A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  She lifted a stone cup. “Drink this.”

  “What…is it?” managed Arran.

  She raised an eyebrow. “A draught for the pain, mixed with honey, so you won’t vomit it up. Now drink, I say.”

  “Drink,” said Arran. He was too weak to nod.

  She lifted the cup to his lips and titled it back. The dark fluid washed down his mouth and eased the dryness in his throat.

  “Thank you,” said Arran. He felt a little better.

  She smiled and wiped his chin. “It is I who should thank you. That Ugaoun would have killed me if you had not come along just then.”

  Arran blinked. “The Ugaoun? You mean…wait. I saw you. Baal-Mar-Dan was about to kill you.”

  “The devil had a name?” She shrugged. “It is said that you should know a man’s name before you kill him, but I doubt the Ugaoun count as men. Yes, it was me. You killed the Ugaoun, but you were near death. I took you back to our Hold and have tried to heal you since.” Her brow furrowed in a frown. “For several tendays I thought that you would die. It will surprise many that you have awakened.”

  “Tendays?” said Arran. “How long have been here?”

  “Two turns of the moon,” said the woman.

  “Two months! Gods,” said Arran. He licked his lips. “Where am I? And who are you?”

  She smiled. “I thought you would ask those questions sooner or later. You are in the Hold of Clan Hadazer. And I am Siduri, wife of Jabir, daughter of Shamadan.”

  “Scorpions,” said Arran. “You’re the Scorpions. The clans of the desert.”

  Siduri laughed. “Aye, there are those that call us such. Now, I expect you to pay me in kind. Who are you?”

  “Arran,” he said. “Arran Belphon, of Carlisan.” His smile was bitter. “At one time.”

  “Are you a Knight of the Sacred Blade?” She pointed at the wall. His Sacred Blade, Luthar’s sword, and his guns lay in a heap.

  A muscle in his face trembled. “I was. Now I…I am…”

  “Now you will sleep,” said Siduri. “You must rest, and conserve your strength. The Shan and my husband will come to question you tomorrow. It will be…trying.”

  Arran yawned again. His eyelids felt weighted with lead, and he slipped into sleep.

  ###

  “Wake him,” a harsh voice said.

  “That may not be wise,” said Siduri. She sounded displeased. “He is on the mend, yes, but not yet whole.”

  “We shall wake him, my Shan.”

  “Jabir,” said Siduri, anger creeping into her voice, “that is not…”

  Arran opened his eyes. “I’m already awake.”

  Siduri stood by the door, her arms crossed. Besides her stood a squat, hook-nosed man wearing the same style of dust-colored clothing. A tall old man in a brown robe stood next to him. The old man held an ornamented wooden staff, and pitiless black eyes glittered in his gaunt, weathered face. Unlike Siduri, both men wore their heads bare.

  Siduri blinked. “Honored Shan, this Arran Belphon, a Knight of the Sacred Blade from the kingdom of Carlisan.” She touched the arm of the hook-nosed man. “This is my husband, Jabir son of Jabaan.” She said it without any trace of affection. “And this is the Shan of our clan.”

  “My greetings,” said Arran.

  The old man grunted. “It is customary to rise to greet the Shan, but given your condition, I shall excuse you.”

  Arran’s broken leg clenched. “Most gracious of you.”

  A thin smile appeared on the Shan’s face. “Indeed. Tell me, Sir Arran Belphon of Carlisan, how you came to the lands of my clan.”

  “I already told you what happened,” said Siduri.

  The Shan didn’t blink. “Nevertheless, I would like to hear it from his own lips.”

  “As you wish,” said Arran. “I was walking through the desert. I heard a scream, and saw a winged demon attacking Siduri. I managed to slay it, but it wounded me. Mortally, I thought, but I woke up here.”

  The Shan tapped Arran’s weapons with his staff. “Tell me, are these your guns?”

  “Yes,” said Arran.

  “Where did you get them?”

  The muscles in Arran’s arms tensed at the memories. “I killed their owners and took them. I caught the first one by surprise, in the Crimson Plain, on the other side of the world. I killed him and took his Kalashnikov. After that, it was easier. I used that gun to kill more of Marugon’s soldiers, and I took their weapons.”

