A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  “See?” said Marugon. “They are vulnerable to the Voice. A man may resist the Voice, if his will and spirit are strong enough. But the changelings cannot.”

  “A…a great achievement, Marugon,” said Wycliffe, his throat dry. The possibilities both thrilled and terrified him. Suppose he could raise an army of these things? Suppose he trained them to use guns?

  “Indeed,” said Marugon. “Tell me. What do you usually feed the winged demons?”

  Wycliffe gestured at a row of freezers against one wall. “I have raw meat stored here. They seemed pleased well enough with that.” He thought of Goth’s recent indiscretions. “Though not always.”

  “Ah,” said Marugon. “Goth-Mar-Dan. Tell me. Do you think your kin would enjoy some fresh meat?” Goth emitted a rumbling chuckle.

  “Why?” said Wycliffe.

  Marugon pointed at the bound and hooded people standing among the mules. “I brought some prisoners with me. A few Antardrim who survived the Emerald Field. Some of their wives and children. The winged demons have served me well. Good service deserves repayment, does it not?” The changeling shuffled to crouch besides Marugon.

  “If you wish,” said Wycliffe.

  Marugon beckoned to his soldiers. They grabbed the bound prisoners and wrestled them towards the glassed-in room in the warehouse’s corner. Wycliffe watched as the soldiers stripped the prisoners naked. Soon four men, three women, and five children hung in chains from the ceiling. Rags gagged their mouths. Their wide eyes rolled back and forth in fear.

  The door on the far wall opened. Goth strode into the room, followed by dozens of the slouching thugs. One by one they peeled off their motorcycle jackets, sunglasses, and false beards. One by one the glass cage filled with grinning demons.

  And as one, the winged demons leapt upon their prey.

  “You’ll excuse me, I hope,” said Wycliffe. Blood splashed against the glass wall. “I don’t wish to deny your revenge, of course, but I’d prefer not to watch it.” One of the children screamed. Wycliffe felt his stomach lurch.

  Marugon waved a hand, his eyes fixed on the spectacle. “Go,” he whispered, his face unreadable. “I shall speak with you later.”

  Wycliffe turned and headed for his office.

  He had much to consider.

  ###

  “Oh my God,” whispered Kyle Allard, peering around the crate. The last of the chained prisoners stopped thrashing. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” His hands would not stop shaking.

  He had been curious about Senator. Wycliffe’s secret warehouse for weeks. Then he had come to his morning appointment with Wycliffe and seen Mr. Marson change, for just a minute, into a snarling nightmare.

  The curiosity had become a morbid obsession.

  Allard had been walking to his car when he had seen the white truck pull into 13A’s dock. He couldn’t resist the opportunity. He had climbed over the lip of the truck dock and slipped inside, unseen, and hid behind a crate.

  Now Allard wished he had stayed outside. He wished he had never accepted Wycliffe’s offer.

  Guilt hammered at him in mighty waves.

  What had he done? He had given those damned cigarettes to thousands and thousands of people over the last few months. How many people would become monsters because of what he had done?

  He stood frozen through the long minutes as the winged nightmares devoured the chained men, women, and children. He didn’t dare move. The winged creatures would see him. Or, worse, the man in the black robes, the man Wycliffe had called Marugon, would see him. The winged things were hideous, and the creature Colebrook had become was a nightmare. But nothing had ever terrified Allard like the black-robed man.

  He wanted to run until his heart burst.

  The winged monsters finished their meal. Marugon chuckled and turned, the changeling shadowing his steps.

  It stopped and sniffed at the air, red eyes narrowed.

  “What?” said Marugon. “Do you smell something?”

  Allard went rock-still. His heart sounded like a drumbeat.

  “Come!” said Marugon, his voice ringing. The thing that had been Colebrook shuddered and followed him.

  Allard turned and crept towards the truck door. He slid it open a few feet and jumped out into the compound. Somehow he managed to make it to the front gate, check out with the guard, and walk into the night without breaking into hysterics.

