concern yourself. I’ll have to kill all three of them. They cannot take commissions from other employers. Suppose they take a commission to kill me?”

  “Marugon likely didn’t leave them any choice,” said Wycliffe. “I suspect Goth will kill them once they’re no longer useful.”

  Kurkov scowled. “Another problem. I have to kill them myself.” He thumped his chest and put his boots up on the control board. “Only I can kill my employees.”

  “How inspiring,” said Wycliffe. “But don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll return any day.”

  Chapter 10 - The Plan

  Anno Domini 2012

  “Will the tide come in?” said Arran.

  He and Ally sat on a crumbling concrete wall overlooking a small beach. Cold gray water frothed at the sands, and in the distance Arran saw a breakwater and a lighthouse. Behind them lay a park of lawns and trees, now crusted with old snow, and then the gleaming towers of downtown Chicago.

  Ally almost smiled. “It’s a lake, Arran. Lake Michigan. We don’t have to worry about the tide.”

  Arran grunted and watched the road. “I keep forgetting.”

  Ally smiled at that. She wore an old green overcoat and boots they had bought secondhand. Her face remained pale, her eyes bloodshot. She seemed much older that she had a week ago.

  Sometimes, when he touched one of his Sacred Blades, he felt the power that crackled in the air around her.

  “His granddaughter,” said Arran. He shook his head. “You were his granddaughter.”

  Ally kicked a chip of stone onto the beach. “Does that trouble you?”

  Arran shrugged. “No. I cursed his name, you know that. I thought he was a puppeteer, playing with lives for some goal.” He snorted. “And I was right. It was all a great web he spun. All of it to forge you, someone to fight Marugon.” He looked at the lake’s gray expanse. “I wonder if he arranged for me to find you. He must have. He told Siduri that Prophecy.”

  Ally sat besides him, her legs dangling over the crumbled wall. “Would you have had it any other way? He knew I would need someone to protect me.”

  Arran said nothing. He saw the confidence and strength etched on her face now. She did not need him to protect her any longer.

  But he would be damned before he stopped guarding her.

  Ally stood and stared at the road. “They’re here. I wonder where they parked.”

  Four figures hurried down the road towards the park and the beach. Ally strode to meet them, and Arran followed her, snow crunching beneath his boots.

  “Ally?” said Mary, coming to a halt beneath a bare tree. Lithon hurried up besides her. He had a bandage around his head. Allard and Conmager lingered behind. “Ally?”

  Ally grinned. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Oh my God!” said Mary. She and Lithon ploughed into Ally at the same time, hugging her. Ally staggered, laughed, and regained her balance. “Oh my God. You’re okay. I was so sure you were dead or worse.”

  “I saw him,” said Lithon, almost crying. “I saw the demon, I couldn’t do anything to stop them…”

  Ally held them out at arm’s length. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m fine. Thanks to Arran.”

  “What happened?” said Mary. “Did he kill the demon?”

  In response Arran removed a bundle from over his shoulder and unwrapped it. A crown of red gold and a black scimitar fell to the snowy ground.

  “Goth-Mar-Dan,” he said, his voice quiet, “will no longer trouble this world or any other.”

  “By the gods,” breathed Conmager, staring at the crown. “He’s dead? You killed him?”

  “With Ally’s help,” said Arran. “I could not have done it alone.”

  “Goth-Mar-Dan dead. At long last. The blood of countless thousands has been avenged. Who would have ever dreamed it possible?” Conmager ran a shaking hand through his graying hair. “Ally. I’m sorry. I did not think you could be saved. None of us had the strength to face one such as Goth-Mar-Dan, not even Arran. And Lithon. Alastarius’s Prophecy was about Lithon. I had to save Lithon.”

  “It’s all right,” said Ally. “You did as you thought best. You were ignorant of the greater matter, as we all were.”

  “It…” Conmager frowned, staring at Ally, and bit by bit Conmager’s watery eyes widened. “Master?”

