Date: 2012-06-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: YOU MUST REMEMBER ALLY WESTER is about to start college, and she wants nothing more than to do well in her studies. But the nightmares of the winged shadows, the flying hunters, will not stop haunting her. KYLE ALLARD needs to turn a quick buck, right now. So when a wealthy Senator offers him a high-paying job, he knows only an idiot would turn it down. He never dreamed it would mean blood on his hands. ARRAN BELPHON is the last Knight of the Sacred Blade. With his homeland destroyed and no other hope, he embarks on a desperate quest to find the one man who can defeat the darkness. A quest tha

A KNIGHT OF THE SACRED BLADE

Jonathan Moeller

Book description

YOU MUST REMEMBER

ALLY WESTER is about to start college, and she wants nothing more than to do well in her studies.

But the nightmares of the winged shadows, the flying hunters, will not stop haunting her.

KYLE ALLARD needs to turn a quick buck, right now. So when a wealthy Senator offers him a high-paying job, he knows only an idiot would turn it down.

He never dreamed it would mean blood on his hands.

ARRAN BELPHON is the last Knight of the Sacred Blade. With his homeland destroyed and no other hope, he embarks on a desperate quest to find the one man who can defeat the darkness.

A quest that will take him into the darkness of the TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS...

Other books by the author

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Ghost in the Flames

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The Demonsouled Series

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The Dragon's Shadow (World of the Demonsouled novella)

The Wandering Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story)

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A Wizard of the White Council

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Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Moeller.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published June 2012.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Chapter 1 - The Battle of the Emerald Plain

Year of the Councils 971

“Majesty, please, I beg of you,” said Arran Belphon, jogging alongside the King’s horse. The rattle of armor and the shouts of men rose into the air, and a distant drum thundered out a march. “This is your only chance. Please, I beg, heed me.”

Septimus Stormrider, King of Antarese, did not deign to look down. “Marshal!” An Antardrim in elaborate plate armor rode to the King’s side. “Have the scouts returned?”

“Yes, majesty,” said the Marshal. He pulled off his plumed helm and pointed. “Lord Marugon’s army advances across the Plain.” Arran looked north across the Emerald Plain, one of the few lush lands in arid Antarese.

He saw the distant black mass of Marugon’s soldiers. “Four hundred men,” said the Marshal, his weathered face impassive. “All carry the hell-forged guns of Earth.”

“Majesty!” said Arran.

King Septimus snorted. “Four hundred men, fallen Knight?” Arran stiffened. “Am I to fear four hundred men?” He waved his arm, his armor flashing in the sun. “Look!”

Behind him a line of horsemen stretched in all directions. Legions of armored riders sat armed and ready, their banners fluttering in the dry breeze, a forest of lances waiting in their hands. Behind them stood the grim walls and iron parapets of Antarese itself.

“Twenty-five thousand riders,” said King, “mounted on the finest Antardrim steeds, armored in steel plate, armed with the sharpest weapons. What have we to fear from four hundred of Marugon’s rabble?” He turned to the Marshal. “Signal for battle formation.”

The Marshal nodded and rode off. Trumpets blared, brassy notes ringing over the Emerald Plain. The thunder of hooves rumbled in Arran’s ears as the horsemen of Antarese arranged themselves for battle.

Arran reached into his belt and pulled out a machine pistol, a Glock 17C. “Majesty, I beg…”

King Septimus had his sword leveled at Arran’s throat in an instant. “Put that hell-spawned thing away.”

Arran held the handle out to the King. “Take it. I beg.”

The King slapped it aside with his sword, the pistol clattering over the ground. “I need it not.”

“There are four hundred of them…”

“A mere four hundred…”

“All of them have Kalashnikovs!”

The King sneered. “We have the true gods on our side. Their hell-forged machines will avail them not.”

“Majesty,” said Arran, fighting to keep his emotions under control. “You are the king of the last of the High Kingdoms. Carlisan is gone, Amnisos has burned, Rindl is gone, every other High Kingdom is gone, swept away by Marugon and his gunmen.”

The Marshal rode back to King Septimus’s side. “The men of Antarese stand ready, majesty.”

The King nodded. “Carlisan was not Antarese, fallen Knight. Nor was Rindl, nor Amnisos, nor any of the others. Marugon’s tide shall break on the rock of Antarese.”

The Marshal snorted. “And is not much of tide. Four hundred low-born rabble.”

“Take the guns I have found,” said Arran. “If even twenty of your men carry guns it will turn the tide. Marugon’s gunmen are complacent and arrogant. They do not expect resistance…”

“Resistance?” spat the Marshal. “Resistance? They face the fury of Antarese and do not expect resistance? Bah!” He slammed his helm onto his head. “Then we shall teach this scum a lesson in humility. I await your orders, majesty.”

“Majesty, I beg of you, listen me,” said Arran. Despair blacker than anything he known, even during the dark days of Carlisan’s fall, settled on his heart. “This is our last chance. Antarese is the last of the High Kingdoms. Your kingdom is the last hope for our world.”

The King looked across the plain at Marugon’s soldiers. “I am not a fool. I know the power of the guns. Many of my men will fall. We are, as you say, the last hope for the world. But we shall prevail. The gods are on our side, I know it…”

“Did the gods help Carlisan?” spat Arran. “Did they save Narramore? Did they rescue Alastarius from Goth-Mar-Dan?”

“Blasphemy,” said the King, his voice mild.

“You don’t know their power!” said Arran. “The guns destroyed the White Council, they destroyed all the Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade…”

“And they destroyed you,” said the King. “You use their hell-spawned weapons. I see the corruption in you, how easily and remorselessly you kill. I will not have that corruption in my own men. I will not turn my loyal men into creatures like Marugon’s killers. Yes, many will die. But better to die like men than to live as someone like you.”

“Please,” said Arran.

“You may go as it pleases you, fallen Knight.” King Septimus donned his crowned war-helm. “I know Marugon’s men fear you, believe you are a ghost of vengeance that haunts their lines. You have been useful to me, and for that I am grateful. But leave my realm, once the battle is won. I see the nature of your soul, and I will not have you among my subjects.” The King galloped off to join his Marshal at the head of the lines.

A black wave of despair washed over Arran, and his hands began to shake. He willed them to stop. It had been so close. King Septimus had almost agreed to arm his men with guns. But Arran had failed, and Marugon’s four hundred soldiers would annihilate the bright armies of Antarese. Marugon had destroyed the wizards of the White Council. His gunmen had slaughtered the Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade. Antarese was the last beacon. When it went out, darkness would flood the world…

Arran reached over his shoulder and clenched a hand around his fallen brother’s Sacred Blade. “No.”

He had not fought the gunmen for ten years to lose all. He had not sacrificed everything, had not damned himself by taking up the guns, only to succumb to despair.

He scooped up the fallen Glock and jammed it back into its holster. Perhaps King Septimus was right. There were only four hundred of them. Perhaps, if Arran struck now, he could turn the tide.

Whatever happened, Arran intended to die with his weapons in hand.

###

The sentinel stood atop a rock, Kalashnikov waiting in his hands. He wore the black uniform and cloak of Marugon’s soldiers. Arran crouched behind a scraggly bush and stared at the soldier, the war drums of Antarese echoing in his ears. He didn’t have much time. He considered using his sniper rifle or his pistols and rejected them. He didn’t dare make noise.

Arran gritted his teeth and crawled across the rocky ground. The sentinel’s eyes remained fixed on the glittering mass of the Antardrim riders. Arran rolled to a crouch, yanked his Glock out, and flipped it over.

The sentinel had just begun to turn when Arran smashed the pistol into the back of his neck. The soldier crumpled in an insensate heap. Arran rose to one knee and yanked off soldier’s cloak. It went around his shoulders, masking his equipment and weapons, making him look like any other of the soldiers.

Arran paused long enough to cut the stunned soldier’s throat and steal his Kalashnikov, and then set off for the ridge where Marugon’s army waited.

A thunderous roar echoed over the Emerald Plain as the war drums boomed. Arran turned and saw the armies of Antarese surge forward like an ocean of steel.

He was almost out of time.

Arran dashed up the ridge, Kalashnikov ready, his weapons thumping against his hips and shoulders. He heard the shouted commands as Marugon’s officers ordered the soldiers into position.

The cracks of ranging shots echoed over the plain.

“Soldier!”

A grim-faced man in a crimson-and-gold officer’s tunic stepped before Arran. “Move to the right wing. The Antardrim king commands there. Lord Marugon wishes him captured alive, if possible…”

Arran shot him twice in the face. The officer fell, his blood staining the dusty ground. Marugon’s soldiers were the rabble of the High Kingdoms, young noblemen banished for rape, murderers from the prisons, thieves and assassins and worse. Their officers held them together. Without their officers, the soldiers could not act as an army.

If Arran could kill all the officers just as King Septimus struck…

He reached the top of the ridge and froze. The soldiers stood in a line, weapons raised. The ground trembled as the horsemen of Antardrim thundered closer. They had no scouts out, no patrols. They did not expect anyone armed with their own weapons to challenge them.

“Fire!”

Hundreds of Kalashnikovs barked in response. The first line of the Antardrim charge vanished in blood and fire.

It was now or never.

Arran plucked a pair of grenades from his belt and flung them into the lines of black-uniformed soldiers. The gunmen didn’t notice. Arran raised his stolen Kalashnikov, fired off a burst into a clump of officers, and threw himself behind a boulder.

