A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  What did it mean?

  Arran rose and looked at the cairn. Siduri had sacrificed everything for him.

  “I don’t know what you meant,” said Arran, “but I swear upon my name, and my father’s name, and the name of my brother, I swear upon everything I have left that I will find out.”

  He turned to the west, and set off for the Tower of Endless Worlds.

  Chapter 13 - The Weapon

  Anno Domini 2012

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Wycliffe, gripping the podium. The Voice crackled like scraping ice chips just beneath his words. “Recently my Democratic and Republican opponents have laid a charge against my esteemed colleague Senator Jones and myself. They have accused us of demagoguery.” Wycliffe grinned. “Demagoguery. A bit of an old word. And since this is a college campus, filled with bright young people, I suppose I shall ask the audience. Anyone know what a demagogue is?”

  Silence filled the auditorium.

  Wycliffe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Had he gotten an audience filled with art majors? Or, worse yet, women’s studies students? “I hope you all aren’t so reticent in class.”

  A kid in the front row with multiple ear and nose rings stuck up his hand. Wycliffe pointed. “Yes, you, sir.”

  “It means, like…to manipulate the people. With false promises,” said the kid.

  “Yes, very good,” said Wycliffe. He made a mental note to shake hands with the little punk before the cameras later. “And why does the demagogue manipulate the people?”

  The kid blinked. “To…gain power? I think?”

  Wycliffe snapped his fingers. “Quite right. Manipulating the populace with false promises to gain power. I have been accused of this, in addition to other things. The Republicans and the Democrats, parties that have been alternating power for the last century and a half, have accused me of demagoguery. In fact, they even claim that the new political party I founded, the Gracchan Party, is named for a pair of demagogues.” He chuckled. “Appropriate, I suppose.”

  He let some of the Voice filter into speech. Constant practice had far improved his skill with the technique, and now he could play the emotions of a crowd like an instrument.

  “But, ladies and gentlemen, as the election draws closer, you must ask yourself something. Why am I and Senator Jones accused of demagoguery? For that is the mark of the educated mind, is it not? It asks not merely what, but also why. Why were Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus accused of demagoguery? What did they do to warrant such a condemnation?” Wycliffe let the Voice project thoughts of moral courage and heroic inspiration. “They condemned the wealthy for their blatant theft of public property. They cried out for the plight of the poor, for those crushed beneath a heavy burden of debt.” That ought to appeal to the loan-ridden students. “And what did they gain for their efforts but death? But history has vindicated them. They have been shown as champions of the people, defenders of the common good, rather than the spineless toadies of the wealthy and the powerful.”

  The students leaned closer. It was amusing to watch their apathy melt beneath the cold fire of the Voice’s black magic.

  Wycliffe made a show of straightening his notes. “You might be wondering why I am babbling about historical personages two thousand years dead. I mean, if you’d wanted a history lecture, you would have taken a history course, right?” Some students laughed. “But there is a reason, young citizens of our Republic. The ancient Rome of the Gracchi and the United States of America bear frightening similarities.” He let the Voice shift to inspiring uncertain fear of the future. “America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, has become the land of the rich and the home the greedy.”

  Dead silence gripped the auditorium. This had gotten too easy. Wycliffe smothered his smirk and continued the speech, the Voice ringing like a trumpet through his words.

  “All Senator Jones, the Gracchan Party, and I have ever done is point out these simple facts,” said Wycliffe, “among others. We cry out against the dangers facing our nation and the Republicans and the Democrats condemn us as demagogues? Is this fair? Why do the conventional, established, entrenched political parties accuse us of demagoguery? I contend, ladies and gentlemen, that it is because they are wedded to the problem. Most of the Senators are millionaires. Yet how do they pay for their campaigns? Donations from the wealthy, bribes to control their votes! Most of our illustrious Senators should wear advertising to the Capitol!” He stabbed a finger at the podium. “Every dollar spent on this campaign has come from my own pocket!”

  Applause rang through the auditorium, the Voice weaving support and admiration into their minds.

