A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  “His strength in the black magic has grown,” said Wycliffe. “Ten years ago he was mighty beyond any level I could ever hope to reach. And now…now he is so strong that it overwhelms my sense for the black magic. I do not know how powerful he has become, but he has grown mighty.” Wycliffe snapped his fingers. “He could kill us both like that.”

  “You must have grown more skilled in the last ten years,” said Krastiny. “Perhaps your ability to sense his strength has grown.”

  “That is part of it,” said Wycliffe, “but only a small part. Even a man who’s ninety percent blind can tell the difference between night and day. And I tell you, Doctor, Marugon’s strength now as compared to ten years ago is like day compared to…”

  Kurkov stormed into the recreation room, fists clenched at his side. He muttered a curse and dropped into one of the overstuffed leather chairs.

  “Problem?” said Wycliffe.

  Kurkov grumbled a long string of curses in Russian. “A problem? Yes, there is a problem.” He looked around. “Do you have any booze in here?”

  Wycliffe pointed. “The refrigerator. In the corner, third shelf.” Kurkov stalked to the refrigerator, seized a bottle of dark brandy, and drained a third of it one swig. “You mind telling me about this problem?”

  Kurkov wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You sound like a psychologist. Shall we get in touch with our feelings?” He took another drink.

  “Very funny,” said Wycliffe. “What’s prompted you to drink like that? Asides from the sun coming up, of course.” Krastiny snickered.

  Kurkov scowled. “There is a problem with the bomb.”

  Wycliffe sat up straighter. “What?” He could not keep the alarm out of his voice. “Is it a dud?”

  Kurkov drained off some more brandy. “I said before, the bomb works. That mad Pakistani knew how to build nuclear bombs.” He gestured with the bottle. “No. The bomb is fine. But we have a problem with the new freighter I obtained.”

  Wycliffe slapped the table. “Out with it already! What kind of problem?”

  “The ship’s captain and crew have been arrested,” said Kurkov.

  Krastiny blinked. “But why? They came to Vladivostok with an empty hold.” He scowled. “Or so they told us.”

  Kurkov took a long drink. “I paid them enough for an exclusive run. But, no, that fool captain thinks he needs to smuggle some narcotics on the side. Some overzealous customs official got lucky and found the stash. And it gets worse. The captain was already wanted for running guns to some Islamic terrorist group in the Philippines. So now the damned CIA has gotten involved. My organization in Vladivostok has to keep a low profile for a while. One of my merchandise warehouses has already been raided. There’s a chance they might find the warehouse with the bomb.”

  “Damn it,” said Wycliffe. “That is not good news.”

  Kurkov smirked. “Not so funny now, yes?”

  Wycliffe struck the table again. “Marugon’s going to be furious. How long before you can risk getting another ship?”

  Kurkov shrugged. “It depends. I do not know how long the authorities will search. But it will be a month before I can arrange for another ship, at the very least.”

  Wycliffe gaped at him. “A month! That would put the bomb in Los Angeles in late August or early September. That means we have to drive a nuclear weapon across the country during the height of election season!”

  Kurkov shrugged. “So what? Nothing links the bomb to you.”

  “Trucks crash, Vasily,” said Wycliffe. “Or they get pulled over by policemen. God. This is a disaster that could turn into a catastrophe. And now I have to tell Marugon…”

  “He already knows, Senator Wycliffe.”

  Marugon stood in the doorway, his expression as black as his dark robes. Krastiny’s hand jerked towards his gun. Kurkov somehow went paler.

  “Lord Marugon,” said Wycliffe. “My apologizes. You startled us.”

  Marugon stalked into the recreation room, his sheer dark power surrounding him like smoke rising from an inferno. “I came to inquire of your progress in locating my nuclear device.” He smirked. “But, it seems I no longer need ask, do I?” He leveled at finger at Kurkov. “Merchant. How long will it take you to overcome these difficulties?”

  Kurkov swallowed. “It…is as I have told Wycliffe. A month. A few weeks, maybe. If…things go better than I hope.” His bravado melted beneath Marugon’s glare.

