A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  “What is it?” Allard unwrapped it. “Jesus.” It was an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster, small enough to fit beneath his jacket. “It’s a gun.”

  “No shit,” said Regent. “Why do you think I wasted all those weeks teaching you to shoot when we were in the Badlands?”

  “But…but…we’re just stealing school records. We’re not going to have to kill anyone!”

  “I hope not,” said Regent. “But this is Chicago. The winged demons are here. That black-hearted bastard Wycliffe has been letting them run loose in the city.” He spat out the window. “People have been disappearing. Mostly prostitutes and women from the poorer neighborhoods. Police don’t have a clue. So there’s a chance, a very small chance, we might run into a winged demon.” He pointed at the weapon. “That gun’s been loaded with special bullets. Made them myself. Bullets don’t do much to a winged demon, but these will slow one down a bit. If we see one, you pump it full of bullets. I’ll run back to the van and get one of these,” he pointed at the black, battery-wired spears in the rack, “and finish off the bastard. Built those myself, too. Ram one of those babies through a winged demon’s black heart when the power’s on, and it’ll go screaming back to hell faster than you can watch.”

  Allard swallowed. “Boy. You sure give a good pep talk. I’m about ready to crap my pants.”

  Regent grinned. “Not in my van, you don’t.” He produced a gun and tucked it under his baggy blue coverall. Allard strapped on his shoulder holster and hid it beneath his jacket. “Let’s go.”

  They got out. Regent had painted the van blue in New Ulm, in addition to swapping the license plates. A sign advertising the services of Jim and Bill’s Quality Aluminum Siding hung from the side of the vehicle, alongside a phone number.

  “That number actually work?” said Allard.

  Regent nodded, his steel-handled cane tapping against the sidewalk. “Yup. A phone sex place in New Jersey.”

  “God,” mumbled Allard. The man had a bizarre sense of humor. “Can’t we take one of those spear things with us?”

  Regent gave him an amused look. “That’ll be a great way to avoid attention. Let’s walk around a school at night with a black spear.”

  Allard rolled his eyes. “It was just an idea.”

  They walked in silence for a few blocks. Despite his cane and limp, Regent set a quick pace. Soon the blocky bulk of a public high school came into sight. Faint security lights gleamed in the windows.

  “This brings back memories,” said Allard. “Prison for kids.”

  “Shut up,” said Regent. He hobbled up the stairs and hit the intercom. “You can read, can’t you? A school taught you to read. Not one in twenty people on Marugon’s world can read. And let me do the talking.”

  The intercom crackled. “Yes?”

  “Yeah, hi,” said Regent. “This is Phil from Meyerson’s Exterminators. We have an appointment to check the basement. I hear you’ve got something of a rat problem.”

  “Just a second.” The intercom clicked off.

  “Exterminators.” Allard rolled his eyes. “Is that our cover story? What the hell kind of exterminators work at night? That’s the stupidest…”

  Regent whacked him on the side of the head. “Shut up. They’ve got summer school here during the day. You want to scare a bunch of parents with exterminators chasing rats? And I told you, let me do the talking.”

  A college-age kid in a rent-a-cop uniform appeared at the doors, holding a flashlight in one hand and a textbook of some sort in the other. He had a scraggly goatee and needed a haircut. “Oh. Hey. The exterminators. Dr. Burton told me you’d be by.” He opened the door.

  “Yeah.” Regent clumped inside. “Looks like we both got stuck with the night shift, eh?”

  “It’s not so bad,” said the kid. He walked towards the front desk. “Plenty of time to catch up on my homework.”

  Regent glanced up at the ceiling. “At least you don’t have my job, digging around in garbage to kill a bunch of bugs. Ah, shit.”

  The kid frowned. “What?”

  Regent waved a hand at the ceiling. “This building has one of those old-style heating systems. We’re going to have to check the vents in every room for any rat droppings. Do you have a key I can borrow? Or do you want to follow me around all night?”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure.” The kid fumbled in his pocket and handed over a key. “This’ll get you in all the rooms. Just drop it off at the desk when you’re done.”