  Jabir sneered. “He fights like a coward.”

  Siduri raised an eyebrow. “So do the Ugaoun Lord’s men, and they are usually victorious.”

  The Shan tapped Luthar’s Sacred Blade with his staff. “And why do you seek these hell-forged machines, these…guns, as you say?”

  “To kill Marugon’s soldiers.”

  “And why do you wish to kill the soldiers?”

  Arran closed his eyes. “Because it is all that is left to me. My family is dead. Carlisan is a pile of burned ruins. The Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade have all been killed. The White Council is gone.” His voice rose to a hoarse shout. “Everything I ever loved is dead and gone. Tell me, old man! Why would I not want to kill the soldiers?”

  Jabir bristled. “You disrespect the Shan!”

  The old man raised his gnarled hand. “All this I understand. Yet there are no soldiers of the Lord of the Ugaoun in the desert of the clans, Arran of Carlisan. Why did you come here, then?”

  Arran stared at the wall. “Because there is nothing left. Antarese had fallen.”

  Jabir hissed. “It is true, then. We could see the smoke on the horizon.”

  “There is nothing left, nothing,” said Arran. “All is lost in ruin.” He glared at the Shan. “I came to this place to die.”

  “Ha!” said Jabir, spinning on Siduri. “Did you not say he had lost the will to live? Did you not?”

  “Jabir,” said the Shan. “Peace.”

  Jabir lowered his head. “My Shan.”

  “So,” said the Shan. “You came here to die, Arran of Carlisan?”

  “Yes,” said Arran.

  “Perhaps I should kill you, then, and have done with it?” The Shan reached into his robes, and Arran saw a dagger on his belt.

  Siduri bristled. “You would kill a guest in our Hold? The gods would surely smite you for such wickedness.”

  Jabir’s face crinkled in a sneer. “You should not speak to me of virtue.”

  “Enough, both of you!” said the Shan. “What Arran of Carlisan desires is unimportant. Siduri brought him into our Hold. Therefore he is a guest, and it would be wickedness to throw him out.”

  “Thank you,” said Arran.

  The Shan’s face remained impassive. “But you are a danger to us, are you not?”

  Arran snorted. “How so? I cannot stand. I cannot lift a sword or a gun. It even hurts to talk. How could I threaten you?”

  “Because,” said the Shan. “The Ugaoun was hunting you.”

  Arran remained silent.

  “Yes,” said the Shan, “I knew it to be so. The Ugaoun do not come into the desert of the clans. What is here for them? It came hunting you, Arran of Carlisan, and you killed it. Others will come to find you. And they will find you, do not doubt.” His dark gaze bored into Arran. “And here you lie, in our Hold, in the midst of my people.”

  Siduri shifted. “Even the Ugaoun could not find us here.”

  “The Ugaoun are things of the black magic,” said the Shan. “They will come for Arran of Carlisan. That is unchangeable. Where he is…that can change.”

  “Or even if he lives at all,” said Jabir.

  Siduri scowled. “Would you murder him? Or throw him into the desert to die? His injuries are still great. The desert would claim him in hours.”

  “Perhaps that is best, Siduri,” said the Shan. “He came here to die. Why not let him do as he wishes?”

  “I will not stand for it,” said Siduri. “If you throw him out, then I will go too.”


  “And such a loss that would be,” said Jabir.

  Siduri scowled. “What do you say?”

  “You heard me,” said Jabir. “And you know what I mean.”

  “Enough,” said the Shan. “Jabir, I instructed you to speak of this with me later.”

  Siduri glared at her husband. “Oh, so you already have asked the honorable Shan if you can send me away? Have you decided? Rahanna, perhaps?”

  Jabir smirked. “Rahanna has wide hips. Perhaps she will have enough virtue to birth many sons…unlike you.”

  “Enough!” said the Shan. “This is not the time or the place.” He looked to Arran. “We shall wait until you have recovered, man of Carlisan. Then we shall decide what is to be done with you.”