  Allard strode past his car without stopping, his hands shoved into his suit pockets. He had to tell someone. He had to warn them about the cigarettes. His walk broke into a run. He had to warn them about the great and popular Senator Thomas Wycliffe. He had to tell them…

  His panting twisted into hysterical laughter. Who would believe him? He staggered to a trio of trash bins alongside a wall and sat down besides them. The concrete felt icy cold. Wycliffe would find out if he told.

  What if Wycliffe sent the winged monsters to find him?

  “What am I going to do?” whispered Allard.

  He sat alone in the darkness for a long time.

  Something clicked against the dirty concrete.

  Allard looked up. A hollow-faced man leaned against the nearby wall, the streetlight casting planes of shadow across his face. He wore scuffed boots, torn blue jeans, and a ragged army camouflage jacket. His hair and beard were a tangled, greasy mess of gray and brown hair. He leaned upon a steel-handled cane in his left hand.

  “Son,” said the man.

  “Leave me the hell alone,” said Allard, trying to sound tough and failing. “I don’t have any money.” He did not want to get mugged, though getting killed would solve his problems.

  The man stepped closer, his cane tapping against the sidewalk. “I don’t want money.”

  Allard scowled. “Then what the hell do you want, man…” His voice trailed off. “Dude. What the hell happened to you? You look…you look…”

  “Like I got stuck up shit creek without a paddle?” said the man.

  “I was thinking like something chewed you up and spit you out, but, yeah, that works,” said Allard. The man looked like a homeless Vietnam vet Allard had seen once; scarred, battered, and forever haunted.

  The man cackled. “Yeah. That’s about right.” The beard hid the worst of the scars on his jaw and neck.

  “What the hell happened to you anyway?” said Allard, curious despite his terror.

  The man coughed. “Wycliffe.”

  Allard scrambled to his feet. “What? You don’t work for him, do you?” Had Wycliffe found out already?

  “No,” said the scarred man. “Wycliffe happened to me.” He titled his head to the side. “You’ve caused me a lot of problems, handing out those damned cigarettes.”

  “I…I didn’t know, oh, God, I didn’t know what they were,” said Allard. The horror threatened to overwhelm him. “Wait…how do you know?”

  “I’ve been watching Wycliffe,” said the man. He tapped his cane between Allard’s feet. “And I’ve been watching you, Kyle Allard. I know all about it, even if you don’t.” He rubbed his chin. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

  “Seen what?” said Allard.

  “What Wycliffe’s really like,” said the man. “What all his pet thugs are really like. What he’s got locked up in his secret warehouse. Enough guns and bombs to turn Chicago to a crater. And the man in the black robes.” Allard shuddered. “Yeah. You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

  “Who are you?” said Allard.

  The man hesitated. “Wycliffe ruined me. So I’ve been watching him ever since. Someday I’m going to find a way to ruin that bastard.” He smirked. “It’s not the entire truth, but close enough. But what are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” said Allard.

  The man poked Allard in the chest. “You know the truth. About him. What are you going to do? You can’t go back to work. Wycliffe will know. He’ll kill you. Or you’ll wish he had killed you, before he’s done. And you can’t run. He’ll know. He’ll send the winged th
ings to find you.”

  The possibility filled Allard with dread. “I don’t know. But…but…I…” He looked at the ground. “I have to do something. It’s my fault. Mine. I handed out all those cigarettes. Oh, God.” He scrubbed his hands across his eyes. “I don’t know. Just something. I have do something.”

  The man stared at him in silence for a long minute. “Maybe I can help.”

  “How?” said Allard.

  The man pointed his cane at a battered gray van parked near the curb. “Come with me.” He limped towards the van, Allard following.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?” said Allard.

  The man stopped before the van’s back doors and dug a ring of keys from his pocket. “A name?” He fumbled with the keys, picked one, and thrust it into the lock. “Regent will work.”

  “Regent? Okay, Mr. Regent,” said Allard. “Let me guess. You’re with the FBI? Or the CIA, right?”

  Regent snorted. “The CIA,” he said, throwing the van doors open wide, “couldn’t find shit in a shithouse.”

  “Goddamn,” whispered Allard.