  “Damn Cold War schools,” said Regent.

  “Yeah,” said kid. “I mean, they even have a bomb shelter in the basement. A bomb shelter. Isn’t that so retro?”

  “Sure. Retro. Thanks. Well, we’ll start in the basement,” said Regent.

  The kid nodded. “Yell if you need anything.” He returned to the front desk and his textbook. Regent and Allard walked down the dim hallway, rows of lockers standing on either side.

  “You,” said Allard, “are the best con man I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s not that hard,” said Regent. “People see what they want to see and they don’t want to see trouble. I learned that when I was half your age, son. Now, let’s get to work. I’ll check the front office and the computer system.” He slapped the key into Allard’s hands. “You’re gonna go around to all the classrooms. Check any file cabinets or desk drawers, for anything by, about, or pertaining to Ally Wester.”

  “Ally?” said Allard. “What about Lithon?”

  “This is a high school,” said Regent. “Lithon’s school is next. When we’re done I’ll need to erase the camera tapes. Now hurry up. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”

  Allard grumbled. “Great pep talk, as usual.”

  “Shut up.”

  Chapter 19 - The Ghosts of Castle Bastion

  Year of the Councils 972

  “Damnation,” said Arran, squinting into the mist. “I should have eaten that horse when I had the chance.”

  He bit off another piece of dry bread and gnawed on it as he walked. Vast swamplands stood on either side of the rocky road, stretching away as far as the eye could see. The air was hot and heavy, and sweat dripped down Arran’s face and chest. He swatted at the innumerable insects with his free hand from time to time.

  A huge dying tree loomed out of the mist ahead, its roots dipping into the murky swamp waters. Arran sighed, leaned against it, and sat down. The buzzing of a million insects filled his ears, and the air stank of rot and stagnant water.

  Yet he saw no signs of pursuit.

  Not even Marugon’s gunmen were fool enough to travel through the Old Mire in summer.

  The pursuit from Ramshackle had organized quicker than Arran had thought possible. The Ghost of Carlisan still inspired fear. Large groups of soldiers had tracked him through the Border Woods for days. Finally he abandoned his stolen horse and plunged on foot into the Old Mire. Rumor had it that a northern tribe had taken up residence in the swamp, after Marugon’s invasion had driven the tribe from its homeland near the Wastes. Arran thought the idea absurd. There were a thousand miles between the Old Mire and the Wastes. Yet the rumor kept the gunmen away.

  Arran’s eyes surveyed the gloom of the swamp. Rumor also held the Old Mire to be trackless, yet Arran had survived and found his way in far harsher lands. A few more days and he would emerge in the highlands between Rindl and Narramore, near the ruins of old Castle Bastion. From there he would travel northwest, out of Rindl and over the Grim Bridge, drawing ever closer to the Tower.

  Castle Bastion struck a chord in his memory. Marugon had killed Alastarius there, and the old Wizard had made his last Prophecy. Arran sighed and closed his eyes, his head resting against the trunk. Sir Liam had seen Alastarius perish. Yet Arran was now marching on a fool’s quest to the Tower in hopes of finding Alastarius on Earth, all because of Siduri’s last words.

  “Find Alastarius on Earth.” Arran whispered the phrase that echoed through his dreams some nights. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He could not gi
ve up. To do so would allow the despair to blanket his mind once more.

  He wished Siduri were still alive.

  He wished Sir Liam were here.

  He wished Lord Marugon had perished in the Tower.

  “I’m a damn fool.” Arran opened his eyes. A large green lizard sat on the road, its tongue flicking at the air. Arran drew his gun in a smooth motion, aimed, and shot the lizard through the head. It fell over, dead. Arran would have fresh meat tonight.

  He stood. Now if only he could find some wood dry enough to burn.

  ###

  Arran stared into the murk of the Old Mire. The swamp had thinned in the last few hours of travel. Stony hillocks rose out of the water, their flanks covered by thick grasses. Thicker trees stood here, roots tangled amongst the stones and the water.