The grenades exploded, and a chorus of screams rang in Arran’s ears. He snapped up and fired again, killing two more officers. Marugon’s soldiers erupted into chaos, shooting this way and that, the officers running back and forth and bellowing orders.

“Reform, you dogs, damn you!” roared a huge red-faced officer. “They’re almost on us! Reform, or else…” Arran’s next shot pulverized his head. The Kalashnikov clicked empty, and Arran tossed it aside, drew his pistols from his belt, and ran at the screaming soldiers.

He shot one, shifted aim, and killed two more, the guns thundering in his hands. His blood burned, his heart hammering a drumbeat in his skull. A soldier ran at him, weapon brandished like a club. Arran pivoted and slammed the butt of his gun into the soldier’s forehead. The man collapsed like a fallen tree. Arran spun and shot two more down, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

Against their own weapons, Marugon’s powerful soldiers were nothing.

He risked a glance around the battlefield. Marugon’s gunmen had fallen into disarray. Some ran back and forth in panic, while others had opened fire on each other. Arran grinned as he shot down another officer. The Antardrim charge was almost here. If he could just throw them off balance for a little longer…

“Arran Belphon!”

Arran whirled, his guns coming up, and saw two black shapes drop from the sky.

His heart froze in his chest.

Two winged demons landed before him, their spiked black armor clanking as their leathery wings folded behind their back. Their eyes blazed with crimson fire in their pale faces, and yellowed fangs jutted over their lips. Curved black swords rested at their belts, and they held Glock pistols ready in their iron-clawed hands.

“Fallen Knight,” said the one on the right. “You are the feared Ghost of Carlisan? I thought you taller.”

Arran had his guns up in an instant, and so did the winged demons.

“We have come for you.” The one on the left chuckled, the razor spikes of its armor gleaming. “Lord Marugon has tired of you. We shall bring you before him, and we will tear your feeble spirit from your broken body.”

“I will kill Lord Marugon,” said Arran, “and you and all your wretched kin.”

The winged demons laughed. “You will fear us instead! For am I am Prince Baal-Mar-Dan, and this is my brother Prince Khan-Mar-Dan! We are the sons of Goth-Mar-Dan, lord of the winged ones.”

“The bastard spawn of a monster, then,” said Arran. He knew how the winged demons reproduced. They kidnapped mortal women and impregnated them. And when the winged demon was ready to be born, it tore its way free from its mother’s womb, killing her in the process. Both Khan-Mar-Dan and Baal-Mar-Dan had clawed their way out of two of Goth-Mar-Dan’s victims.

Khan-Mar-Dan laughed. “So proud, little Knight? Hundreds of Knights have perished beneath our guns. You shall be the next!”

Arran’s mind raced, trying to find a strategy. Bullets could hurt the winged demons, but mortal weapons did little against the creatures - it took about forty or fifty direct hits to kill a winged demon. It would only take one or two to kill Arran.

He had to kill them quickly.

The winged demons opened fire. Arran whirled, spinning his cloak out, presenting a wider target. The bullets tore the cloak to shreds, and one grazed his hip, but none struck him otherwise. He came out of his spin, lunged, and started shooting. He had practiced with guns every day for almost ten years now, and he knew how to shoot.

He shot the guns in the demons’ clawed hands, ruining the weapons.

Behind the winged demons, Arran saw that the gunmen had begun to rally.

Baal-Mar-Dan laughed and flexed his clawed fingers. “Impressive! You are as formidable as they say.”

“Enough talk,” spat Arran. “Is this the best you can do, damned things?”

Khan-Mar-Dan snarled. “You should fear us, human.” Both demons drew their black scimitars. “We slew the wizards of the White Council, and now we shall kill the last of the Knights.”

Arran flipped one of his guns into its holster, the leather sizzling against the hot muzzle.

He drew his Sacred Blade with his free hand.

The silvery metal flashed with blue light, and then shimmered with azure fires. The thunder of hooves echoed in his ears, alongside screams, gunfire, and the crash of steel. “I’m pleased we can settle this in the old way.”

Baal-Mar-Dan laughed. “As are we!”

The demons jumped into the air, wings beating. Arran backpedaled, his Sacred Blade raised in guard. The demons circled, swooped, and dove at him. Arran met their attack, steel ringing as his muscles flowed through the discipline of sword work. The winged demons flinched from the fire of his Sacred Blade, and Arran scored a hit on Baal-Mar-Dan’s leg. The creature screamed in agony and leaped back as Khan-Mar-Dan’s scimitar slashed a line of blood across Arran’s shoulder. He growled in pain and drove the demon back with a flurry of quick sword blows.

Arran rammed his remaining gun into its holster and took his sword in both hands. His shoulder shook with pain and exertion, and sweat dripped down his face. He could not match the strength and speed of the winged demons. Sir Liam Mastere could have taken them. But Liam Two Swords had been the only Knight ever to wield two Sacred Blades.

And no doubt he had been dead for years, his bones lying alongside those of Lithon Scepteris in the Tower of Endless Worlds.

Arran blinked sweat from his eyes. He felt the weight of his dead brother’s sword over his shoulder. He had a second Sacred Blade, but the magic of the swords meant he would only wield one at a time.

Baal-Mar-Dan chuckled. “Resist as you will, but it will avail you not. We shall take you to Lord Marugon.”

Arran spat and waved his sword in a circle. “Then let’s not keep the old bastard waiting.”

The winged demons soared, their leathery wings beating. Arran turned in a slow circle, trying to keep them both in sight. Something exploded nearby, sending shock waves through the ground, and the screams of dying men drilled in Arran’s ears.

Baal-Mar-Dan howled and dropped low, scimitar spinning. Arran leapt forward and parried, their swords crashing and shrieking. Arran twisted to the side and scored a stinging hit along Baal-Mar-Dan’s neck. Baal-Mar-Dan snarled as Khan-Mar-Dan plummeted from the sky, scimitar raised for a chop. Arran parried, lunged, and Khan-Mar-Dan reeled back, the fires of Arran’s Sacred Blade flashing in his face. Arran dropped to one knee, drew back his arm, and flung his sword. His Sacred Blade plunged into Khan-Mar-Dan’s hip.

The winged demon screamed, clawing at the fires burning up his leg.

Baal-Mar-Dan yelled in triumph, scimitar flashing. Arran jumped back and dodged the blurring strikes. He reached over his shoulder and snatched out his brother’s Sacred Blade. The weapon felt heavy and strange in his hand, yet flamed to life nonetheless.

He could only wield one Sacred Blade at a time, and since his sword was buried in Khan-Mar-Dan’s hip, that mean he could wield Luthar’s blade with ease.

Baal-Mar-Dan cursed and retreated as Arran whipped Luthar’s Sacred Blade through a flurry of swings. Baal-Mar-Dan dodged and ducked, his scimitar flashing through parries. Arran spun, thrust, and drove his sword through Baal-Mar-Dan’s shoulder.

The winged demon screamed and dropped his scimitar.

“This is not over yet!” the demon roared. Baal-Mar-Dan flapped his wings and soared away. Arran sprinted at Khan-Mar-Dan. The wounded demon clawed Arran’s Sacred Blade free from his leg and joined his brother. They flew away, and soon became two black spots on the horizon.

Arran snapped his brother’s sword into its scabbard and scooped up his own Sacred Blade. He shoved the weapon into its scabbard and drew both of his pistols. He still had time. If he killed the officers, threw Marugon’s soldiers into disarray, the Antardrim might yet carry day…

Then he looked at the battle, and the despair rose up in him anew.

The few hundred gunmen had slaughtered the mighty army of Antarese. Thousands of armored, bullet-ridden corpses lay gleaming in the sun, and the blood turned the Emerald Plain into crimson mud. Arran saw King Septimus’s banner, bullet-riddled and shredded, lying in a pool of gore. The King himself lay in pieces, his head mounted atop Marugon’s banners. Even as Arran watched, the soldiers mowed down the last of the fleeing Antardrim soldiers. In a few hours the gunmen would march on defenseless Antarese. Thousands of women and children waited in that city…

A soldier ran past, Kalashnikov smoking. Arran snarled and shot the soldier down.

###

It took him hours to escape from the soldiers, and the day faded to twilight as he made his escape.

At last he stumbled up a hill five miles or so from Antarese and looked back.

The gunmen had blasted open Antarese’s gates and stormed inside. Endless choruses of agonizing screams rose into the night, seeming to echo inside Arran’s head.

The soldiers had set the city ablaze, and even from five miles away, the glare turned the night into sullen day.

The last of the High Kingdoms had fallen to Lord Marugon.

Arran stumbled onward, too numb even to weep.

He had failed. He had damned himself, fought the gunmen for years, and it had all been for nothing. The White Council was gone, the Knights were gone, and now all the High Kingdoms were gone.

There was nothing left. Marugon had triumphed.

And Arran had nothing left to live for.

A distant explosion rumbled over the plain, the light of Antarese’s pyre flaring brighter.

Arran drew his Sacred Blade, the silvery blade gleaming with the inferno’s hellish light.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

He contemplated running himself through with the sword. Then Arran’s teeth gritted, and he slammed the sword back into its scabbard. He had ruined his soul with the guns. He would not profane the sword with his wretched blood.

“All for nothing,” he whispered, watching the distant fire.