  Marugon turned and paced across the room. “Utterly damnable. I have destroyed everything that stood in my way,” he turned to face Wycliffe, dark eyes narrowed, “and now I stand but one more step, one more step from my goal, and I risk losing it because of the bumbling of a half-wit drunken smuggler and his band of rabble!”

  “But what goal is that?” said Wycliffe. “The conquest of your world? You said you destroyed all your enemies.” Did Marugon want the bomb for a reason other than conquest?

  Rage and doubt played over the Warlock’s face for a moment. Then his iron mask returned. “My goals are my own. They matter not to you. For you have your own goals, do you not?” A sly smile touched his lips. “The Presidency. Rule of your nation, the mightiest on your world, the mightiest I have ever seen. For over eighteen years you have pursued that goal. I have a goal I have pursued for even longer.” A bit of fury slipped through his mask. “I am so close. And now it as all at risk! All of it, because of that girl, that woman…”

  Wycliffe frowned. “Surely you don’t mean that woman you saw at the dinner.”

  “Yes, I mean her,” said Marugon. “She has tremendous potential in the white magic. And yet, I do not think that she knows of her ability. It must be latent…”

  “Then what is the difficulty?” said Wycliffe. “If the ability is latent, she would need to learn to use it. You will have your bomb next year at the latest. Perhaps even in five months. Can she really learn enough of the white magic to challenge you in five months? Even if there were anyone left to teach her?”

  “I do not know,” said Marugon. “But it matters not. She is a threat. I have not survived this long by ignoring threats.”

  Wycliffe leaned forward. “Nor have you survived this long by overreacting to threats, or using a hammer when a needle would better serve.”

  Marugon blinked. “No. Indeed not. Have you made any progress towards finding her?”

  “None,” said Wycliffe. He had ordered a few of his campaign research workers do a perfunctory search. Nothing had come up.

  Marugon laughed, his black eyes like pits into nothingness. “So. You do not take me seriously.” The cold energy of gathering black magic thrummed in the air. “It does not matter. You have never encountered a Wizard, never encountered a wielder of the white magic. You could not understand the danger. I shall find her myself.” He looked around. “Ah. I shall need more space.” He turned and swept out of the recreation room.

  Silence reigned for a moment.

  Kurkov lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. “What the hell is that madman doing?”

  Wycliffe climbed to his feet. “I don’t know.” He hurried into the hallway after Marugon, Krastiny and Kurkov at his heels. Marugon had taken the elevator up to the warehouse. Wycliffe ran to the emergency door, entered the security code into the keypad, and hurried up the stairs, his heart racing. He could feel the black magic gathering.

  What was Marugon doing?

  He entered warehouse 13A’s main floor. Marugon stood in the center of a cleared area before the door to the Tower, head down, arms spread. Muttered syllables rose from his lips. A faint, cold breeze without a source blew through the warehouse.

  Wycliffe stared. “What is he doing?”

  Krastiny reached into his coat. “Perhaps we should leave.”

  Marugon clapped his hands. “Come to me! I command it!” His words rang like deafening thunder, and the cold breeze rose to a gale. Kurkov’s cigarette went out. Shadows swirled around Marugon in a raging storm.

  Krastiny swore. “By God’s
teeth!”

  Then they cleared, and five people stood in their place.

  Wycliffe’s jaw fell open in astonishment. Somehow Marugon had used the black magic to bring them here.

  There was a man in a mechanic’s coverall, a fat woman in sweatpants, an old woman, and two teenage boys. All looked confused and dazed.

  “What the hell is going on?” whispered the mechanic.

  Marugon gestured. “Silence!” The Voice rang with irresistible force. “You have partaken of the Warlocks’ rose. By that power I have summoned you here. You will perform a service for me.” Marugon raised his arms and started to chant.

  Wycliffe recognized the spell. He grabbed Krastiny’s arm. “You might want to go…” Krastiny and Kurkov stood still as statues, their eyes fixed on the spectacle.

  Marugon finished the spell.