  “Students of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, you are the future. Ask yourselves this. Do you wish to spend your adult lives as debt slaves of the wealthy? Do you wish for an America where your rich masters dictate what you where, what you eat, what you look like, where you work, and, eventually, even how you think? Or would you rather live in the land of the free and the home of the brave? Would you live in an America where you can think and dress as you choose, free of the petty tyranny of money? The future belongs to you. The choice is yours.” Wycliffe pounded the podium. The Voice rose to a climax, crackling like a triumphant fire. “And I urge you to make the correct choice on election day!”

  The crowd rose and applauded, cheers ringing out.

  ###

  “No further questions, I’m afraid,” said Wycliffe, glancing through the crowd of unkempt student reporters. “I bid you all a pleasant day, and wish you well in your studies this summer session.”

  Wycliffe turned and walked down the hallway, his shoes clicking against the tile floor. He heard a few of the student reporters follow him anyway. He walked into the entryway and snapped his fingers.

  Goth stepped out of the shadows, looming dark against the plate glass of the doorways. The reporters froze in their tracks, most deciding they had urgent business elsewhere. One, a young lady dressed all in black, her face adorned with dark makeup, stared fascinated at Goth. Goth’s thick lip curled in a mixed smile and snarl. The young woman turned and fled.

  “You know,” said Wycliffe, pushing open the door. “Sooner or later you’re going to cause me a scandal.”

  Goth said nothing and followed Wycliffe out the door. The sky had turned dark gray, flashes of lightning arcing over the buildings. Wycliffe spotted his limo waiting at the curb and headed toward it.

  “I need to have votes to win this election,” said Wycliffe. “Which I can’t do if you keep scaring away potential voters.”

  Goth’s chuckle mingled with the distant thunder. “I leave no witnesses.”

  Wycliffe lips tightened. “See that you don’t.” He climbed into the limo’s back seat, and Goth settled on the opposite seat.

  “Excellent speech, sir,” said the driver, a grizzled man with close-cropped gray hair.

  Wycliffe smiled. “Thank you, Fletcher.” Like Markham and Thomson, the man had a remarkable talent for selective deafness, though that hadn’t stopped Wycliffe from using the Voice to reinforce his loyalty. “Back to Chicago. O’Hare airport. There’s a…contact we need to pick up, flying in via private jet. We’ll need to be there by two.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Fletcher. “Are we stopping for lunch?”

  “No,” said Wycliffe. “No lunch. I’m anxious to get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. He put the limo into drive and pulled into traffic.

  Wycliffe opened the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of mineral water. “Anything to drink, Goth? A wine cooler?”

  Goth said nothing.

  Wycliffe sipped at his water. “Of course, knowing your tastes, you’d probably prefer something…thicker.”

  Goth said nothing.

  “Talkative as ever,” said Wycliffe. He retrieved his smartphone and unlocked it. He needed to call Jones and impart instructions…

  The smartphone rang. Wycliffe jumped, almost dropped it, and managed to get it to his ear
. “Hello?”

  “Senator. It’s Markham.”

  Wycliffe blinked. “Oh! Of course. I trust the workers from the first tour are returning?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Markham. “The Oregon group just returned. We’re expecting the California group back any minute. You’ve covered nineteen cities in ten days, sir. I hope you’re not too tired.”

  Wycliffe laughed. “I’m a vice presidential candidate, Markham. Exhaustion is for lesser men. Any word on Jones’s speaking trip?” He had sent Jones on a less rigorous speaking trip through New York, Boston, and some of the other cities of the eastern seaboard.

  “Yes, sir,” said Markham. “Senator Jones’s speeches were all received well. Not with quite the enthusiasm of your speeches, if you’ll pardon my frankness.” A sly note entered Markham’s tone. “Senator Jones doesn’t have quite your voice.”

  Wycliffe grinned. “Well, we all can’t be natural-born orators.”

  “One thing, though,” said Markham. “Senator Jones did cancel his appearances in Annapolis and Washington.”

