A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  He felt the rustles as the Voice rippled through the crowd. He hid his grin as he saw the anger in the faces of his audience.

  He would direct that well.

  “Citizens of the United States of America,” said Wycliffe, “we stand in danger of losing our freedoms. Not to a dictator, not the government, not to the army…but to the rich. Open your eyes and consider!” The Voice swelled in his throat, the black magic strong and potent. “Who bankrolls the election campaigns of our Representatives, our Senators, and our President? Who spends billions of dollars influencing Congressional decisions, and then moans and groans that to pay its workers a proper wage would ruin its profit margins? Who bends the laws, who tramples on individual rights, who treats you and I, our fellow citizens, like mere numbers, like mere cattle from whom the precious dollar can be milked?” His hands clenched into fists. He adjusted the Voice, letting it grow from disgust and mild anger to pure affronted rage. “The wealthy! Think about it, I beg you! They seek to control you through advertising. They dictate how you should look, calling a healthy woman fat and claiming that baldness makes a hardworking and honest man an unattractive slob. They offer cures for woes they themselves created. They drive the independent entrepreneur out of business and offer him work as an hourly wage-slave running a cash register or mopping a floor. They seek to make us all mindless, dull, droning slaves, and without us even knowing it!”

  Ripples of anger went through the crowd. Angry cries of support rose up. Wycliffe raised his hands and waited for calm.

  “Allow me to offer examples, lest you think I am another ranting fool.” He leaned forward and stared into the crowd. “Just last week, for instance, the fine and upstanding legislature of our own State of Illinois passed a bill slashing the education budget by a quarter. This is at time when our grade schools are overcrowded, our teachers are underpaid, and our educational facilities are substandard. And three days later, the legislature passed a bill giving tax cuts, massive tax cuts, to the upper-income bracket taxes.” It had been difficult to arrange that ill-timed “coincidence”, but the Illinois state legislature possessed an astonishing number of weak-minded fools. Wycliffe had had barely had to use the Voice to procure their cooperation. “A corporate tax increase of two percent would have provided sufficient funds to finance the schools for five years. Two percent! And yet did our wise legislators seek this? Did they? No!” His voice rose to a shriek by the last word.

  An angry stir went through the crowd. Wycliffe felt the Voice working through them, conjuring up emotions. The Voice would make them want to believe.

  Wycliffe let them stir for a moment.

  He gripped the podium and let hope and fierce determination fill the Voice. “But there is still hope!”

  The crowd fell silent, all eyes on him.

  “Citizens of America, I have been successful in business, more through luck than any effort of my own,” said Wycliffe. “The fact that I have never taken a campaign donation of any sort is a matter of public record. And it is this success in business that has enabled me to rise in politics. But it has left me troubled. Should only millionaires be allowed to serve in high office? Is America a land for the millionaires? I think not! It occurred to me, fellow citizens, that perhaps this is why God permitted me such success in business, that this is His path for me…that I have both the opportunity and the ability to correct the abuses I have laid out for you tonight!”

  The crowd applauded. Wycliffe let his gaze sweep the length of the arena. He felt the Voice building inside him, gathering its dark power for a final grand crescendo.

  “You have heard, perhaps, rumors that I intend to seek either the Democratic or the Republican presidential nominations,” said Wycliffe, his voice calm and modulated. Cheers rose up, and Wycliffe held up a hand. “I shall not. I cannot. The Republican and the Democratic parties are nothing more than the established tools of the rich. A Democratic administration, a Republican administration…can you see the difference between them? No, I shall not seek, nor shall I accept, the presidential nomination of the Republican or the Democratic Parties.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. The Voice built within Wycliffe until he felt it would break free of his will and tear free from him in a mighty scream of power.

  He grinned. “But I have two other announcements. Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus failed, ladies and gentlemen. They failed and the Roman Republic became an Empire. But their mission is my own, and I shall not fail. Therefore I announce the formation of a new political organization, one dedicated to reversing the corruption that infects our republic. Citizens of America, tonight I announce the formation of the Gracchan Party!”

