A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  That got applause. He had gotten better at this. Six months ago he would have used the Voice on the crowd from the very start. Now he had learned to play on their emotions without benefit of the Voice’s powers.

  But the Voice, of course, would come into play when it came time to send their emotions rampaging out of control.

  Wycliffe leaned forward. “The economy is bad, true. Yet it didn’t seem to touch Cashwell, Indiana. Why is that?” He began to weave the Voice into his words, letting his speech hum like a taut guitar string. “Because the people of Cashwell were employed at Orchestra Manufacturing. Because Orchestra was producing screws, nuts, bolts, and nails. I don’t care how bad the economy gets, I don’t care how low the stock market falls, I don’t care how flustered those economic blowhards get, people need screws and bolts. The market is strong!” Wycliffe slammed his fist against the podium, letting the Voice project feelings of betrayal and outrage. “Yet what has happened? Why does Cashwell have the highest unemployment rate in the state of Indiana today?”

  Movement at the edge of the crowd caught his eye. A man in a ragged brown suit started threading his way towards the podium.

  Perfect.

  Wycliffe continued his speech. “Cashwell was betrayed! Not by the state government, not by the federal government, though they certainly bear some responsibility, but by the board of directors of Orchestra Manufacturing Incorporated.” He swung his arm over the crowd, feeding more of the Voice into his speech. “I look over this gathering today and what do I see? I see machinists, mechanics, floor workers, shift supervisors, skilled and hardworking Americans. And yet you are unemployed, through no fault of your own.” He let the Voice tremble with righteous rage. “Profits were good for Orchestra. And yet the company decided to move all manufacturing operations to China. Why? Because times were bad? Not for Orchestra! Because profits were down? No! Rather, they were up.” The crowd responded to his words and the Voice, rustling with anger, their faces hardening. “Orchestra Manufacturing, ladies and gentlemen, has destroyed your livelihood! And for what? The exploitation of hungry, starving, desperate Chinese children, working eighteen hours a day for pennies? The bonuses and benefits for senior executives? The bloated salary of the bloated CEO? People of Cashwell, you have fallen victim to the disease that infects America, the exploitation of the hardworking many by the bloated, corrupt, immoral few that seek to dictate our careers, our salaries, and even our very thoughts…”

  As Wycliffe spoke, the man in the ragged brown suit pushed to the front of the crowd. His eyes burned with terror and madness, and his dipped into the pocket of his jacket.

  “Vermin!” roared the man. All eyes turned to him.

  Wycliffe frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  The man shrieked and raised his hand. A woman screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

  Shots rang out. Wycliffe felt a blast of hot breeze as a bullet shot past his ear. Goth leapt out of the crowd and grabbed the gunman’s arm. The man shrieked, and the gun clattered to the ground. Another of the winged demons seized it, and Goth began pushing the wailing assassin out of the crowd.

  “Please remain calm, ladies and gentlemen,” said Wycliffe. “I am unhurt. He missed.” The uproar continued. “Please, remain calm.” The crowd did not calm. Wycliffe summoned the Voice and bellowed into the microphone. “Calm yourselves!”

  Feedback snarled through the microphone, and sparks erupted from one of the speakers. The Voice shot through the crowd like a ripple. The crowd fell silent, every eye on Wycliffe.

  Goth wrestled the would-be assassin into one of the motorcade’s cars.

  Wycliffe seized the moment. “This is the opposition I face, the opposition that you face. I am fighting for you, to reverse what the wealthy have done to this nation in their hubris. And I will not stop, I will not relent, I will not be silent.” He pounded the podium so hard it shook. The Voice snarled with power. “And if I have to take a thousand bullets until the crimes of the wealthy have been undone, then so be it!”

  His last word echoed over the parking lot. The silence lasted about a second. Deafening applause rang out, accompanied by cheers louder than thunder. Wycliffe spread his arms and beamed at the crowd.

  Unnoticed, Goth shoved the failed assassin into a car and slammed the door.

  ###

  “Senator!” Markham hurried to Wycliffe’s side. “Senator! My God, it’s good to see that you’re okay.” He winked and lowered his voice. “It seems you don’t attract…competent assassins.”