What little hope King Septimus had offered him was crushed beyond recall. Now there was nothing for the world but fire and Marugon’s black magic. Perhaps Arran should charge back to Antarese and die with his weapons in hand…

But what good what it serve? He had failed.

Arran turned his back on doomed Antarese. He trudged down the side of the hill and stopped, staring into the parched, bleak plain that marked the southern border of Antarese.

He stood on the edge of the vast Desert of Scorpions, its borders stretching into the unknown regions of the world. Let the heat broil him, the sun blind him, and the sand scour the sand from his damned bones.

It was over.

Arran staggered into the Desert of Scorpions to die.

Chapter 2 - First Day

Anno Domini 2012

Ally lay on the ground, her hot blood pooling beneath her on the cold stones of the castle courtyard. Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, and pain burned through her with every breath.

A shadow darkened the sky.

Ally tried to scream, blood bubbling from her lips. An armored nightmare with huge leathery wings and burning eyes stood besides her. Ally’s lips moved and a strange voice shouted words. The monster’s face twisted and its hand plunged down. Iron claws plunged between her breasts, shattered her ribs, and grasped her pounding heart.

Ally screamed as the monster pulled…

###

Whispers of madness filled the air.

Ally ran, a boy of three years screaming in her arms. Her bare feet slapped against the cold crimson marble. A man’s voice rang out in rage and pain. Demons of shadow crawled along the walls, floor, and ceiling of the vaulted chamber, converging on an old man with two swords of burning blue light.

“The door, damn you!” shouted the old man, his swords whirling. “The door!”

Ally saw five ornate doors of carved stone in the wall ahead. “I…I don’t know which one. I don't know which door to open!”

A blast of icy air caressed her neck. She whirled as a shadow-thing reached for her, cold claws extended. Ally screamed in terror and dropped the boy. The shadow leapt over the toddler. They didn’t care about him. They didn’t care about the old man.

They wanted her.

She sprinted for one of the doors. Her feet slipped on the cold marble and she cracked her head. Her vision cleared just as the shadow-things leapt upon her…

###

Ally Wester sat up in bed, trying to bite back the shrieks just behind her lips. Her legs tangled in the blankets, and sweat covered her from head to foot. Her eyes darted back and forth over the room. For instant it seemed like waiting shadows, winged and clawed, lurked in the corners…

Ally closed her eyes, bit her knuckles, and waited for the shakes to pass. Shards of memory beat against her mind. She remembered an old man with a grim face and kindly eyes, two swords hanging at his belt, and a gaunt man with a black staff.

Then the images faded away into nothingness.

Dreams. Just dreams.

Ally forced herself to open her eyes after a while. She saw her desk against the wall, her dresser, her bookcase, and nothing else.

“Just dreams,” muttered Ally

She grimaced and rolled out of bed with a grunt. God, but her throat was dry.

The window caught her eye. Snowflakes danced in the street light’s glow, and a white blanket already covered the streets and the neighbors’ roofs. Ally grinned. Maybe they would cancel school tomorrow. Another day of Christmas vacation would not trouble her in the slightest.

She slid out the door and padded down the upstairs hall. Faint snores rattled from the door to Lithon’s room. She never understood how an fourteen-year-old boy could snore so loudly. Complete silence came from Katrina and Simon’s door, since Katrina would not return from the mystery writers' convention until tomorrow afternoon.

Ally slid into the bathroom and filled a paper cup with water. She drank it all and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, but it never pleased her. It had turned flame-red around her twelfth birthday, but she often thought of changing it back to dark brown, the way it had been when she had met...

She remember a massive tower, larger than any human hands could build, and whispering shadows...

No. Just dreams.

She went back to her room, trying to to ignore the fear fluttering in her hand. This was ridiculous. She was eighteen years old, and she would graduate from high school in five months. She was too old to run crying from nightmares.

But not too old to have them, it seemed.

“Just dreams,” whispered Ally.

She looked over her room. There was no trace of winged creatures or whispering shadows or black towers or any of the other phantasms that haunted her frequent nightmares.

“Stupid,” muttered Ally.

Something wavered inside her mind, and she had the brief feeling that she had forgotten something, forgotten something vital and important and terrible...

Then the feeling vanished.

"Stupid," repeated Ally. She stripped off the damp T-shirt, pulled on a fresh one, and climbed back into bed.

###

At 6:30 the alarm clock started wailing.

Ally swatted the clock until it shut off, yawned, and clambered out of bed. She pushed aside the curtains and looked out the window just in time to see a snowplow growl up the street, leaving a trail of salt crystals in its wake. No doubt the roads had been cleared, which meant she would have to go to school. She walked down the hall and past Lithon's door. His bed was empty and unmade, his floor covered in a jumble of sports equipment. She wondered where he had gone. Katrina or Simon usually had to drag him out of bed.

She walked down the back stairs and into the kitchen. Simon sat at the table in his bathrobe, his hair mussed. He stared at the TV, an odd mixture of worry and doubt on his face.

The blond anchorwoman on the TV smiled as stock prices flashed across the bottom of the screen. “Frantic speculation continues on whether or not Illinois’s Senator Thomas Wycliffe, a Chicago native, will seek the Republican presidential nomination in 2012. Rumors circulate that Wycliffe is interested in a presidential bid. Wycliffe maintains an eighty percent approval rating, despite numerous investigations into Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping. Experts attribute his widespread support to his opposition to recent unpopular policies pursued by the state government and the US Senate.”

Simon muttered something, and Ally ignored him. Her adoptive father got weird about politics sometimes.

“However,” continued the anchorwoman, “other sources suggestion that he may seek the nomination of a third party, given reports of his disagreements with Republican leadership. Wycliffe himself has remained silent on the topic.”

Simon shook his head. “Why didn’t I shoot…”

Ally opened the refrigerator. “Did they say if school was canceled?”

Simon almost jumped out of his chair. “Ally! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Ally rolled her eyes and poured herself a glass of orange juice. “Well, sorry, Dr. Simon Wester. Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack there.”

“I’m as healthy as a horse,” said Simon. “And don’t call me Dr. Simon Wester. Father will suffice, thank you.”

Ally sat down at the table. “You made me call you Dr. Wester when that University interviewer came by.”

“That’s different,” said Simon. He scratched at the new beard growing on his chin.

Ally sipped her juice. “Mom's going to make you shave that.”

Simon gave her a look. “We’ll talk about it. I think she can be persuaded to see reason.”

Ally snorted. “She’s going to make you shave it. And she’s also going to be upset that you didn’t do any running while she was gone.”

Simon glared. “Who’s going to tell her? You?”

Ally smiled. “I might.”

He grunted. “I’ll tell you how it’s going to be, young lady. I’m going to have a cheeseburger and fries for lunch today. You aren’t going to tell your mother about that, or that I didn't go running for five days.”

“Or you’ll ground me?” said Ally.

Simon grinned. “Or else I’ll tell her how you took her car, that nice, new  car she likes so much, and went out with your friends and didn’t come back until three in the morning.”

Ally put down the orange juice. “That’s playing dirty!”

Simon’s grin turned to a smirk. “I learned from the best.”

Ally gave up and went to make some toast. “Who? Grandma?”

“No, your mother.” Simon took a drink of his coffee. “Make me a bagel while you’re at it, will you?”

“Sure,” said Ally. “So, we have a deal? Mutual silence?” She dropped in a bagel and a slice of bread into the toaster and pushed down the lever.

Simon slapped his right hand over his heart. “Silent as the grave.”

“Someone’s morbid today,” said Ally.

Simon waved his hand. “I really wish you’d get dressed before you run around the house.”

Ally frowned. “I’m dressed.” She tugged at her T-shirt. “What do you call this?”

“A T-shirt. It’s too short.”

The toaster spat out the bagel, and Ally grabbed it. “It comes down to my knees.”

“Mid-thigh,” said Simon. “And it’s too tight.”

Ally rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I’m going out in it.”

“No, but it’s not much of a stretch from what you do go out…”

“Dad!” Ally scowled. “I think I want a bagel after all.” She took a big bite and started chewing.

“That was my breakfast!" said Simon. “And you hate bagels.”

Ally tried to swallow. She shuddered, gave up, and spat the mouthful into the wastebasket.

Simon laughed. “You look like you’d just swallowed a dead rat. I can’t understand what you have against bagels.”

“Look at what you made me do,” said Ally. “I hate bagels.”

“Don’t throw that out,” said Simon. He climbed out his chair and grunted. “Figures. A half-eaten bagel for breakfast. The day’s off to a rousing start.”

Ally folded her arms. “You make fun of me for wearing a T-shirt, and you’re walking around in a bathrobe. Real fair. At least change before you take me to school, okay? That would be so embarrassing.”

Simon made a sour face. “Your grandmother drove me to school all the time when I was your age.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have any friends,” said Ally. “Grandma told me.”

Simon snorted. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not driving you to school anyway. You can drive yourself.”

Ally brightened. “Really? How come?”

“I have to pick up Katrina from the airport this afternoon,” said Simon. “So I’ll take your mom’s fancy new car, and you can have my car for the day.”

“Can I have Mom’s car?” said Ally.

“No,” said Simon.

Ally frowned. “Your car’s lame.”

Simon rolled his eyes and sat back down with a grunt. “I’m a history professor, daughter dearest. Everything I do his lame, way lame, massively lame, and totally lame, as you’ve informed at various times. Usually inconvenient times, I might add.”