  He let triumph and exultant hope burn through the Voice. The crowds cheered.

  “And my other announcement,” said Wycliffe. “As of I today, I am hereby the Gracchan Party’s vice-presidential candidate for the 2012 election.” He looked over the crowd’s faces and smiled at their collective befuddled expression. “And may I, ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce a man who has given over thirty years of service to the state of Illinois, a man respected throughout the state, the country, and indeed, the world, the senior senator from Illinois and, incidentally, the Gracchan Party’s presidential nominee…Senator William Jones!”

  A storm of applause rose up, the crowds erupting to their feet. A silver-haired man with a distinguished air strode to the platform. Wycliffe grinned and shook his hand. Senator Jones shook back, his eyes glassy.

  “Smile, damn it,” hissed Wycliffe through his grin, the Voice snarling in his whisper. “You look like a damn corpse.”

  Senator Jones’s eyes widened. His lips peeled back in a grin.

  Wycliffe turned, trembling from the effort of keeping controlling the Voice for so long. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Gracchan Party’s presidential candidates, and the future president and vice-president of the United States of America!” The Voice leapt from his lips with the last word, the black magic conjuring a mighty note of triumph and hope and joy.

  The notables on the platform stood and cheered.

  And how the crowd roared.

  ###

  “Senator,” said Goth, his voice a rumble. “Your car is ready.” The lights of the parking garage gleamed against his mirrored sunglasses. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, Goth resembled a dark shadow waiting to spring.

  Wycliffe turned to the mob of reporters standing near the elevator doors. “No further questions, I’m afraid. I bid you all a good evening.” He glanced at his watch. “Or morning, rather.” Wycliffe turned and followed Goth across the gray concrete. His limousine sat idling in its stall, the chauffeur leaning against the hood.

  “Senator!”

  Wycliffe turned, eyebrows raised. A young woman in a gray skirt and jacket hurried after him, a notepad in hand. “Yes?”

  “I’m with the Springfield paper, Senator,” said the woman, pushing blond hair from her face. “I have some questions…”

  Goth growled, and for a moment Wycliffe glimpsed the yellow fangs hidden in his mouth. He grimaced and waved his hand, and Goth’s face returned to an impassive mask. “No further questions, Miss…”

  “Louis. Anne Louis,” said the reporter. Desperation tinged her voice. “Please, Senator, just a few questions…”

  “You heard the Senator,” said Goth. “Depart. Now.”

  “Wait.” Wycliffe raised his hand. “Let me guess. You were a journalism major in college. You managed to land a job at the paper right out of college, but the newspaper industry is dying, and you fear losing your job. So if you don’t get an interview with me, you’ll have to go work flipping burgers to pay your student loans, assuming you can even find a job doing that. Am I correct?”

  Miss Louis flushed. Between her blond hair and pale complexion, it made her look quite becoming. “Um…well…yes. How did you know?”

  “Your utter disregard for journalistic protocol,” said Wycliffe.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Senator,
” said Miss Louis, looking away, giving Wycliffe to the opportunity to examine her body. The gray skirt and jacket fit her quite well. “It’s…”

  “Quite all right,” said Wycliffe. He smiled and gave her a business card. “I was once a struggling college graduate as well, you know. This is the address of my Chicago offices. Why don’t you stop by? I’ll give you an exclusive interview.”

  Miss Louis blinked. “You’re kidding.”

  Wycliffe spread his hands. “When it comes to politics, Miss Louis, I never kid.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “My editor is not going to believe this. Will tomorrow morning work?”

  Wycliffe smiled. “It is tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come straight to my offices right now, do the interview, and then drive back to Springfield? You’ll have quite a scoop.”

  She gave him a wide smile. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Senator.”