  Wycliffe felt his temper slip a notch. “What? That Washington speech was important. Several Congressmen would have been there. Some of them have pro-Gracchan tendencies. We might have been able to convince them to join.”

  “The official report is that he came down with a bout of flu,” said Markham.

  “Damn it,” said Wycliffe. “Jones is sixty years old. We can’t have the future President looking like a sickly old man.”

  “That was the…ah…official reason, sir,” said Markham.

  Wycliffe grunted. “Oh? Then what was the real reason?”

  “He told me exhaustion,” said Markham. “He said he was too tired to carry on.”

  Wycliffe swore. “From what? He had only five appearances before the Washington speech! Five! Goddamn it all. That man can be as lazy as Warren G. Harding.”

  “Sometimes I think you should be running for president, not Jones,” said Markham.

  “Thank you, Markham,” said Wycliffe. “But I’m only forty-four years old. A bit young for the presidency, historically speaking. Clinton and Kennedy are not precedents I want to follow.” He tapped his teeth. “Theodore Roosevelt, though…well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to cause a schism within the Gracchan Party, not after all the work I’ve invested into it. Besides, I’ll be in a much stronger position to run in my own right after Jones’s term is up.” Wycliffe would rule through Jones, of course, but Markham had probably figured that out on his own.

  “Very well, sir,” said Markham. “Just expressing my concerns.”

  “Always feel free to do that,” said Wycliffe. “This is America, after all.”

  “Noted,” said Markham. “That’s about…wait, one more thing. Are you in the limo with the TV?”

  Wycliffe glanced at the glass eye of the TV staring down from the limo’s roof. “Yeah.”

  “You might want to turn onto CNN,” said Markham. “They’re going to run some favorable coverage.”

  “Really? Excellent. I’ll watch it. Good-bye.” Wycliffe terminated the call and reached for the TV’s remote control. He turned on the TV, flipped to CNN, and sat back to watch. Some static clouded the screen, but not enough to obscure the image.

  “In what is becoming the most charged presidential campaign in years,” said a blonde anchorwoman, smiling into the camera, “the Jones-Wycliffe ticket and the Gracchan Party have pulled ahead in the polls, upsetting the traditional two-party system.” A shot of Jones and Wycliffe together appeared on the screen. “Experts note this is the first time in well over one hundred and sixty years that a third party has carried a lead in the pre-election polls. Both the Republican and Democratic candidates have accused Jones and Wycliffe of a variety of personal scandals.” The anchorwoman reappeared, her face set in a studied expression of solemn thoughtfulness. “However, it appears that the Jones-Wycliffe ticket has a very real chance of winning the White House, a fact that has both Republican and Democratic leadership scrambling to find a new campaign strategy…”

  Wycliffe chuckled. “I doubt they’ll find anything to match the Voice. We’re making history, Goth.” Wycliffe smiled and clicked off the TV. “Excellent.”

  “Fools,” said Goth.

  Wycliffe turned his head. “Oh?”

  “Fools all,” said Goth. “They sing paeans of praise for that doddering old fool you have dominated.”

  “Jones?” said Wycliffe.

  “Yes,” said Goth. “He is your puppet and nothing more.”

  “Of course,” said Wycliffe, reaching for his water bottle.

  “Ignorant vermin,” said Goth. He had grown to despise the general populace of America.

  “But Goth,” said Wycliffe, grinning. “They’re seeing what I wish them to see. That’s exactly the point.” He snapped his fingers. “Speaking of which, I need to put in a call to my dominated puppet and make sure that he stays properly dominated.” He slid out his smartphone and dialed Jones’s hotel number. Even with the Voice, he had never been able to teach the old fool to use a cell phone.

  The phone rang nine times. Wycliffe was about to hang up when someone picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Senator Jones, I hope?” said Wycliffe.

  “Thomas,” said Jones, his voice taking a pleading note “I can explain…”

  “Explain?” said Wycliffe. “Why should you need to explain anything? Unless, of course, you’re referring to that speech you missed in Annapolis.” Jones sputtered. “That’s not such a big deal. But the speech in Washington. That was important.”