Ally frowned. “How’s Lithon getting to school?”

“I dropped him off already,” said Simon.

“Why so early?”

Simon grumbled. “Would you mind getting me a cup of coffee?” Ally obliged and retrieved a mug from the cupboard. “He’s got basketball practice starting up again.”

Ally snapped her fingers. “That’s right. Cream?”

“No,” said Simon. She handed him the cup. “I need this to keep me awake.” He raised an eyebrow. “You know, I had on sweatpants and my coat when I dropped off Lithon, and he didn’t give me one word of protest, not one. Why can’t you be more like him?”

Ally rolled her eyes. “Lithon’s a boy and he’s fourteen years old, Dad. I think there are some differences.”

“You’ll have to pick him up from school, if you want the car,” said Simon. “I’ll still be at the airport.”

“That’s no problem.” She looked at the clock over the table. “It’s ten to seven already. Got to get ready.”

She hurried back upstairs and took a shower. Then she toweled off and dressed in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and sneakers. Her backpack rustled as she shoved in textbooks, pencils, and dog-eared notebooks. She pulled her coat, a long green tattered overcoat that had seen better days, from its hook and wrapped it around her.

She ran back down the stairs, backpack thumping against her shoulders with every step. “Keys?”

Simon handed her the keys to his car. “Just be very careful, okay? Some the roads might still be slippery.”

“I will. I will! Don’t look at me like that. Okay.” Ally took the keys from him. “Love you. Bye.” She kissed him on the forehead and headed out the back door, keys jingling.

###

Simon got up, his back aching.. He was only thirty-six. He shouldn’t feel this tired. He really had to lose some weight, as Katrina constantly reminded him.

Maybe he would skip that cheeseburger for lunch. He walked to the living room and watched out the window as Ally backed his car out the narrow driveway with ease.

Simon snorted and turned away. “She’s better at that than I am.” He had dinged his mirror on the side of the neighbor’s house more than once. “She’ll be fine.” He settled down before his half-finished coffee. “She’s a good driver. And she’s smart, despite being a teenage girl. You don’t need to worry.”

He finished off the coffee and stared at the TV’s dark screen.

Of course, most teenage girls didn’t have constant nightmares.

Most teenage girls didn’t have mortal enemies who believed them dead.

###

Ally tapped the gas and turned a corner. Her school, a hideous brown brick structure that had been built during the Depression, came into sight. Ally drove past the front doors, looking for a parking space. She found one a block and a half away and managed to squeeze Simon’s car into it. She got out and locked the doors, despite the fact that no one in the world would want to steal a 2005 Ford Focus. It didn’t even have an iPod dock.

She got out and stared at the car. A memory flickered through her mind, and she recalled another old vehicle, a red Ford van, smashed against a brick wall…

She shook her head. “No. Didn’t happen.”

All at once she knew that someone was watching her. Sometimes she had…premonitions of a sort. Feelings. And they were always right.

“Talking to yourself again, I see,” said a quivering voice.

Ally turned, her muscles starting to move into one of the defense postures Katrina had taught her, and then she laughed. “Bill Ryan! Don’t scare me like that. I almost hit you.”

Bill Ryan, tall, pudgy, and greasy-haired, stood a few feet away, fidgeting in his heavy jacket. His glasses magnified his eyes to absurd size, and he carried an iPad tucked under one arm. “You could do it, too.” He scratched at the pimples on his cheek. “That’d be just the greatest way to start the semester. Getting beat up by a girl. I’d never hear the end of it.”

Ally laughed. “Want to walk me to school?”

Bill sputtered. “Sure.” Ally knew he had a substantial crush on her. He had the good graces not to make an ass of himself, and he had never quite worked up the nerve to make a move. “How was your break?”

Bill looked at the slushy sidewalk. “Good. I guess.”

“Just good? You do anything?” said Ally.

Bill shrugged. “Well. Stuff. You know.”

“I don’t know,” said Ally. “What did you do? Come on, already.”

“We went to Florida,” said Bill.

Ally grinned at him. “Oh my God, you went to Florida, and it was just good?”

Bill flushed and gave her a nervous smile. “Well. It was pretty cool. We went to Disneyland. That was cool. Florida is freaky, Ally. There’s palm trees everywhere. And old people. Lots of old people. None of them know how to drive. Then we had to go to Boston.”

“Boston?” said Ally. “Why did you have to go to Boston?”

“Um…” Bill’s blush deepened. “Um…well…my mom wanted to visit the Massachusetts Institute of Technology…”

Ally grinned and looked right at him. “And?”

“And…well,” Bill’s ears turned a deep scarlet, “I sort of got accepted with a full scholarship…”

“Bill!” said Ally. “Congratulations! You should have told me. Or mentioned it on Facebook. Or something!”

Bill shrugged. “Well, uh, it didn’t come up.”

“You could win the lottery and we wouldn’t hear about it until you pulled up to school in a brand new Mercedes,” said Ally.

“It’s not that big a deal,” said Bill. Ally gave him an incredulous look. “Okay, maybe it is. But I don’t really deserve it. I don’t know why they gave it to me…”

Ally laughed. “You deserve it. You were the one who was in advanced calculus freshman year. And who went to that nation science fair competition three years running and won last semester with that freaky model of planetary gravitation or whatever…”

“You should apply to MIT, too,” blurted Bill. “You’d get in, I know you would.”

Ally shook her head. “No I wouldn’t.” They started up the front stairs to the school. A group of seniors stood near the door, making of a show of smoking cigarettes and trying not to cough.

“You would too,” said Bill. “You’re smarter than I am.”

“Not really,” said Ally. “My dad’s heart is set on me going to Constantina. Besides, he’s faculty, so I would get a big chunk of tuition remission…”

“Ally!”

Someone plowed into Ally and hugged her. She spun around and stared into Mary Lucas’s round, grinning face.

“Mary!” said Ally, laughing. “Don’t do that! You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Mary hopped up and down, the rest of her body bouncing beneath her sweater and black slacks to the appreciative glances of passing sophmores. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that, oh my God, I’m so excited to see you again …”

“It’s good to see you again, Mary. Okay? Okay! Stop bouncing, for God’s sake. You’re making my teeth rattle,” said Ally. Bill snickered.

“Okay,” said Mary. “Okay. Like how was your break? Mine was pretty boring. I just sat around the house and watched TV. Oh, hi, Bill.”

Bill looked at the ground. “Hey.” Ally knew he had a crush on Mary as well.

“Mine was pretty boring too,” said Ally. “I did the same thing.”

Mary giggled. “Yeah, right. You sat around and read a mountain of books, that’s what I think you did.” Bill made a little bow and held the door open for them. Ally smiled and followed Mary into the front hallway. The students stood by their lockers, talking in rapid voices, while the teachers waited at the doors to their classrooms and watched the crowd with a critical eye. “My parents were at work most of the time, and I couldn’t find a job, so…well…I guess I just sat around and watched daytime TV. Those people are whacko, you know?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ally. She opened her locker and dumped her books inside. “My dad says TV and the Internet will have made everyone brain dead by 2020.”

Mary laughed. “Oh, your dad’s pretty boring. I mean, he’s a college professor. What class do you have first? I’ve got American Government with Paulsen.” She rolled her eyes. “Like, total snore. What have you got?”

Ally shook her head. “Pre-Trig.”

Mary looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, you’re smart, and you’ve got all the smart people classes. I get all the stupid people classes.”

Ally rolled her eyes. “I have that fifth period. Mary, for the last time, you’re not…”

“Mary! Come here!”

Ally turned. A huge teenage boy in a leather varsity jacket leaned against his locker. Both his face and body looked as if they had been sculpted from granite. He snapped his fingers and pointed.

Mary tensed. “Nathan, I’m talking…”

Nathan smirked. “Here. Now.”

Mary sighed and walked to his side. Nathan hooked a huge arm around her waist and gave her a sloppy kiss. “We’ve got our first class together.”

Mary giggled and traced a finger along his jaw. “I know, baby.”

“And you’re going to have lunch with me. With me and the guys, right?” said Nathan.

Mary looked over her shoulder at Ally. “But…but baby, I wanted to have lunch with Ally…”

“That ice queen?” Bill tensed. “You know you like…”

“Miss Lucas, Mr. Jameson.” Mr. Paulsen glared out his classroom door. He was paunchy and bold, and a gym whistle dangled from a lanyard around his neck and bounced against his polo shirt. “Let’s keep the public pawing to a minimum, shall we?”

Nathan stood up straighter and pushed Mary away. Her elbow banged against the locker door. “Yes, sir, Coach.”

Mr. Paulsen smiled. “That’s a good lad. Miss Lucas, try to control yourself in the future, understand?” Mary nodded, white-faced. “Well, I’ll see you both in class shortly.” Mr. Paulsen disappeared into his classroom.

“Jerk,” muttered Ally.

“So you’ll have lunch with me, then,” said Nathan, pulling Mary back close. “It’ll make me happy.” An odd gleam came into his blue eyes. “You want to make me happy, right?”

Mary smiled. “I do.”

Nathan smiled and put his arm over her shoulder. “Then let’s go sleep through class. Should be pretty easy. Paulsen and me, we’re tight.”

Mary leaned against him. “Okay, honey.” Mary shot an apologetic look over her shoulder at Ally, and then she vanished into Paulsen’s classroom behind Nathan.

“What a dick,” said Bill.