  Wycliffe grinned back. “No, thank you, Miss Louis. After all, I am running for vice-president. I can use all the votes I can get.”

  Miss Louis nodded. “See you in about an hour, then.” She waved goodbye and headed off.

  “Come along, Goth,” said Wycliffe.

  Goth opened the limo’s rear door. “A worthy specimen.”

  Wycliffe climbed into the back seat. “Perhaps I’ll give her to you and your kin.”

  Goth chuckled and sat down in the seat across from Wycliffe, the top of his hooded head brushing the limo’s roof. Wycliffe scowled. He hated sharing an enclosed space with the creature, but Goth made for an effective and skilled bodyguard.

  “Driver,” said Wycliffe. “My offices.” The driver put the limo in gear and joined the sea of cars leaving the United Center.

  Wycliffe pulled a wine cooler from the mini-refrigerator under the seat. “Something to drink?” Goth said nothing. “Well. I’ll indulge myself, then. A great success tonight.”

  Goth said nothing.

  Wycliffe raised an eyebrow and sipped at the wine cooler. “You disagree?”

  “It matters not,” said Goth. “The fate of your world is of no concern.”

  Wycliffe laughed. “Come, come, Goth. I’ve never known you to be a shrinking violet.” Goth turned to look at him, a red glare showing from beneath the rims of his sunglasses. Wycliffe tried not to look away. “What did you really think?”

  Goth looked out the window. “It seemed a great effort to little purpose.”

  Wycliffe set his bottle in the cup holder. “Oh?”

  “I felt the black magic in your Voice,” said Goth. “The scum of the crowd rose in hysteria. Yet to what purpose?”

  Wycliffe laughed. “The Voice worked well on them. It played off their emotions. Every one of them will vote for me.”

  Goth hissed. “To what avail? So a million of them will vote for you. Your nation has three hundred million people. You need them all to vote for you.”

  Wycliffe laughed louder. “Not quite. I only need a majority to vote for me.”

  “A million is not a majority,” said Goth.

  “No. But it is a start,” said Wycliffe. He stared into the darkness. “You saw those TV cameras. Millions more people will have seen that speech. They will be convinced. They will campaign. They will convince others.”

  Goth laughed. Even after almost ten years, that sound still sent chills down Wycliffe’s spine. “Indeed? Then you will have elected that Jones creature, not yourself. For he will be president. You will just be vice-president.”

  Wycliffe picked his wine cooler back up. “But that’s just it.”

  Red light flickered under Goth’s sunglasses.

  “Senator Jones is a puppet. I started using the Voice on him soon after I arrived in Washington. I have been bending his feeble little mind for years. I barely have to use the Voice to control him any longer. Senator Jones, Goth, is a figurehead. If anything goes wrong, he will take the blame. Once his two terms are up, I can run under my own name and rule for another eight years.”

  And if all went to plan, he would not have to leave office. Ever.

  Goth grunted. “Cunning.”

  Wycliffe shrugged. “More than cunning, my friend. Brilliant. I will rule the country through him. And if anything goes wrong, if he dies, then I become president in my own right.” He smiled. “And if I tire of him, perhaps I’ll feed him to you.”

  Goth showed his fangs.

  “This country has gotten entirely too large and complex for a democratic body to rule effectively. But Americans are opposed to tyrants in any form. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, implanted in grade school when all the kids hear how George Washington gloriously freed the colonists from the vile rule of the King of England. But if I kept up the illusion of republican government, if I ruled through a puppet president and Congress, they will tolerate…”

  Goth laughed harder. “Indeed.” Wycliffe got a glimpse of fangs through his thick lips. “You do not need to explain the will to power to me.”

  Wycliffe half-smiled. “Good.” Had Goth made a joke? Wycliffe didn’t want to know.

  “It seems a waste. You have the power over the rabble. Use it to rule them, not to sway them.”

  Wycliffe snickered. “Marugon once told me true power lies in technology. He was right, of course, but there’s a greater power. It lies in the people, in the masses.”