  If anyone had followed him, they would have a thousand places to hide.

  And he was almost certain someone followed him.

  He had found a flint arrowhead driven into a tree. Strange symbols, like trail marks of some kind, had been scratched into some stones. Arran shook his head, reached down to loosen the straps on his guns, and kept going. He had almost reached the edge of the Old Mire. Soon he would enter the highlands on the border of Carlisan and Narramore, not far from the ruins of old Castle Bastion.

  If someone wanted to ambush him, they would do it soon.

  Leather scraped against stone.

  Arran whirled, hands dropping to his belt. He caught a glimpse of a dark form scuttling behind a tree. He slid one of his grenades from his belt, twisted the pin, and hid it in his palm.

  “You may as well come out,” said Arran, turning in a slow circle. “I know you’re here. No point in playing further games…”

  They came out.

  A dozen men appeared from hiding places amongst the stone and water. They wore ragged furs and rough leathers. Some had strange tattoos, while others had painted their faces blue. Every last one held a short bow, an arrow notched and pointed at Arran.

  “Hands up.” An old man gestured with a bow, his blue-painted face a landscape of wrinkles and scars.

  Arran raised his hands, the grenade still clutched in his left fist. “I wish no trouble.”

  The old man scowled. “You have found trouble, soldier of Marugon.”

  Arran laughed. “Is that who you think I am?”

  “You carry Marugon’s hell-guns,” said the old man. “Would you have us think you a Knight of the Sacred Blade?”

  Arran snorted. “I am. Or, at least, I was.”

  “Liar,” said the old man.

  Arran winced. “I am not.” He jerked his head at his left hip. “What sort of gunman carries a blade?”

  “Many do,” said the old man, “as trophies.”

  “It is a Sacred Blade,” said Arran. “Do Marugon’s men dare to touch the Sacred Blades?”

  The old man glared. “Do not profane the memory of the Knights! No servant of Marugon would touch a Sacred Blade.” He jerked his head. “Take his guns and throw them into the swamp. Try to draw a weapon and we will feather you.” Three young men lowered their bows and started towards Arran.

  “You don’t want to do that,” said Arran. He held out the hand with the grenade. “You know what this is?”

  “A bomb, the kind Marugon’s gunmen use,” said the old man. “We have seen its like, much to our sorrow. Drop it.”

  Arran forced a smile. “You don’t want me to do that.”

  A nervous laugh went through the bowmen. “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Arran. “I’ve already armed it. If I let go of this pin it explodes.” Dead silence fell over the swamp, broken only by the distant chirping of insects. Arran gestured with the grenade. “It’ll kill these fine young fellows. It might kill the rest of you. Or it may just wound you.”

  The old man laughed without humor. “You have set a trap for us.”

  Arran shrugged. “You were setting a trap for me. It seemed only fair.”

  “Indeed,” said the old man. “Very well. What do you wish of us?”

  “Nothing,” said Arran. “Simply let me continue on my way without harm. You’ll never see me again.”

  “I doubt that,” said the old man.

  Arran laughed. “Indeed?” He was marching on a fool’s quest to reach the Tower of Endless Worlds and reach Earth. If the journey didn’t kill him, or the perils of the Tower, then the dangers of Earth almost certainly would. “I can almost swear you will never see me again.”

  The old man raised a silver eyebrow. “Almost swear? I doubt that. I think you are a scout. I think you have been sent to learn the ways of paths of this swamp, so Marugon can send his soldiers.”

  Arran scoffed. “Have you looked at this stinking pit? Why would Marugon even want it?” The young men chuckled. “I had no wish to travel through this mud pit myself. I was pursued by Marugon’s gunmen and had no choice but to flee through the swamp.”

  The old man frowned. “Why did you have to flee?”

  Arran smiled. “Because I blew up Ramshackle.”

  Murmurs went through the bowmen. The old man turned and barked questions in a language Arran didn’t understand. He shifted his weight and waited. His fingers ached from clutching the grenade.

  The old man turned to face him. “You said you were a Knight?” Arran nodded. “Who was the Master of your Order?”