“I was thinking of something stronger, but that works,” said Ally. She shoved her books into her backpack and slammed her locker shut.

“And Paulsen. Did you see how he blamed her?” said Bill.

“Uh-huh,” said Ally.

Bill sighed. “Why does Mary let him boss her around?”

“Because.” Ally stared into the wall, and another of her insights came to her. “Her father’s just like him. The man bosses Mary around and yells at her for everything. She’s been trained to be dominated.” Bill frowned. “What, already?”

“You got that creepy look again,” said Bill.

Ally rolled her eyes. “I do not get a creepy look.”

“You do to,” said Bill. “You, like, stare off into nothing. Then you start with the wise pronouncements.”

“Whatever,” said Ally. Something tugged at her mind. Had someone told her something similar once? She pushed the thought away. “Let’s just go to class, okay?”

Bill nodded. “Okay.”

###

At fifth period, Ally walked through the door to Mr. Paulsen’s classroom. Football players and cheerleaders filled the desks, many of them texting on their iPhones. Mr. Paulsen stood with two boys in basketball jerseys, talking and laughing. Ally didn’t see any of her friends. She sighed and dropped into one of the open desks.

The bell rang, and Mr. Paulsen sent the boys in jerseys to their desks. “Settle down, people.” He grinned and held up his whistle. “The administration gets pissed when I use this to start class.” Laughter went through the room. “All right. Shut up and pay attention. Roll call! I call on you, you tell me your name and what sports you’re in this year.”

Mr. Paulsen went through the class list. “And, last, and probably least,” the class snickered, “one…Ally Wester.” Ally’s lips thinned.

“Here,” said Ally.

Mr. Paulsen squinted at her. “So you must be the famous Ally Wester, then.” His eyes darted down the front of her torso and back to her face again.

“The process of elimination would dictate it, yes,” said Ally.

Mr. Paulsen snorted. “So. What sports are you in this year?”

“None,” said Ally.

Mr. Paulsen raised his iron-gray eyebrows. “None? Chess club doesn’t count, you know.”

“There was no money for it this year,” said Ally. “The basketball team has very nice new uniforms, though.”

Mr. Paulsen blinked. “So why aren’t you in any sports? They’re good for a healthy young woman such as yourself.”

“I’m busy,” said Ally. “I have a lot to do.”

Mr. Paulsen snorted. “Doing what? Watching TV and talking to your girlfriends on the phone? Going shopping?”

“Studying,” said Ally. “There’s not much a job market after high school for former quarterbacks.”

“I don’t think you’d make a great quarterback,” said Mr. Paulsen. “A cheerleader, though…you’d make a good cheerleader. Why not show some school spirit and support your team?”

Ally shrugged. “Because it doesn’t matter to me one way or another how my team does.”

Mr. Paulsen glared. “The textbooks are over on the counter.” He leveled a meaty finger. “Distribute them.”

She had a feeling this class was not going to go well.

Ally got up and walked to the back of the room. She felt dozens of eyes on her, many of them mocking, but she ignored them and began distributing the textbooks. No matter.  This was just one class, and she would graduate in five months. If she kept her head down and didn’t make trouble, she could get through this easily enough.

Even if Paulsen was a jackass.

“Wet blankets aside,” said Mr. Paulsen, “I hope we can have a good time in this class. Let’s face it. American government’s a pretty boring topic, and you all have more important things to be doing.” He got another laugh. “At least those of you who aren’t in chess club, like Miss Wester.”

Ally handed over another textbook and looked at him. She ought to feel embarrassed, she knew. Even intimidated. But Paulsen was just a fat, middle-aged basketball coach, and Ally had seen things far scarier than him…

She frowned. What things?

“Come on,” said Mr. Paulsen. “Hand this books out! Hustle!” He grinned. “If you had been in a sport, you would know what that word means.”

The class laughed.

And all at once Ally decided to make trouble.

Ally finished and sat down with her book. She raised her hand. “Mr. Paulsen?”

He turned. “Yeah? What?”

Ally put her hand down. “Why is American government a boring and unimportant topic?”

Mr. Paulsen laughed. “You think it’s fun?”

“No. But it’s probably important,” said Ally.

Mr. Paulsen groaned and threw out his arms. “Oh, come on. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a poll. You have a choice. You can go to Friday night’s varsity basketball game, cheer on the team, and have a good time. Or you can sit at home and watch Congressional debates on C-SPAN or whatever. Okay, let’s vote. Game?” A forest of arms went up. Mr. Paulsen grinned at Ally. “It’s democracy. The people have spoken and all that.”

“So it’s important to vote?” said Ally.

Mr. Paulsen snorted. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. The politicians are all crooks. And let’s face it. Politics are boring.”

Ally shrugged. “I can see your point.”

Mr. Paulsen smiled. “Good.”

“It might cost you your job, though,” said Ally.

Mr. Paulsen. “What? That’s stupid.” He sneered. “That some sort of threat?”

“No,” said Ally. “But it might disappear in the next budget cut.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Mr. Paulsen, his face knotting in a frown.

“The state legislature passed a twenty percent cut to the public education budget for the next fiscal year,” said Ally. “The governor will probably sign it.”

Mr. Paulsen’s mouth opened and closed. “Don’t spread rumors, Miss Wester. Where did you hear this?”

“Internet news yesterday,” said Ally. That, and Simon had complained about it at some length.

“I read the news on the Internet every day,” said Mr. Paulsen.

“I don’t think it was on ESPN.com,” said Ally.

“Funny,” said Mr. Paulsen. A pulsing vein stood out on his forehead. “They’ll never cut the education budget. The union would make sure they lose the next election.”

“They seem pretty determined,” said Ally.

Mr. Paulsen’s jaw worked. “It doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t cut me. The football program is too important.”

Ally shrugged. “I’ll bet a lot of deadwood will go.”

Paulsen stalked before her desk and glared down at her. “I am not deadwood, Miss Wester, and if you keep up with that I’ll send your arrogant ass to the principal’s office faster than you can blink. I have a wife and kids to feed. They wouldn’t fire me.”

Ally blinked and looked at his thick hands. He wore a University of Illinois football ring, but no wedding band. He had the red nose of a drinker.

One of her insights, one of her strange premonitions, filled her mind.

She heard herself speak, as if someone else was talking. “Of course not. A man who threw away a football career because he got drunk, knocked up his girlfriend, and had to marry her…who would consider him deadwood?”

The classroom went dead silent.

Mr. Paulsen’s face turned scarlet. For a brief moment Ally thought he would punch her. She must have hit the mark.

He raised a shaking hand and pointed at the door. “Principal’s office. Now, now, now!”

Ally got up. “Sure.” She walked into the hall, feeling Mr. Paulsen’s furious glare burn into her back.

Maybe she had made a little too much trouble.

Chapter 3 - The Desert of Scorpions

Year of the Councils 971

The sun burned hotter than the pyre of Antarese.

Arran took one step, and another, and another. Dust puffed around his boots. Drops of sweat trickled down his forehead and evaporated before they touched his eyebrows. He felt his skin burning, and peeling back from his face, but did not care.

Wind-sculpted crags, jagged boulders, and sand stretched away as far as he could see. Arran stumbled, went to one knee, and got up again. A small lizard watched him for a while, and then scampered away. Arran coughed and kept walking. His eyes wandered over the rocks. He had heard rock dragons lived in the desert. Poisonous snakes crawled and writhed through the wastes. And there were the Scorpions, the secretive bands of nomads that gave the desert its name.

When would something kill him?

Arran managed a weak laugh. If the Scorpions, snakes, and rock dragons failed, the sun would succeed. He only had enough water for another two days, and food for one meal. His throat already felt parched. He lifted his waterskin and drank. Some water fell from his lips and dribbled against the sand.

He didn’t care.

Arran trudged on until nightfall. Exhaustion pulled at his limbs, and his vision blurred. He staggered into the shadow of a large boulder, curled up, and fell asleep.

###

The next day he saw a black speck circling in the blue sky.

Arran shielded his eyes with a trembling hand. He watched as another speck joined it. Together they vanished away to the west. His sunburned face twisted into a painful frown. The specks didn’t look like the buzzards that had followed him for the last day.

Suppose the two winged demons followed had followed him? He had hurt them, true, but winged demons could regenerate even serious wounds in a few days.

Arran let out a croaking laugh. Let the wretched demon princes follow him! Let them take his sand-blasted corpse back to Marugon. Or let the jackals and the buzzards pick at his bones. It didn’t matter.

He scrubbed grit from his eyes and kept going.

###

His throat burned.

Arran threw aside his empty waterskin and trudged on. Jagged bluffs rose all around him, broken stones crunching under his boots. The cliffs and the stones baked with the intense heat. He would have sweated, but he had not had anything to drink for the last six hours. His skin felt like a sheath of flame, and pain flared up and down his legs. A trio of buzzards circled overhead, sometimes landing to watch him with their beady eyes.

Soon he would die. The thought brought dull relief to his fevered mind.

His legs gave out, and he fell against a boulder with a thump. Its shadow covered him, and he sighed in relief. At least he was out of the sun.

He sat in the boulder’s shadow and looked over the landscape. A low gully stretched away into the distance, and more boulders and wind-sculpted cliffs loomed overhead. A buzzard landed and waddled towards Arran. He growled, drew a gun, and shot it.

“Wait until I’m dead,” said Arran, shoving the gun back into its holster.