  Wycliffe laughed. “I’m alive and well, Markham.” He looked around his bustling campaign headquarters. “And your little idea has worked quite well.”

  Markham grinned. “There’s a mob of reporters outside.”

  “I’ll speak with them later,” said Wycliffe. “Immediate response?”

  Markham pointed at the rows of TV monitors on the walls. The video clip of the assassin opening fire and Goth’s crushing tackle played over and over again. “This is on every channel, and the leading topic of discussion on both Twitter and Facebook. CNN’s running an exclusive.” The clip ended with Wycliffe’s speech about a thousand bullets and the crowd’s enthusiastic roar.

  “Well,” said Wycliffe. “That certainly looks good.”

  Markham nodded. “Yes, it’s gone very well. And we can blame your opponents, too, for their incendiary rhetoric or something along those lines. Not that we’d say anything directly, of course. We’ll let our friendly bloggers do that for us.”

  Wycliffe nodded. “Sometimes the cards just fall one’s way, I suppose.”

  Markham nodded. “What should I tell the reporters?”

  Wycliffe shrugged. “Give them the usual. Tell them that no one was hurt, that Senator Jones and I are alive and well.” He grinned. “Be sure also to tell them that we plan to continue campaigning as vigorously as usual.”

  Markham nodded. “I’ll schedule an official press conference.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, it…might be good for you to do make the announcement yourself. Or, better, you and Senator Jones both.

  "Good idea. Very well. Schedule the press conference in an hour.” Wycliffe waved an arm. “We’ll have it in the conference room. Senator Jones will do most of the talking.”

  “What about the assassin?” said Markham.

  Wycliffe smiled. “That’s being taken care of. Just as we discussed. Tell the press that the FBI will handle the matter.”

  Markham nodded. “I’ll organize things.”

  “See you in an hour,” said Wycliffe. “I have some calls to make.” Markham marched off and began barking orders at campaign workers. Wycliffe headed out of the campaign headquarters and into the blistering July sun. A short walk took him to warehouse 13A, and he swiped his security card and let himself inside.

  Gloom blanketed the warehouse, and Wycliffe’s footsteps echoed against the concrete floor. Goth and a group of the slouching thugs stood in the corner. Two of them held the bound and gagged assassin. Senator Jones sat shaking on a crate, his hair and suit disheveled.

  “Thomas,” whispered Jones, staggering to his feet. “He shot at us. He shot at us!”

  Wycliffe scowled. “Most perceptive. Now, keep quiet, I have work to do.”

  Jones pawed at Wycliffe’s shoulders. “But…he had a gun! My God, he was shooting at us. I don’t want to do this, Thomas, I don’t…”

  “Shut up!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling. Jones’s jaw clapped shut. “Must you whine at every minor difficulty?”

  “But,” sputtered Jones, shaking. His face had gone gray. “But…he shot…”

  “Quite,” said Wycliffe, redoubling the Voice. “It comes with the territory. Most presidents get shot at sooner or later.” In Jones’s case, Wycliffe hoped for sooner. “Now, do as I say. Go report to Markham.” Jones gave him a blank look. “Idiot. The campaign manager. Go report to him. He’ll tell you what to do.” Jones nodded and shuffled away. “And for God’s sake, clean yourself up. You look like you�
�re dying.” Wycliffe stared after him and let out an aggrieved sigh.

  “Shall I kill him?” said Goth.

  “No,” said Wycliffe. “Tempted as I am, no. I need him yet.” He shook his head. “Unreliable as he is.”

  “He will grow more unreliable,” said Goth.

  “Why?” said Wycliffe.

  “The Voice bends his will over and over again. Eventually his mind will shatter entirely,” said Goth.

  “How do you know?” said Wycliffe. “Did Marugon tell you this?”

  “No,” said Goth. “But I have seen it. Lord Marugon used it to punish enemies. He would shatter their minds and leave them drooling madmen.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Wycliffe frowned. “You’re not usually this forthcoming.”

  Goth grinned. “I want to kill him.” The assassin shrieked through his gag.