  Arran nodded. Part of him wished the Shan had decided to throw him out into the desert. Another part, however, remembered the burning heat and the shriveling thirst and did not want to endure that once again. “I…I…”

  A jolt of pain shot up his leg and sank into his chest wounds. His leg felt as if it had been stabbed with a hot knife, and his answer to the Shan disappeared in a wince of pain.

  “Sandstorm!” spat Siduri. “His leg shifted. I must tend him.”

  The Shan nodded. “Do as you must. We will speak later.” He turned and left. Jabir spun and stalked out without a word.

  Arran gritted his teeth, pain pulsing through him.

  “Here,” said Siduri. She held out a stone cup. “Drink this.”

  She held the cup to his lips and he drank. The thick draught inside had a bitter tang. Heaviness swept through his jerking muscles, and he sank into sleep.

  Chapter 7 - A Business Arrangement

  Anno Domini 2012

  Wycliffe picked up the phone, dialed, and listened to it ring. He leaned back in his chair.

  Someone picked up.

  “Hello, old friend,” said Wycliffe. “It’s your benefactor.” He paused and listened. “How are things on the police force? Good, good. What do I want? Just to complete our little contract. I did you a favor, and now you do me one. Oh, don’t worry. It’s nothing onerous. Nothing even particularly illegal. I just want a list of names. Specifically names connected to cigarette and tobacco related crimes in the last six months…”

  Wycliffe blinked, and his scowl morphed into a grin. “You’re joking. That’s ideal.” His grin widened. “Yes, quite right. I’m in need of a flunky.”

  ###

  Powdery snow fell against the limo’s windshield, the wipers’ blades screeching against the glass.

  “Here,” said Wycliffe, pointing. “Driver. That motel right there.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the driver.

  Wycliffe adjusted his overcoat. Goth sat beside him, a dark and brooding presence in his black jacket and sunglasses.

  “Talkative tonight, aren’t we?” said Wycliffe.

  Goth said nothing.

  The limo pulled into the motel parking lot. Wycliffe ran a hand through his hair. “An interesting missing persons report crossed my desk the other day. Anne Louis, the reporter who did that flattering interview of me.”

  Goth’s lips pulled back in a fanged smile.

  Wycliffe sighed. “You understand the last thing I need right now is a scandal?”

  Goth seemed almost amused. “Nothing of her shall ever be found.”

  “Well.” Wycliffe blinked. “Good. Driver! Remain here. I expect to complete my business momentarily.” The driver pulled into a parking space before the motel.

  Wycliffe climbed out the back seat. “Goth. Wait over there by the door.”

  “Why?” said Goth.

  Wycliffe glared at him. “Because you send people into screaming fits. I’d prefer to avoid that, just yet. If I need you I’ll come and get you.”

  “Very well.” Goth stood to the side of door, snow accumulating on his broad shoulders. He looked like some thug waiting to ambush a motel patron Wycliffe shook off the morbid thoughts and strode into the motel lobby, brushing snow from his overcoat.

  The motel had seen better days. Artificial wood paneling peeled away from the walls, and dingy furniture stood around a coffee table covered with periodicals from the early eighties. An elderly woman with bright red hair sat at the front desk, attacking her nails with a file.

  Wycliffe put on his politician’s smile and leaned against the desk. The woman didn’t look up. At last Wycliffe coughed into his palm.

  The woman didn’t look up. “No vacancies.”

  Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “No doubt, no doubt.” He focused his will and brought up a tiny portion of the Voice. “Ma’am.”

  The woman blinked and looked up. “Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God, I don’t believe it.” Her hands began fluttering like anxious birds. She hopped up and down on the stool. “Oh my God…”

  Wycliffe frowned in consternation. Had the Voice had an adverse effect on her mind? “Is there something amiss?”

  “You’re Senator Wycliffe!” said the woman. “I voted for you! And…and I saw your speech the other night! It was great. You’re a great man, sir. I even joined the Gracchan Party, and I haven’t voted since 1982.” She produced her purse, fumbled through it, and brandished a Gracchan Party membership card.

  Wycliffe smiled. “It’s always good to meet a supporter.”