His vision blurred and his pulse pounded in his ears, like the sound of the war drums as Marugon’s soldiers slaughtered the men of Antarese.

He heard a woman screaming in fury.

For an instant Arran thought the heat had driven him mad, that he was again hearing the screams in Carlisan, in Antarese. But the woman’s cries of rage grew louder, and he heard a deep, rumbling voice.

He recognized that voice. It belonged to Prince Baal-Mar-Dan.

Arran lurched to his feet, his vision swimming, his head reeling. He drew his Sacred Blade and crept towards the nearby gully, trying to keep his footfalls silent.

He spotted Baal-Mar-Dan standing at the bottom of the shallow gully.

“You should be honored, woman.” The winged demon stood with his back to Arran. His clawed hand clasped a slender woman around the neck. She wore strange dust-colored clothing, and a black spear with a grease-stained head lay at her feet. “Royal blood flows in my veins. You shall bear my son.”

The woman smirked, dark hair with silver streaks falling over her face. “I know better. You will not.”

Baal-Mar-Dan snarled. “Do not mock me.” Arran’s parched lips thinned. Perhaps he could take one of Goth-Mar-Dan’s vile spawn with him in death. He drew his Glock and took aim. The woman looked up, and her green eyes widened as she saw Arran.

“You will…what are you looking at?” Baal-Mar-Dan turned.

Arran fired, and his bullets reduced the left half of Baal-Mar-Dan’s face to ruin. The winged demon screamed, black blood splashing across his armored chest. The woman squirmed and darted free.

“You!” roared Baal-Mar-Dan. The winged demon drew his scimitar and took to the air. Arran dropped his gun and took his Sacred Blade in both hands. He parried the first blow, dodged the second, and took the third on his chest. The scimitar ripped a gash down Arran’s side, and he gasped in pain and stumbled back. Baal-Mar-Dan’s free hand slammed into Arran’s stomach, and sent him tumbling down the side of the gulley. Something shattered in his knee and sent a blast of pain up his leg.

Arran managed to kneel on his good knee, his Sacred Blade trembling in his hand.

Baal-Mar-Dan laughed. “You are weak, fallen Knight. Perhaps I shall take you to Marugon alive.”

Arran coughed. “Never.” Blood soaked into his torn clothes.

Baal-Mar-Dan jumped from the edge of the gully. Arran tried to parry, but his exhausted muscles moved with agonizing slowness. Baal-Mar-Dan snatched him by the throat and flew into the air, Arran’s feet dangling.

The winged demon’s scimitar plunged into Arran’s gut.

He screamed as pain exploded through him, blood welling up in his throat.

Baal-Mar-Dan flung him away, and Arran landed at the edge of the gully. He could not stand, could not even kneel, and felt his life’s blood seeping through the wound in his belly.

Baal-Mar-Dan’s laughter rang out. “Perhaps I shall not take you to Marugon. I will feast on you instead.”

“Damn you,” whispered Arran.

Then Baal-Mar-Dan’s mocking laughter dissolved into a scream. The dark-haired woman appeared behind him, the black spear in hand. She stabbed again, and Baal-Mar-Dan howled and flailed at her. The woman danced away, her hair flying about her head.

The demon would tear her to shreds. Arran could not let that happen. He had failed to save Luthar and so many others.

But perhaps he could still save her.

Arran surged to his feet, feeling something tear inside of his stomach, and threw himself at the winged demon. His Sacred Blade slid into Baal-Mar-Dan’s chest, blazing azure fire. The demon screamed, and Arran lost his balance and fell against Baal-Mar-Dan. His weight drove the demon backward, over the edge of the gully, and they fell. Arran landed atop Baal-Mar-Dan, driving the Sacred Blade deep into the winged demon. The pommel struck Arran’s chest with enough for to shatter one of Arran’s ribs.

He groaned and rolled away.

Baal-Mar-Dan howled in mortal agony. Arran watched as white fire burst from his eyes and mouth, the Sacred Blade shining like a shard of the sun.

Baal-Mar-Dan burned away to obsidian bones and smoking ash.

Arran crawled forward and grasped the hilt of his Sacred Blade. He wanted to die with his weapons in hand.

The world grew dim and hazy around him.

He saw the woman walking towards him, spear in hand, and all faded to darkness.

Chapter 4 - Premonitions

Anno Domini 2012

Paulsen stormed into the principal’s office and pointed at Ally. His face had only gotten redder in the last thirty minutes. “I want this bitch expelled.”

Dr. Burton, a gaunt black man with a wispy white goatee, folded his hands on his desk. “Oh? Might I inquire why?”

Mr. Paulsen sputtered. “You don’t know why? You’ve had her here for thirty minutes, and you don’t know why?”

Dr. Burton didn’t blink. “I wanted to hear both sides before I made a decision.”

“What is this?” said Mr. Paulsen, pacing back and forth. “Are we going to just sit back and let the students disrespect the teachers? We’ll have anarchy…”

“Kevin,” said Dr. Burton. “Please sit down. You’ll give yourself a heart attack if you keep carrying on like that.”

“I’m in great shape,” muttered Mr. Paulsen. Nevertheless, he sat down, pausing long enough to shoot a venomous glare at Ally.

“So,” said Dr. Burton. “Tell me. What precisely did to Miss Wester do to warrant expulsion? Oh, and what did she do to warrant you calling her an obscene name, which, I might point out, is conduct specifically prohibited by the teachers’ handbook and possible grounds for a lawsuit in these litigation-happy days?”

Mr. Paulsen blinked. “She can’t sue me!”

Dr. Burton’s lips thinned in annoyance. “She can, Kevin. Or, rather, her parents could. But we’ll talk about that later. Why should she be expelled?”

“She was showing me open disrespect,” said Mr. Paulsen.

“How so?”

Mr. Paulsen stammered. “She called me deadwood.”

“Ah. Deadwood. I cannot imagine why she would say such a thing.” Dr. Burton’s voice was neutral. “Miss Wester? Why did you call Mr. Paulsen deadwood?”

Ally sighed. “Look. I lost my temper.”

“Why?”

Ally folded her arms. “Mr. Paulsen said American government was a boring topic. I thought that was a pretty stupid thing for a government teacher to say.” Mr. Paulsen bristled, but kept going. “So I asked him if he knew about that bill that passed the state legislature, the one that would cut the school system’s budget by twenty…”

Dr. Burton removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, yes, I know all about that. Go on, Miss Wester.”

“Anyway, Mr. Paulsen didn’t know about the bill. I asked him if he knew that some people think a lot of deadwood will get fired if that bill gets signed…”

“Also true,” said Dr. Burton.

“Yeah.” Ally shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess an American government teacher who doesn’t know anything about government might count as deadwood, but what do I know? I’m just a girl who should be on the cheerleading team supporting school spirit, like Mr. Paulsen told me.”

Paulsen jumped out of his seat. “See! I told you!”

“Kevin,” said Dr. Burton, glaring over the rims of his glasses. “For the last time, please sit down.”

Mr. Paulsen dropped back into his chair. “But she also said I got drunk and got my wife pregnant before I married her. That’s a dirty slander…”

“Kevin,” said Dr. Burton. “It’s entirely true. Everyone knows it.”

Mr. Paulsen’s lips flapped. “It…but…she doesn’t have to say it.”

Dr. Burton leaned back in his chair. “Also true. You can go, Kevin. Miss Wester will be disciplined.”

“But…”

“Go, Kevin. We’ll discuss this later.” Mr. Paulsen glared at Ally again and slammed the door behind him.

“So. What I am to do with you, Miss Wester?” Dr. Burton stared at Ally.

Ally took a deep breath. “Okay. I know I crossed the line. I shouldn’t have said what I said about his wife. But he’s an idiot and he made me lose my temper. And I’m not going to take back what I said about deadwood.”

“Surprising as you may find this, I happen to agree with you,” said Dr. Burton.

Ally blinked. “You do?”

“But certain standards of behavior must be maintained. You will apologize to Mr. Paulsen for your remarks concerning his wife and the legitimacy of his firstborn.”

Ally scowled. “I’m not going to apologize about the deadwood…”

“You aren’t listening, Miss Wester,” said Dr. Burton. “I said you will apologize for your remarks concerning his wife.”

Ally blinked. “Oh.” She laughed. “Okay. I get it.”

Dr. Burton smiled. “That’s a bright girl.” He glanced at the flatscreen computer monitor on his desk. “Your third period is open, correct?”

Ally nodded.

“Mr. Lloyd’s American History class is at that time. As I recall, that will satisfy the same requirement for graduation as the American government class. I believe a transfer would be in your best interest.”

“I think you’re right,” said Ally.

Dr. Burton nodded. “Very well. Apologize to Mr. Paulsen, and you will start in Mr. Lloyd’s class tomorrow.” Ally got up. “Oh. Miss Wester?”

Ally paused at the door. “Yes?”

“You have a remarkable mind. Try to refrain from using it to point out the faculty’s ignorance. That causes all manner of problems.”

Ally grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

###

The dismissal bell rang, and classroom doors opened and students poured into the hall. Ally joined the throng and headed towards her locker. Her backpack straps were taut with weight. The first day back and she already had three hours worth of homework tonight.

“Ally! You are my hero.”

Ally turned. Bill stood at his locker, grinning at her. “What?”

“I heard about it,” said Bill, still grinning.

Ally rummaged through her locker. “About what? Stop being so obtuse.”