  Two racks of gleaming assault weapons hung from the van’s walls. Other racks held machine pistols, gun parts, and a variety of electronic equipment. A rack on the floor held six black metal rods that looked like spiked spears with batteries and wires attached.

  “Those…those are guns,” said Allard. “How did you…”

  “Shut up. I have a lot to tell you. First lesson, Allard,” said Regent. “Forewarned is forearmed.” He patted one of the assault rifles and grinned. “And the more heavily forearmed, the better. Now let’s get you out of the city. You and I are going to have to disappear for a while, I’m afraid.” He turned, dark eyes glittering beneath bushy brows. “You with me, son?”

  Allard swallowed. He didn’t want to get into that van with this well-armed madman. But what choice did he have? “Okay. Just…just don’t point those things at me.”

  Regent snickered and shoved a pistol into a shoulder holster.

  Chapter 16 - A Chance Meeting

  Anno Domini 2012

  Wycliffe sat in his office and plotted strategy with Markham.

  It was a pleasant diversion from thinking about Marugon and his damned nuclear bomb.

  “I think the next speaking tour should go through California, Oregon, the other west coast states,” said Markham, flipping through a sheaf of papers.

  “Understandable,” said Wycliffe. “After all, Senator Jones and I are both from Illinois. We must try to build national appeal. But why California?”

  “California has the most electoral votes,” said Markham. He tucked the paper away in his briefcase and retrieved another. “Our research shows that the anti-corporate plank would go over well in Los Angeles and San Francisco, particularly. And we’re going to lose Texas, most likely, since it has traditionally voted Republican. Texas has a lot of electoral votes, and we’ll need California to counter them. Combined with Illinois, which we’re certainly going to take, it might decide the election…” Markham yawned. “Ah. Pardon me, Senator.”

  Wycliffe grinned and sipped at his water. “Don’t burn out on me, Markham. The election’s not for another six months yet.”

  Markham laughed. “It’s all uphill from here, though. I just need some coffee.”

  “I think we’ll send Senator Jones through the Plains states,” said Wycliffe. “Rural areas, mostly. Kansas and Nebraska, and perhaps the Dakotas.”

  Markham frowned. “The rural states won’t carry much of an impact come election day.”

  “Quite true,” said Wycliffe. “But we have an advantage. I can speak in the cities. Senator Jones can speak in the rural areas. The urban vote might be decisive, but the rural vote should not be ignored. Better to have both.” Besides, Wycliffe had the Voice. He could influence huge crowds in the cities, and Senator Jones could speak some dirt-grubbing farmers.

  Markham made a note. “And that leaves us with…ah, your speaking engagement tonight.” He frowned. “It’s a fine gesture, but is it really the best use of your time?”

  Wycliffe smiled. “Publicity, publicity. Speaking to a bunch of honors students makes for excellent publicity. Besides, those honor students can vote. And they’re young and idealistic. We might snare ourselves a few new campaign workers.” His trip to the University of Wisconsin a few weeks ago had caught hundreds of new volunteers.

  Young people were impressionable, and the Voice did wonders on the impressionable.

  “Very good,” said Markham. “Well, I’d better get back to…”

  The office door opened. Wycliffe scowled. “I said I was not to be disturbed…”

  Then he saw who was at the door, and he forced aside his irritation.

  Marugon strode into the office. He had exchanged his black robes for a black double-breasted Armani suit. It made him look like a ruthless CEO or an experienced assassin.

  “Mr. Marugon, sir,” said Markham.

  “Go,” said Marugon, his words crackling with the Voice. “You have carried out your duties well and faithfully.” Markham rose and left. Marugon sat in the chair he had vacated.

  “You know,” said Wycliffe, restraining a scowl. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use the Voice on my workers. I need their minds clear.”

  “They do not matter,” said Marugon. “The nuclear device. Have your agents made any progress?”

  Wycliffe bit his lip. “Some. There…ah…was a setback.”

  Marugon’s eyes flashed. “Explain.”

  “The bomb is in Vladivostok,” said Wycliffe. “A port on the Pacific coast of Russia, as you will…”

  “I am well aware of the geography of your world,” said Marugon. “The bomb is in Vladivostok. Why is it not here?”