  The people started to scream, their clothes crumbling to dust. Wycliffe watched as the transformation came over them, their limbs thinning, their skin turning gray and leathery, claws sprouting from their fingers and toes. Krastiny muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Wycliffe could not believe the sheer power of black magic Marugon had displayed.

  Soon five gibbering, snarling changelings huddled at Marugon’s feet.

  “Heed my command!” said Marugon. “You will find a woman. My spells have placed her image into your minds. It will burn there, tormenting you, until you find her. And you will know her when you see her. You have senses beyond the mortal, beyond the physical. The white magic burns within her like a slow flame. You are gifted with stealth and the ability to blend with shadows, and you will remain unseen. Find her. Find her!” Marugon’s Voice rose to a roar. A dozen light bulbs exploded overhead.

  The changelings turned, gibbering, and raced for the exit, claws clacking against the concrete.

  “Dear God,” muttered Krastiny. His face had gone a soggy white. “Dear God.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Wycliffe, but his voice shook. “It’s not really our concern.” Both Krastiny and Kurkov looked squeamish, and Wycliffe felt a burst of concern. Suppose Kurkov decided to back out of their deal?

  “I think,” said Kurkov, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands, “that I shall call my associates in Vladivostok. Immediately. If that…if that man wants a nuclear bomb from me, then he will have a nuclear bomb.”

  Wycliffe agreed. He still could not believe the level of power Marugon had displayed. The sooner Marugon was back on his own world, the better.

  Marugon turned and paced away, head bowed in thought.

  “I think,” whispered Krastiny, “that I’m about ready to retire.”

  ###

  Ally shot up, stifling a shriek. A storm of images washed through her mind. For a moment she saw a dark man, robed in black, shadows dancing around his fingertips. Hideous things of nightmare, their eyes burning red, groveled at his feet. The robed man pointed at her and shouted a command.

  The monsters leapt at her, claws reaching for her face.

  Then the vision faded into darkness.

  Ally shuddered and bit her lip. She looked around the cramped room. The sounds of traffic on the streets of Rome washed through the window. She could hear someone talking in Italian on one of the hotel’s balconies.

  Mary shifted besides her, muttering into her pillow. “Ally?”

  Ally rubbed her face. “Yeah?”

  Mary sat up. “Are you okay?” Her eyes opened wider. “You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?”

  Ally shook her head. “No. I…just want a drink of water, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” Mary huddled into the blankets. “Really?”

  “Really,” said Ally. “Go back to sleep. Dad’s going to show us the Coliseum tomorrow.”

  Mary closed her eyes. “Probably will lecture the entire time.”

  Ally laughed. She climbed out of the bed and padded to the tiny little bathroom. She glanced in the mirror and almost jumped. For a moment she saw a gray-skinned leathery thing lurking behind her, black tongue lolling over its razor teeth.

  Ally shook her head. “A dream.” She poured a glass of water, drank it, and went back to bed. “Just a dream.”

  Chapter 21 - Return to the Tower

  Year of the Councils 972

  Silence hung over the Forest of Rindl.

  Arran inched forward and peered around the mossy boulder. Faint shafts of golden sunlight stabbed through the giant trees, covering the forest floor in alternating patterns of light and shadow. A rough road crawled between the massive trunks. Ten years ago the road had been raw and new. Now weeds and wildflowers poked up from the dirt, and Arran suspected the forest would consume the road in another few years.

  He needed a horse.

  Arran crept forward another inch. He had a clear view of the black-uniformed soldiers’ encampment at the base of a huge oak. Four of them sat around a fire, eating their evening rations. Another leaned against a trunk, half-dozing, a Kalashnikov across his lap.

  Five horses stood tethered a short distance from the camp.

  Arran waited as the forest got darker and the shadows grew longer. The gunmen finished their meal and went to sleep, while the guard got to his feet, grumbling and pacing. Arran wrapped himself in his cloak and crawled forward an inch at a time.

  The guard never glanced in his direction.

  Arran reached the horses and pulled his knife from its sheath. He crept through the horses, slashing ropes as he went. He reached the last horse, cut its ties, and vaulted into the saddle. The beast stamped at the earth but did not cry out or run. Arran drew a gun from his holster, pointed it at the earth, and squeezed the trigger.