“How you made Paulsen freak out,” said Bill. “That was so cool.”

“I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have done that,” said Ally.

Bill laughed. “Oh, man. I’ve wanted to see someone get him for years. I heard he’s out back behind the gym, crying and smoking cigarettes.”

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ally. She slammed the door shut and pulled her backpack over her shoulders.

Bill flushed and looked at the floor. “All right. Sorry.”

Ally raised an eyebrow. “It’s not your fault.”

“Okay. Sorry,” said Bill.

“Bill!” said Ally. She laughed. “Stop apologizing at me.”

Bill nodded. “Okay.” He fidgeted. “Do you want to study? Together, I mean. I can’t believe he gave us so much pre-Trig homework on the first stay.”

“Sure,” said Ally. She started towards the door and snapped her fingers. “Wait. I have to pick up my brother from school.”

“Okay,” said Bill. “Maybe later. See you tomorrow.” He raised his hand and hurried off towards the door. Ally waved good-bye and watched him go. She knew he would take it personally. She hated to be so light with his feelings, even though she didn’t want to be his or anyone else’s girlfriend.

“Boys,” she mumbled. She joined the last few stragglers heading out the doors. It had snowed some more during the day, and the front steps were slick. Ally took small steps to keep from falling on her face.

“Hey! What’s your problem?”

Ally turned and saw Nathan Jameson standing near the doors, glaring at her. He had one arm over Mary’s shoulders, and a lit cigarette smoldered in his other hand.

“Nathan,” said Mary, her voice a pleading whine. “Don’t make trouble.”

Nathan ignored her. “So what’s your problem, ice queen? Don’t like football, do you?”

“Nathan,” said Mary. “Please…”

Nathan glared down at her. “I’m talking here, babe. Keep quiet.” He smirked back at Ally. “So what’s your problem with football?”

Ally shrugged. “I don’t have any problem with football. It just happens to be populated with thick-headed morons like you and Paulsen.”

Nathan snorted. “And what’s some stuck-up ice-queen bitch know about anything?” He took a long draw on his cigarette. “I’ll bet you don’t like watching men, that’s it. You’d rather stare at girls like Mary here.”

Ally raised her eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure I’m not a lesbian. Put that out.”

Nathan rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “What, you mean this?” He blew a cloud of smoke in his face.

“Yes, that,” said Ally. “Put that out, please.”

Nathan laughed. “You are such a prig, ice queen. Are you going to give me a speech about lung cancer?”

“No,” said Ally. “Your lungs can shrivel and blacken and you can die hooked up to a dozen machines, for all I care.” She remembered Grandma Coldridge’s death, lying in the white hospital bed surrounded by the beeping monitors. “But I don’t want Mary to die that way. Put it out.”

“Ally, it’s not that big a deal,” said Mary, her eyes frightened. “I mean, my dad smokes all the time around me…”

Once again Ally’s patience vanished

Ally snatched the cigarette from Nathan’s lips, crushed it in her fist, and dropped it on Nathan’s shoe.

Nathan bristled. “You bitch!” His shout drew attention, and some other students stopped to stare. “You bitch!”

Ally didn’t blink. “You ought to thank me.”

Another one of the premonitions came to her. He was going to try and hit her.

Of course, any idiot could see that.

But the premonition let her know exactly how he would move.

Nathan took a swing at her, and Ally sidestepped. Nathan slipped, lost his balance on the icy steps, and landed on his rump. His breath escaped his lips in an astonished gasp.

“You,” gasped Nathan, trying to rise. “You…bitch…”

“Just go away,” said Ally. “Before you make a bigger ass of yourself.”

Nathan got to his feet and glared at May. “You’re going to have to get some better friends if you want to keep going out with me.” He stalked away, glaring at everyone in his path.

“What a jerk,” said Ally.

“Ally Wester!” Mary looked close to tears. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” said Ally.

“Make a fool out of poor Nathan!” said Mary.

Ally scowled. “He made a fool out of himself. Do you expect me to just let him walk all over me?”

“I expect you not to embarrass me like that!” said Mary. She sniffled and scrubbed at her eyes.

“Why do you even go out with him?” said Ally. “He’s a jerk. He treats you like his personal maid and toy rolled up all into one.”

“He is not,” said Mary, hugging herself. “He can be sensitive. And he’s going to go places,  be rich someday. Football scouts from the University of Illinois have been talking to him. He’ll get a football scholarship, and then he’ll go into the NFL, and he’ll…he’ll…”

“Mary,” said Ally. “That’s a dream and you know it.”

Mary stiffened. “It is not!”

“It is too,” said Ally. “Nathan talked to one football scout six months ago. That was it. He’s a third-rate quarterback on a fifth-rate team.” More of the strange premonitions flickered through her mind. “And he smokes. And he drinks. And he probably does other drugs as well, though he’s managed to keep from getting caught. The booze, the tobacco, and the other drugs will ruin his health and wreck his life, I think. I just don’t want to you pulled down with him.”

Mary trembled. “That’s…that’s a terrible thing to say!”

Ally shrugged. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

Mary’s face twisted into an ugly expression. “You’re just jealous!”

Ally blinked in astonishment. “What?”

“You’re jealous! You’re jealous that I have a boyfriend and you don’t, so you’re trying to ruin it for me. You want Nathan for yourself, don’t you? That’s why you’re always so mean to him, you’re trying to get him to break up with me so you can have him for yourself!”

Ally scowled. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“So you do think I’m stupid!” said Mary. She sobbed hurried away.

Ally was so stunned that she didn’t know what to do. But when she had recovered her wits, Mary had already run off into the crowd.

And Ally had to pick up Lithon. She started for Simon’s car, digging in her pocket for the keys. “Some first day back.”

###

Ally pulled into the grade school’s parking lot. Piles of ploughed-up snow stood against the chain-link fences, the snow covered with kids laughing and building forts. She fiddled with the radio dial, wishing that Simon’s car had an iPod dock , and thought about Mary and Bill.

Why did people have to be so complicated?

Then Lithon ran over, and Ally grinned.

He wore no hat and scarf, as usual, despite the cold weather, and his blond hair gleamed in the gray light. Only fourteen years old, and he already had the musculature of a Greek god. In a few more years, girls would be hanging off him. She knew many girls who despised their younger brothers, and she had Lithon had practically no shared interests. Yet she had always been close to him. She didn’t understand why. It must have been something that had happened when they were young, before Katrina and Simon had adopted them…

A ghostly memory of a black tower and a stone door swam before her eyes.

Ally shivered and pushed it away.

Lithon threw open the passenger’s side door and dumped his backpack into the back seat.

“Hey, Ally. You’re late.”

“Sorry,” said Ally. She put the car into drive. “Traffic was bad.”

Lithon frowned. “You look kind of upset.”

Ally shook her head. “No. Just…a rough first day back, that’s all.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, you can talk about it later,” said Lithon. He grinned. “It’s okay you were late, though. Some other kids were playing cards, and I was watching them, and they invited me to play, so I did. I won!”

“Cool,” said Ally. “What were you playing?”

“Poker,” said Lithon. “I won some kid’s coat.”

Ally laughed. “Aren’t you a little young for poker? And that poor kid will freeze to death.”

Lithon smiled. “It’s okay. I gave the coat back. I mean, I have one already, don’t I?”

“You’re a true humanitarian,” said Ally.

Lithon blinked. “A what?”

Ally laughed again. “Never mind. How was basketball practice?”

Lithon grinned. “It was really cool. Coach is great. We did all these exercises like pushups and gophers, and that was pretty boring, but then we got do skirmishes, and that was pretty cool. Our side won.”

“Of course,” said Ally. “By how much?”

Lithon blinked. “I…don’t remember. I think it was like 17-12.”

“And how many baskets did you get?” said Ally.

Lithon shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Ally laughed. “We’ll have to hire you a publicist, else you’d never take any credit for anything. How many baskets did you get?”

Lithon looked at the ceiling. “All right. Two baskets. And a three-point shot. Not that much.”

Ally laughed. “Not that much. That’s…what, seven points? Almost half the score.”

“It’s not that much,” said Lithon. “Coach was pleased, though.”

“I can imagine,” said Ally. She pulled up to a stoplight and waited. “It’s nice to know there are some coaches out there who aren’t total jerks.”

“What’s bugging you?” said Lithon.

Ally scowled. “Nothing.”

“There is. I know you. You’ll sit and chew on it until you’re miserable,” said Lithon.

“Fine. I still don’t want to talk about it,” said Ally, thinking of Mary and her boyfriend. "You’ll probably hear all about it when we get home.”

Lithon’s blue eyes widened. “Oh, man. You got in trouble at school again, didn’t you?”

Ally sighed. “Well…yeah, sort of.”

“What did you do?” said Lithon.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ally.

“Okay,” said Lithon. “But he probably deserved it.”

Ally blinked. “What?”

“Whoever you got mad at. He probably deserved it. You usually only get mad when people are acting like jerks.”

Ally sighed, shook her head, and then laughed. “I hope you’re right. And I hope Mom and Dad will see it that way.”

###

Ally eased the car up the driveway, snow crunching beneath the tires. “Looks like we get to shovel the walk.” She turned off the ignition and peered into the garage. “And looks like Mom is back, too.”

“Good!” said Lithon. “Too bad she was gone the last week of Christmas break.”

“Yeah,” said Ally, climbing out of the car.