  “There was a problem. Kurkov contracted a freighter captain to smuggle the bomb to Los Angeles. But the freighter hit a storm in the Sea of Japan and sunk, and the captain and most of the crew drowned. So, we have no ship to carry the bomb. Kurkov is looking into other means of transportation.”

  Marugon stood and began to pace, head titled, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. “You will instruct your agents to obtain the nuclear device as soon as possible. I must have it, Senator Wycliffe.”

  Wycliffe’s temper slipped. “Yes. You’ve told me that. Many times. But why do you need a nuclear bomb? Your enemies are all destroyed. Are some renegade peasants armed with pitchforks proving too much for your soldiers?”

  Marugon turned, his gaze sending chills down Wycliffe’s spine. “They are all gone. My enemies are defeated, Senator Wycliffe.”

  “Is that it?” said Wycliffe. Marugon had been acting erratically since his arrival. He would sit and read for days at a time. Or he would pace, staring out the windows and muttering to himself. “There are no enemies left to fight?”

  Marugon snorted. “Hardly. There are always enemies. New ones rise up. But that is not my concern. I want that bomb.”

  Wycliffe leaned forward. “And you will have it. But these things take time.” Marugon scowled. “Yes, I know I’ve told you all this before, but it’s the truth. Shipping a nuclear bomb is not easy. Bribes must be paid. If my involvement in this came out…why, it could ruin everything. I must be careful. But the bomb will arrive. And if all else fails, after I win the election, I will have the means to provide you with as many bombs as you might wish.”

  Marugon nodded. “Very well. I must be patient.” He smirked. “I have waited so long already. What are a few more months, no?” He paced to the window and stared out into the compound. “You are giving a speech tonight.”

  Wycliffe turned his chair to watch Marugon. “Yes.”

  “I shall accompany you.”

  Wycliffe frowned. “Why?”

  Marugon turned his head and lifted an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “It…seems unusual, that’s all,” said Wycliffe. Marugon had never shown more than a polite interest in Wycliffe’s political activities.

  “I
have not seen much of your world, Senator Wycliffe,” said Marugon. “Indeed, I have not even seen very much of your city. Now that my enemies are overthrown, as you have reminded me, I can take the time to indulge my curiosity. Besides, Goth-Mar-Dan tells me you have found an interesting use for the Voice, using it to raise emotion in a gathered crowd. I wish to see this application.”

  Wycliffe smothered a grimace. How much else had Goth shared with Marugon? “It’s hardly impressive, at least to one of your skills. Will…you desire bodyguards?”

  Marugon raised his eyebrows. “I hardly require bodyguards, no? But why?”

  Wycliffe licked his lips. “Goth and his kin have been less troublesome than usual since you arrived. But they are still difficult.” He had stopped taking Goth along on his campaign stops. The winged demon simply inspired too much fear in onlookers. “I would prefer not to have them cause any trouble tonight.”

  “They may remain,” said Marugon. “You are right. They are difficult to manage. Their appetites are very powerful. Perhaps I shall take them back with me to my world, once I have the bomb. My world is conquered, the peasants of the High Kingdoms under firm control. They may ravage as they wish through my world without causing undue problems.”

  For some reason, Wycliffe thought Marugon had lied. “We shall depart at six, if that is acceptable.”

  Marugon’s smile turned wolfish. “Very well.”

  ###

  Thunder boomed. Ally almost jumped out of her seat, the seat belt jerking against her neck.

  The radio crackled, and Simon scowled. “Could you change the channel?”

  Katrina grunted and reached for the dial, her skirt rustling against the seat. “Station, Simon. It’s a radio station.” Lightning flashed on the horizon, illuminating the dusk sky. “I hope somebody remembered to bring an umbrella.”

  Lithon looked up from his magazine. “I brought an umbrella.”

  “Smart boy,” said Katrina. “This seems clear…”

  “In other news,” said a newscaster’s calm voice, “Presidential candidate Senator William Jones is scheduled to make a speech to the Chicago Humanitarians’ Club. Jones and his outspoken running mate, Senator Thomas Wycliffe, are embarking for a campaign trip through the West Coast next week.”