  Ally almost smiled.

  “It…it cannot be,” said Conmager. “You…your aura…it’s as if Alastarius as returned.”

  “In a way, he has,” said Ally, “through me.” She hesitated. “Come on. There’s a lot we have to tell you.”

  ###

  They walked along the breakwater, the waves hissing against the sand.

  Arran began, and Ally listened as he told them of leaving the house in the night, of the magic in his brother’s blade that transported him to Chicago.

  “I owe Luthar a great debt,” he said. “His sword took me to a ruined factory in southern Chicago. Three men were there, assassins hired by either Goth-Mar-Dan or Marugon.” Arran told them of the battle and his fight with Goth-Mar-Dan in the factory. “And then I could use Luthar’s Sacred Blade." He shrugged. “I know not why. Ally…told me it was because of my brother’s death. A Knight could only use two Sacred Blades if one came from a fellow Knight who had fallen in battle. And then Ally…got up. She walked through the restrains and threw white fire at Goth-Mar-Dan. I ran him through, and Ally conjured a great spear of light and pinned him to the wall. He perished, she contacted you, and here we are.”

  Conmager coughed, his cane scraping against the concrete. “How did you wield such a spell? I knew you had the power in you…you drove off the winged demons and the changelings when we fled Chicago. Was it the duress that gave you the skill?”

  “In part,” said Ally.

  She told them of the trance, the dream, Alastarius’s spirit, and his Prophecy.

  “His granddaughter,” Conmager breathed. “Of course. I saw you, at Castle Bastion, before Marugon returned. But I did not know you were of Alastarius’s blood. I thought his family had perished.”

  “I inherited his powers,” said Ally, “and I also inherited his memories and skills. I buried them all, for they were too painful to contemplate. But my grandfather’s spirit gave me the chance to embrace then openly, so I did. For I have no choice. Marugon did not destroy the High Kingdoms for revenge or for conquest. Let me tell you the truth of the last of the Warlocks…the Marr’Ugaoun.”

  She described the visions Alastarius
had shown her of Adelemoch’s death and Marugon’s birth in Castamar’s citadel. She told them how Marugon had come to Alastarius, how the children of the void had shattered his mind, and why Marugon had slain Alastarius’s family.

  “So…he’s not really human?” said Mary.

  Allard blinked. “You mean he’s like a demon, or something?”

  “No,” said Ally. “He is human. His body is human, and at least part of his soul. But he is also Ugaoun, one of the children of the void.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not quite right. The children of the void are weak. Arran. You and Sir Liam slaughtered them in droves. Their numbers, not their strength, almost defeated you. But Marugon is mighty. He is one of the princes of the void. The mere sight of a prince of the void would drive most men to madness.” She shrugged. “And Marugon has heard their voices inside his skull all of his life, from the moment he was conceived. It has destroyed his mind, driven him into a state beyond madness. Always he hears the children and the lords of the void commanding him, cajoling him, begging him, threatening him, an unending chorus of a million voices.”

  “What do they want?” said Conmager.

  “Freedom.” Ally looked at Chicago’s skyscrapers. She remembered pictures she had seen in history class of the World Trade Center crashing to the ground in a cloud of flame and smoke. Thousands had died that day, and thousands more in the wars that followed. But Marugon wanted to bring down the Tower of Endless Worlds, and much worse would befall Earth if that Tower fell. “The Tower of Endless Worlds binds them, Conmager. It holds them prisoner in the black places between the worlds”

  Conmager nodded. “And Marugon wants to free them.”

  “Yes. Think of the Tower as part of a colossal spell, one that imprisons the children of the void. Marugon wants to break that spell. He’s tried. He’s been trying for years. Arran’s seen the holes in the wall," said Ally. Arran’s eyes clouded with memory. “But Marugon failed. The Tower is too vast for one man to shatter. But there is a way. The Chamber of the Great Seal, in the very heart of the Tower.”