  “Ah.” Wycliffe walked over to the assassin. “No further explanation needed. Or wanted, for that matter.” He reached down and tore away the gag.

  The assassin sputtered. “Let me go! Please, let me go!” He began to sob.

  “Let you go?” Wycliffe spread his hands. “Now, why should I do that?”

  The assassin shuddered. “I did what you told me. Your voice was in my head, man.” He licked his lips. “I shot at you. I missed on purpose, like you said. And then I let…these…things drag me here! I did what you wanted! Let me go.”

  Wycliffe stared at the sobbing man. The homeless bum had made the mistake of asking for handouts near the gate just when Wycliffe had been seeking a “volunteer” for the little publicity stunt.

  For just an instant, he felt a twinge of pity.

  Goth growled. “You promised him to us.”

  “Yes.” Wycliffe straightened. “I did, didn’t I?” And the failed assassin knew too much. “Very well.” Wycliffe grimaced. “Just…wait until I’m out of sight.”

  Goth chuckled, yellow fangs jutting over his lip. Blood-blackened iron claws slid from his fingertips. The homeless man screamed and thrashed at his bonds.

  Wycliffe turned, marched away, and did not look back.

  ###

  The gray van roared down the South Dakota highway.

  Kyle Allard gripped the shoulder strap of his seat belt with both hands. Outside the windows the Great Plains shot by in an indistinguishable blur. “Um…Mr. Regent?”

  “Don’t interrupt me, son,” said Regent, one hand resting on the wheel. He reached up with his other hand and scratched at his tangled beard. Allard darted a glance of the speedometer. The needle hovered around ninety-five.

  “Um…it’s just, you know, I think it might be a good idea to slow down,” said Allard.

  Regent snorted with laughter. “Bullshit! This is South Dakota. How many cars have you seen in the last three hours?”

  “Two,” said Allard. “But that police cruiser…”

  “Idiot,” said Regent. “That was a State Trooper, not a police cruiser. I taught you to tell the difference. They were driving a Ford Taurus. A Ford Taurus. Son, let me tell you what. I’ll bet they’re still sucking our dust and wondering where the hell we went.”

  He was right. The State Trooper had put on his lights and followed them. Regent had just pushed a little harder on the pedal. The van had roared up to about one hundred and eighty miles an hour, and the State Trooper had vanished behind them a short time later. Allard had never seen anything like it.

  He shook his head. “What kind of van does a hundred and eighty?”

  “My van,” said Regent. “Built the engine myself.” Allard knew little about cars, but the engine in the van looked like a mechanic’s nightmare. “No one’s ever seen anything like it, let me tell you.”

  “But the State Trooper,” said Allard. “He probably got our license plates.”

  “Big deal,” said Regent. “I’m planning on changing the plates when we got to New Ulm.”

  Allard frowned. “New Ulm? Where’s that?”

  “Little town halfway into Minnesota,” said Regent. “Full of Lutherans. Nice folks. Good beer. And get this. They got a giant bronze statue of somebody named Hermann the German.”

  Allard stared at him. Regent’s conversation often rambled over a bewildering array of topics. “You’re kidding me. Hermann the German? What idiot thought of that?”

  “How the hell should I know?” said Regent. “Probably a logo for a beer company or something.”

  “Why are we talking about this?” said Allard.

  Regent glared. “You interrupted me. What was I talking about?”

  Allard took a deep breath. “You were telling me about Lord Marugon and Senator Wycliffe.”

  Regent blinked. “Yeah. Lord Marugon was the last of the Warlocks, you know. The White Council and the Knights of the Sacred Blades had killed all the rest of them. It was a great battle, at the Warlocks’ citadel of Castamar on the edge of the Wastes.” Regent described Marugon’s pact with Wycliffe, black magic in exchange for guns and bombs.

  “How do you know all this?” said Allard. “Who are you, really?”

  Regent coughed. “Son, I told you. I’m someone Wycliffe and Marugon ruined.” His voice regained its rough edge. “Now quit whining and go to sleep. We’re not getting to Chicago until tomorrow, at least.”

  Allard almost jumped out of his seat. “Chicago! Why the hell are we going to Chicago?”