  “I’m going to vote for you, sir, and I’ll make my husband and his worthless step-kids vote for you, too,” said the woman. “I really think you should be running for president and not Senator Jones.”

  Wycliffe smiled and raised a hand. “What can I say? Senator Jones is a wise and experienced statesman. I’d be honored to serve as his vice-president.” His smile widened. “Still, there’s always the 2016 election.” The woman beamed. “Now, do you think you could call my friend for me?”

  “What? Oh, oh, sure. What’s his name?” She leafed through a dog-eared binder.

  Wycliffe remembered the name his contact had provided over the phone. “Kyle Allard. Should have checked in just today.”

  “Oh! Here it is.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll call him down for you.”

  Wycliffe resisted the urge to clap. “Thank you.”

  The woman dialed and argued with someone over the phone. “He’ll be right down.”

  “Good,” said Wycliffe. The woman smiled at him. Fame did have its advantages. A pity she wasn’t forty years younger and forty pounds lighter.

  Footsteps thudded down the stairs, and a skinny young man in a rumpled business suit walked into the lobby. He didn’t look older than twenty-five. A shock of greasy black hair crowned his head, dark stubble shaded his jaw, and a number of rings gleamed in his ears.

  “Kyle Allard?” said Wycliffe. “I’m Thomas Wycliffe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Allard ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen, buddy, I’ve got a lot on my mind, so why don’t you just say your piece and get it over with. Unless you’re with the cops. Then you can go to hell.”

  “Mr. Allard!” said the woman, shocked. “Speak respectfully to the Senator!”

  Allard frowned. “Senator…” Wycliffe saw the realization dawn on his face. “Oh, God. A Senator. Listen. I…I was just broke, it seems like a quick way to pick up some bucks…”

  Wycliffe laughed. Fame did indeed have its advantages. “Relax, Mr. Allard. I’m not here to talk about…that. At least not directly.”

  “Right.” Wycliffe saw the bravado reappear on Allard’s face. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Tell you what, Senator. Why don’t you cut through all the bullshit and get to the point? I’m a busy man.”

  The woman glared. “You apologize…”

  Wycliffe smiled and waved a hand. “Quite all right. I deal with politicians all day. I appreciate a man who gets right to business. Let’s take a little walk, Mr. Allard. We have business to discuss.” Perhaps meeting Goth would put the fear of God into the insouciant little bastard.

  The receptionist beamed. “It was an honor meeting you, Senator.”


  Wycliffe nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” He took Allard’s shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk. We have quite a bit to discuss.”

  Allard swallowed, but let Wycliffe lead him out into the night.

  Wycliffe smiled. An appropriate comparison, really.

  Allard frowned. “Right. Whatever. Listen, what do you want…” His voice trailed off. Goth strode out of the shadows and stared down at him. Allard took a step back. “I…I don’t have any money.”

  “What?” said Wycliffe. “Oh, don’t flinch so, Mr. Allard. Petty theft is not my business. This man is an associate of mine.”

  “Associate?” said Allard, staring at his reflection in Goth’s sunglasses.

  Wycliffe bit back a laugh. “This is Mr. Goth Marson, a business partner of mine. He also works as my bodyguard. He’s very good at it.”

  “I can imagine,” said Allard. He had gone paler. “Um…nice to meet you, Mr. Marson.”

  Goth said nothing.

  “Well, to business,” said Wycliffe. He hoped to convince this young fool without use of the Voice. He wanted to save his energies for the campaign. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarette Marugon had sent with the scroll. “Care for a cigarette?”

  Allard scowled. “No!”

  “Really?” said Wycliffe. “Why not?”

  “It’s a disgusting habit,” said Allard. “I don’t want cancer. And I’m…well, I’m sick to death of cigarettes.”

  Wycliffe grinned. “And just why is that?”

  Allard shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Oh, but I do,” said Wycliffe. “I heard about your little misadventure with the cigarette sales.”

  Allard flinched. “How’d you know about that? I only got arrested yesterday.”

  Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Come, come, Mr. Allard. Do you seriously think I became a Senator without a few well-placed contacts?”

  Allard bit his lip. “How much do you know?”