  “Sir Liam Mastere, the Two Swords,” said Arran. “But any man of the High Kingdoms would know as much.”

  The old man nodded. “True. Then tell us the truth, if you cannot prove that you are a Knight. Who are you and why have you come to the Old Mire?”

  Arran sighed. He could see no other way out of this. “Very well. I am Arran Belphon of Carlisan. I am…I was a Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade. I am going to the Tower of Endless Worlds.”

  The old man flinched. “Why are you going to that dread place?”

  “Because I have no other choice,” said Arran. “Because there is nothing else that I can do.”

  “That is no answer,” said the old man. “Why are you going to that accursed Tower?”

  Arran drew his Sacred Blade with his free hand, steel grating against the leather scabbard. The crimson blade glinted in the swamp’s gray light. “This blade is marked with the blood of a friend. She saved my life. She sacrificed herself to save me.” Arran blinked, his eyes itching at the memory. “Before she was killed, she said something. A Prophecy, perhaps.”

  “What did she say?” said the old man.

  “Find Alastarius on Earth,” said Arran.

  The old man stared at him for a long moment. “Alastarius is dead, wanderer.”

  “I know,” said Arran.

  “He fell at Castle Bastion,” said the old man. “Even we of the tribes heard of his death. His tomb is there, amongst the ruins.”

  “Sir Liam told me of it,” said Arran.

  The old man stared hard at him. “Did he?” He smiled. “So he did escape from Castle Bastion. I had thought him slain there. Where is he now? Dead?”

  “I do not know,” said Arran. “I’ve not seen him for ten years.” He looked the old man in the eye. “Alastarius spoke a Prophecy before he died. He said that one day Lithon Scepteris would undo Marugon. He also said that he would return, that Lithon would find a way to bring him back.”

  The old man snorted. “From death? No one returns from death. How do you know of this?”

  “Sir Liam told me,” said Arran. “He saw Alastarius’s death and heard the Prophecy, and told me of it.” The memories swirled through him in a rush. “So he rescued Lithon from the wreck of Carlisan and headed for the Tower. He hoped to traverse the Tower and hide Lithon on Earth.” He blinked. “We had just reached the Broken Mountains, at the very edge of the Crimson Plain. There was an ambush. We would have perished, but I stole a gun and slew our attackers. Liam said that I had damned myself. So we went our separate ways. He went to the Tower, and I went back to the High Kingdoms.” His voice
dropped to a whisper. “I should have gone with him.”

  The old man straightened. “The Ghost of Carlisan.”

  Arran snorted. “What?”

  “Even we of the tribes hear things,” said the old man. He gestured, and the other men lowered their bows. “We heard the tale of the Ghost of Carlisan, a Knight who took up the guns and hunted Marugon’s men.” He titled his head. “Though rumor had you slain at the Emerald Field with the horsemen of Antarese.”

  “Almost,” said Arran.

  “Your tale rings true to me,” said the old man. “We shall let you pass. Now, will you disarm your bomb before it kills us all?”

  “Oh,” said Arran. He twisted the pin and disarmed the grenade. “I will take my leave.”

  “We shall aid you, first,” said the old man. “Fresh food and supplies. There are many miles between the Old Mire and the Crimson Plain.”

  “Thank you.” Arran tried to smile. “Who do I have the honor of addressing? I have told you everything of myself. Your name would be fair repayment.”

  The old man chuckled. “Hardly everything. I am Targath of the tribes.”

  Arran frowned. “The tribes. I thought Marugon wiped out the tribes of the Wastes when he returned from the Tower.”

  Targath’s eyes dimmed. “Most of us. We escaped the slaughter and traveled south. We made a new home here.”

  Arran looked around at the swamp. “A miserable home.”

  Targath shrugged. “It is no harsher than the lands near the Wastes. Our numbers have grown. The times have been bitter and perilous, yes, but we have survived.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his rough face. “I had much the same conversation with Liam Mastere, years ago. Almost on this very spot.”

  Arran slid his Sacred Blade back into its scabbard. “Sir Liam was here?”