  The bang shattered the silence. The horses screamed and bolted in all directions, and the soldiers bolted awake with shouted curses. Arran got his mount under control and galloped towards the soldiers’ camp. The gunmen scrambled for their weapons. One shouted and leveled his weapon at Arran.

  Arran galloped through them like a wind, his Sacred Blade a crimson blur in his hand. He struck one soldier down, trampled another, and then broke free, riding like a wind along the road. The soldiers cursed, fired into the air, chased their horses, and did everything except catch him.

  Arran coaxed more speed from his new mount and soon left the terrified gunmen far behind.

  ###

  He rode all through the night and most of the next day, only stopping when his horse’s flanks began to heave with exhaustions. By then the great grim wall of the Mountains of Rindl had come into sight. Arran set the horse loose, and it grunted and trotted away, no doubt glad to be rid of him.

  If nothing else, Arran had become a very good horse thief during the last ten years.

  He climbed the foothills for the rest of the day, and passed the weathered milestone where he and Sir Liam had fought the seeking spirit bound into the corpse. Arran shivered with the memory. The thing would have recovered and sought out Lithon.

  He hoped Sir Liam had survived the creature.

  Night came, a cold mountain wind wailing over the barren stone. Arran found a small cave, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went to sleep.

  ###

  Arran stood on the mountain ledge and looked at the Forgotten Vales.

  The Vales stretched for hundreds of miles, their hills and plains mantled in swirling gray mist. The crumbling towers and shattered domes of ruined cities rose out of the fog like islands in a sea. Far beyond the Vales, Arran glimpsed the jagged line of the Broken Mountains.

  Beyond these empty, haunted Vales and those jagged mountains lay the desolate expanse of the Crimson Plain. And on the Crimson Plain stood the Tower of Endless Worlds. Arran had crossed a continent twice to come this far, and now the Tower stood only a little farther out of reach…

  “Find Alastarius on Earth,” he muttered.

  The mournful wind swept his words away.

  Arran climbed down the steep path, his boots clicking against the wind-blasted sto
ne. Arran remembered the tales Sir Liam had told of the Forgotten Vales. The Black Council and the White Council both had arisen in these lands, millennia ago, in a forgotten kingdom of mighty towers and glittering domes. The war between the Councils had destroyed the kingdom, and wraiths and restless spirits prowled the ruined cities, bound forever by their regret and guilt. Arran, Sir Liam, and King Lithon had passed through this land years ago. He did not want to remember that journey, nor the way the wraiths had hunted them…

  He froze.

  The mountainside leveled out into a small plateau below, before the land broke up into jagged foothills. An encampment of green canvas tents perched on the edge of the plateau, ringed by wooden crates and canvas sacks. A small grenade launcher stood on a tripod near a tent.

  “Soldiers,” muttered Arran. It made sense for the gunmen to have a camp here. Marugon’s caravan route through the Tower passed through these lands. Arran drew one of his guns and continued down the path, taking care to remain unseen behind the worn boulders.

  Soon he reached a boulder not fifty feet from the camp. Arran crouched behind it, his eyes peering over the edge. The flaps of the tents rippled in the wind, but nothing else moved. Arran waited some more, his ears straining against the low moan of the wind.

  The camp looked deserted.

  Arran debated with himself for a moment and made up his mind. He drew his other pistol and started forward, eyes darting over the tents and crates. No one appeared to challenge his approach. Arran strode to the center of the camp and looked around.

  “Deserted,” he said.

  No one answered him.

  Had the wraiths of the ruins claimed the gunmen? Arran sheathed one pistol and pushed open the flap of the nearest tent. A bedroll lay on the earth, alongside a smoking brazier. The embers in the brazier looked recent, no more than a few hours old.

  He turned and entered the other tent. Neat stacks of weapons, ammunition, and provisions stood inside. Arran took the opportunity to claim some bullets and grenades for his arsenal, and helped himself to some rations. He did not know how long the passage through the Tower would take.