  “I was tired,” said Jones. “I’m not a young man. I can’t keep up this pace. My…my ulcer’s been acting up. I can’t do this much campaigning any more.”

  Wycliffe sighed again. “Senator. Your instructions were perfectly clear. At least I thought so. Six speeches. That’s all I asked of you. And you couldn’t even do that.”

  “I…I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Jones. “Damn it, Thomas. I want out.”

  Wycliffe chuckled. “You’re in far too deeply to ever get out, Senator. You belong to me now. You thought you could use me, didn’t you? You needed a gimmick for reelection. You wanted to invest in my businesses. You thought you could expose the corruption, make a big name for yourself, and get reelected, maybe run for president.” Wycliffe laughed at the memory. “But I showed you everything. Including the Voice. You know entirely too much for me to let you go.”

  “I’ll tell, Thomas,” said Jones, trying to put a threat into his shaking voice.

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll go to the press. I’ll tell them everything.”

  Wycliffe snorted. “They’d never believe you.”

  “I don’t even have to tell them everything. They don’t need to know about those winged monsters and the Tower. I just have to tell them about the guns and the bombs and money laundering and the murders.” Jones sounded terrified. “I tell them, Thomas, if you don’t let me go.”

  Wycliffe threw back his head and laughed. “Okay. Fine. Go ahead and tell them.”

  “What?” said Jones.

  “Go ahead,” said Wycliffe. “Do it, you gutless coward. Hang up on me and call the press. Tell them everything.”

  “I…fine! I’ll do…it. I will…I…” Jones’s voice dissolved into a strangled gasp of pain.

  “That’s right,” said Wycliffe, smirking. “You can’t. You’re a spineless worm, Senator, but that’s not why. It’s the compulsions I’ve burned into that quivering jelly you call a brain. You can’t tell the press. You can’t tell anyone. You can’t kill yourself, you can’t back out, you can’t do anything except what I tell you. You’re mine, Senator Jones. Things will go well if you simply do everything I tell you.”

  Jones stifled a sob. “I…”

  “President of the United States,” said Wycliffe. “That’s what I’m offering you. Think of it. President Jones. You’ve wanted it for years. Are you really going to lose
your nerve now?”

  “I…I’m just so tired,” whispered Jones.

  “The tunnel’s always the darkest just before the light,” said Wycliffe. “Another six months, Senator. Another six months, I promise, and you’ll be President of the United States of America.” He let the Voice slip into his tone, coaxing and tempting, rather than dominating. Sometimes a carrot was better than a stick. “Do you really want to abandon it all, after you’ve worked for so long and so hard?”

  “No,” said Jones.

  “Very good,” said Wycliffe. “I knew you would make the right choice. I have confidence in you, Senator. You’ll reschedule that speech and make it tonight.”

  “But I…”

  “Do it!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling to full power in his tone. The smartphone grew warm beneath his fingers. “You will make the speech, I command it. I know what is best for you, Senator, even if you don’t.”

  “Okay,” said Jones, pained. “Fine.”

  “Furthermore,” said Wycliffe, the Voice crackling in his throat. “You will not question me again. I trust this is understood? You will deliver the speech, the speech I have written, and you will not question me…”

  Static blared from the smartphone as the Voice reverberated through its circuits. Wycliffe cursed and dropped it to the floor. Sparks shot from the battery housing, and the screen flickered and went dark.

  “Damn it!” said Wycliffe, flexing his fingers. “I go through more of those things in a month…”

  “Shall I kill him?” said Goth.

  Wycliffe frowned. “Who? Jones? I need him alive.”

  Goth growled.

  Wycliffe thought about it. “After the election.”

  ###

  The limo splashed through deep puddles as it pulled up to the curb. Wycliffe sighed, grateful for the air conditioning, and leaned back in his seat. He glanced out the window at the hustle and bustle of O’Hare airport. Storm clouds still broiled to the west, yet shafts of sunlight blazed down through gaps in the clouds.