  Goth sneered. “They are weak.”

  “Individually, yes,” said Wycliffe. “But taken as a whole, taken as mass, then they are a powerful. If you can unite a million of them, give them a single purpose and goal…that is true power.”

  Goth’s sneer didn’t waver. “If they could but find the will.”

  “A million of them,” said Wycliffe, his voice quiet, “could crush even you, oh mighty king of the winged ones.”

  And soon that combined will and purpose would belong to Wycliffe alone.

  Goth said nothing. Wycliffe sighed, sat back, and finished his wine cooler. They passed the rest of the trip in silence, Wycliffe’s mind whirling with plans and possibilities for the future.

  ###

  “Markham,” said Wycliffe, striding into the campaign war room, Goth a half-step behind him. “What news?”

  Wycliffe had taken one of the warehouses of his compound and converted it into the nerve center for the campaign. Rows of computers lined the walls and stood at desks through the room, interspersed with cubicles for phones. Huge TV monitors covered one wall.

  Markham turned. His ruthless majordomo had been more than ready to take charge of Wycliffe’s campaign. The man knew about the winged demons and their…tastes, but did not care, so long as he was paid on time. That, and the promise of a high position once Wycliffe became vice president was all that had been needed to secure his loyalty.

  Markham grinned ear to ear. “Congratulations on a fine speech, Senator. We had it on all the monitors. It was…rousing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone, even you, speak so effectively.”

  “A cross of gold oration,” said one of the Gracchan Party volunteers manning a phone.

  Wycliffe raised an eyebrow. “I should hope not. Williams Jennings Bryan lost the election. How did it take on the ten o’clock news?”

  Markham checked his clipboard. “Excellently. Every major network carried it as the opening story, followed by some commentary, press reaction, people’s reactions, and so forth. Eight minutes of coverage, at least. They’re still talking about it on CNN, I believe.”

  “Good, good,” said Wycliffe. “Any response?”

  Markham laughed and gestured at the cubicles and the campaign workers hunched over the phones and computers. “The phones have been ringing off the hook all night, and your speech has dominated all the social networks. It’s only slowed down in the last hour or so. It’s been almost all congratulations and requests for membership materials. One or two negative calls, but I think they were from crackpots.”

  Wycliffe smiled and clapped Markham on the back. “Good. This mad little venture of mine wouldn’t have gotten ve
ry far without your organizational ability.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Markham. “Do you want to say anything to the volunteers?”

  “Later, when the morning shift comes,” said Wycliffe. “I’ll make a speech then.” He smiled. “And then even I need some sleep. Good night, Markham.”

  “Good night, sir,” said Markham. “Oh, one other thing. Some reporter showed up right before you returned. Claims you promised her an exclusive interview. I tried to send her off, but…”

  “It’s all right,” said Wycliffe. “I did promise to grant her a very exclusive interview. Send her to my office.”

  Markham smiled knowingly. “Ah…one of those. Thought so. She is a pretty little thing. Though if you’ll forgive my bluntness, I suggest you be careful. A scandal could derail things just now.”

  Wycliffe grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve had some practice cleaning up after myself by now.”

  Markham laughed and walked to the intercom. Wycliffe set out for his office, Goth following.

  “I hunger.” Goth’s growl dug into Wycliffe’s ears like a knife.

  Wycliffe glanced over his shoulder. “You can rejoin your kin in 13A. There’s food there…at least the sort of food your kind prefers.”

  Goth’s lips peeled back from his fangs. “I hunger for the woman. I prefer fresh meat.”

  Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to make trouble for me? Having her disappear could cause complications.”

  Goth didn’t say anything. A bit of red glare gleamed from behind his sunglasses. “Fine. Fine! I will instruct her to drive to that abandoned parking lot fifteen blocks west of here in five days. You should know the place very well by now. She will sit and wait for you. Satisfied?”