  “School’s starting in a week,” said Allard.

  “So what?” said Allard, starting to panic. “Wycliffe’s there, those winged monsters are there…”

  Regent rolled his eyes. “Quit whining. After we trashed your apartment and blew up your car, they think you’re dead. And just do as I say and you’ll be fine. Have to make some stops in northern Wisconsin, pick up some stuff before we head south. We’ll have lunch in New Ulm, I think. Get there in another three and a half hours.”

  Allard sighed and sank back into his seat. “Three and a half hours? But we’re only halfway across South Dakota.”

  Regent grinned and tapped the gas pedal. The van’s engine roared, and the speedometer shot up to a hundred and twenty.

  “Oh my God,” mumbled Allard. He closed his eyes. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

  Regent snorted. “The cigarettes, dumbass.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  ###

  A few days later, the van pulled to a stop a few blocks from a high school in Chicago.

  “Here we are.” Regent shut off the engine. Allard licked his lips. He kept expecting one of those winged devils to materialize out of the gloom, fires burning in its eyes…

  Regent whacked him on the side of the head.

  “Ow!” Allard sputtered and glared at the old man. “Why the hell do you keep doing that?”

  “Because you don’t listen,” said Regent. “When you start listening, I’ll stop trying to beat sense into your thick skull. Did you even listen to a word I said?”

  “Um,” said Allard. “Um…you said we were here.”

  Regent nodded. “Go on.”

  Allard sighed and spread his hands. “Fine. All right. I wasn’t listening. I’m a bit nervous, okay?” He wiped his sweating hands on his jeans.

  Regent’s glare lost its edge. “Don’t blame you, son.” He looked out the windshield. “Lot of bad things have happened to me in Chicago.” His left hand trembled until he balled it into a fist. “To both of us. But that’s in the past. Now shut up and listen to me.”

  Allard crossed his arms and nodded. “Okay.”

  “First, this high school,” said Regent. “Then a grade school, then the central offices of the Chicago school system. We’re going to steal some records and then destroy them.”

  Allard frowned. “Why?” Regent glared. “Hey! I am listening. See? I heard you just say we’re risking our lives by coming back to Chicago and stealing some school records? Did I just hear that right?”

  “That’s right,” said Regent. “School records for two kids. Brother and sister. Ally and
Lithon Wester. You know why we’re bothering, Allard?”

  “No,” said Allard, “but I suppose you’re going to enlighten me.”

  Regent grinned. “Damn right. They’re special kids, son, and I don’t mean they’re geniuses or something like that. Lord Marugon wants them dead.”

  Allard blinked. “What does that monster want with a pair of Chicago school kids?”

  Regent waved a finger. “Because Lithon Wester’s real name is Lithon Scepteris. He’s the heir to the crown and throne of Carlisan.” He blinked. “Hell, the old king’s been dead for ten years. Lithon is the king of Carlisan.”

  Allard stared at him. “That Prophecy you told me about, that old Wizard who could tell the future, what’s his name…Al-something…”

  Regent’s eyes glinted. “Alastarius. His name was Alastarius.”

  Allard snapped his finger. “That’s it! You told me he Prophesied that Lithon would kill Marugon or.” After seeing the winged demons and Colebrook’s transformation, Allard had found Regent’s story of the Prophecy easy to believe. “No wonder Marugon wants him dead. But…but why hasn’t Marugon killed him already?”

  Regent rubbed the scar beneath his beard. “I didn’t quite say it right. Marugon was tricked into thinking Lithon was killed. It’s my job…and your job now, too…to make sure Marugon doesn’t find out that Lithon’s alive.”

  Allard nodded. “So we’re stealing school records. To make sure he doesn’t find out.”

  “Damn straight,” said Regent.

  “What so special about the other kid, the girl?” said Allard.

  “Ally?” said Regent. “Damned if I know. Course, she’s no kid any more. Eighteen now. A young woman. Hell of a beauty. And brilliant. I don’t know, son. There’s something special about her. Something I don’t understand yet.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Marugon won’t find out about her if I have anything to say about it.” He reached back into the van and pulled out a bundle. “This is for you.”