They trudged up through the deepening snow to the side door. Ally heard voices inside, and put her finger to her lips. Lithon grinned and nodded. Ally unlocked and opened the door quietly, and she and Lithon slipped inside.

Katrina’s voice came from the living room. “You should have seen the looks on their faces when I said I had sold forty thousand self-published ebooks in the last year. I thought their heads would explode.” Last year Katrina had acquired an ereader, and had begun evangelizing on the virtues of ebooks and self-publishing. Which amused Ally to no end – she remembered that Katrina used to swear she would never read an ebook, and that self-publishing was for losers who couldn't get a book contract.

Simon harrumphed. “I wish my books got that big a response.”

“Simon, your books are boring. You’re a college boy writing for other college boys.”

Simon made an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Oh, quit whining. Dr. Francis liked your book, didn’t she? And you use it as a textbook for one of your classes, don’t you?” said Katrina.

“Well…”

Katrina laughed. “Ha! You do. Admit it. I wish I could force people to read my books.”

“I don’t think crime novels would make for an education reading experience,” said Simon.

Katrina’s voice dropped to a purr. “You can learn all sorts of things if you read my books, Simon.” There was a pause. “What’s wrong?”

Simon sighed. “Wycliffe was in the news again…”

Ally and Lithon entered the living room. Simon sat on the couch, and Katrina perched on his lap with her arms around his neck.

“Like, gross,” said Ally.

Katrina just turned her head and raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a public display of affection. This is the privacy of my own home. See?” She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Simon’s lips.

Lithon laughed. “Gross.”

Katrina stood, rubbing her mouth. “You’re shaving that beard. It was like kissing a tennis ball.”

Ally laughed. “Told you.”

Katrina hugged them both. “I heard you had an interesting first day at school.”

Ally grimaced. “Yeah. Well. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Katrina shrugged. “Simon will talk to you about it later. And you, kiddo. How was basketball practice?”

Lithon beamed and rattled off his exploits, while Ally sighed in relief. Simon didn’t have the stomach to enforce much discipline, unlike Katrina. Her mother had a remarkably short temper at times.

Simon chuckled. “Who would have thought? An athlete in the Wester family. Miracles never cease.”

Katrina snorted and folded her arms. “He didn’t get it from your side of the family, that’s for sure.”

Simon scratched his paunch. “Apparently not.”

Katrina snapped her fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot. I saw Grandma Wester while I was in Miami.”

Simon tensed. Katrina and Maura Wester did not always get along so well. “How did that go?”

“She says to say hi, and she also sent Christmas cards.”

“Really?” said Ally. Grandma Wester tended to send fifty-dollar bills with her Christmas cards.

“Yup,” said Katrina. “I have them right here with me. You can have them just as soon as the driveway’s shoveled.”

Ally rolled her eyes. “Mom. I have homework to do.”

“The best way to prepare for mental exertion is with physical exercise,” said Katrina.

Simon folded his hands in his laps. “You kids heard your mom.”

Katrina smiled at him. “She sent you a card, too.”

Simon blinked and leaned forward. “She did? Can I see it?”

“Sure,” said Katrina. “After the driveway’s shoveled.”

Simon sighed. “Let’s get the shovels, kids.”

###

That night Ally dreamed of her confrontation with Paulsen.

But this time Paulsen’s eyes were bottomless black pits, windows into the void. He grinned at her, and the walls of the classroom exploded, revealing a yawning black abyss.

Clawed shadows boiled from the darkness, hissing her name.

Ally awoke trembling and drenched in sweat, and did not sleep for the rest of that night.

Chapter 5 - The Speech

Anno Domini 2012

“Ten years, Goth,” said Senator Thomas Wycliffe, straightening his hair. He heard the rumble of the crowds through the curtains. “It’s taken ten years to set this up.”

The creature that used the name of Goth Marson stood in the corner, a dark shadow in his black jacket and sunglasses and bushy black beard. Aides and technicians scurried back and forth through the broad concrete corridor, and most pretended not to see Goth. Those few who did glance at the Senator’s bodyguard shuddered and hurried on their way.

Wycliffe laughed. “Talkative as always. Well. You may think this a waste of time, but in ten minutes, you’ll think differently.”

Goth said nothing.

Excitement fluttered in Wycliffe’s gut. Ten years of work, ten years of effort, ten years of plotting would come to fruition tonight. If everything went according to plan. If his experiments and conclusions concerning the Voice granted by Marugon’s lessons in black magic had been correct.

Wycliffe grinned. If not…well, he could always start over.

But if it worked, he would be the ruler of the United States of America within the year.

Applause broke out. Wycliffe titled his head and listened.

“Senator?” A technician in black touched his elbow. “The opening speeches are done. They’re ready for you.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Yes. They are, aren’t they?” The technician blinked, then smiled and nodded. “Let’s do this, shall we?”

The technician led him up the ramp, through the curtain, and into the cavernous arena of Chicago’s United Center. Lights glared off the polished floor and threw a maze of tangled shadows over the ceiling. Huge video screens hung from the ceiling, facing the seats, alongside the championship pennants from the Bulls’ long-past glory years.

Wycliffe’s eyes wandered over the seats as the technician led him to the podium set at center court. Thousands upon thousands of people filled the seats. When he had announced his candidacy for the House of Representatives at the capitol in Springfield fourteen years ago, nine people had been present.

One of them had been the janitor.

He had come a long way, indeed. His smile widened as he took in the banks of TV cameras.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the man at the podium, an odious state legislator whose name Wycliffe could never remember, “for our keynote speech of the evening, may I introduce to you a man who has served the State of Illinois for over fourteen years, a man whose commitment and devotion to the people of Illinois is beyond question, may I introduce…Senator Thomas Wycliffe!”

Thunderous applause rose from the packed seats. Wycliffe put on his crowd smile and climbed up to the platform. He shook hands with the insignificant legislator, the attorney general, the Chief Justice of the state Supreme Court, the lieutenant governor, the governor, and the horde of other important personages crowding the speaker’s platform. Wycliffe smiled at them all and turned to the flag-draped podium. A dozen microphones rose from its top like black antennae. Wycliffe smiled and held up his hands for silence.

The clapping died to faint clapping and a few cheers. Wycliffe looked over the faces of his supporters. Most had begun as lifelong Republicans and Democrats. Over the years, he had lured them into his fold, bit by bit, until he had an organization just as large and wealthy as either of the traditional political parties.

And now the pieces would fall into place.

He felt the black magic stirring behind his eyes like a spider wrought of ice, waiting to be unleashed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Wycliffe, the speakers booming his voice over the arena. He gestured at the row of chairs behind him. “Distinguished guests, fellow public servants, prominent citizens of Chicago and Illinois, but most all, citizens of Illinois and the United States of America.” He gripped the podium with both hands, leaned forward, and grinned. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, especially in this snowy weather. Such a turnout gives me confidence in the future of democracy in this country. Now, if you’ll indulge me for just a moment, I’d like to start out with a story.”

A chuckle went through the crowd.

Wycliffe grinned. “As many of you know, I started out my career as an aspiring historian. I never got past just aspiring, I’m afraid. Other opportunities called…I’m afraid had to settle for a career in Congress.” He sighed and spread his hands. “I guess it could have been worse. After all, I could have become a lawyer.”

More people laughed. The attorney general grumbled something.

Wycliffe let the laughter die down. “I was working on a historical paper the very day my career in politics began. It was about two brothers, Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, two statesmen of ancient Rome. Tiberius was assassinated in 133 BC, and Gaius in 123 BC. But you haven’t come here for a history lecture, I assume. Why, do you ask, is this pertinent, given the grave issues that face our nation today?”

He stood silent for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. He focused his will and drew the black magic to himself, letting it grow stronger and stronger.

“When you think of ancient Rome, of what do you think? Emperors, no doubt. Slaves. Gladiators. Perhaps the ladies think of Russell Crowe?” Another laugh went through the crowds, and Wycliffe let his expression grow serious. “But, in truth, the Rome of Tiberius and Gaius is not so very different from our modern United States of America. At that time, Rome was a republic, not so very different from ours. Rome was the mightiest nation of her time, much the same as the United States. Rome had vanquished her enemies by the valor and bravery of her soldiers, again, much the same as the United States.” Wycliffe leaned forward and bit off every word. “And like the United States, the republic of Rome was in danger of becoming a dictatorship ruled by a tyrannical Caesar.”

The black magic writhed in the back of Wycliffe’s mind. He had spent years studying the effects of the Voice on crowds. He had found he could not use the Voice to compel the crowd, the way he used it to force inconvenient people to commit suicide. The Voice could control individuals, but it could not control an entire crowd at once.

But the Voice could implant emotion.

Wycliffe hid his grin and let the Voice filter into his words.

“The republic of Rome was under siege,” he said, his will commanding the Voice to evoke disgust and outrage. “More and more wealth gathered in the hands of a rapacious and ruthless few. The Senate and the Assembly of the People had less and less control over these robber barons. In truth, the robber barons packed the Senate, and turned the Assembly of the People into a tool of their greed. And what of the everyday man, the Joe Six-pack, or the Joe Toga, you might say, of Rome?” A nervous chuckle went through the crowd. “They were exploited, mistreated, and manipulated, their strings pulled to serve the interests of the select few. Their republic was the greatest in the world, their armies undefeated, and what did they have to show for it? Nothing but poverty and the decadent estates of the wealthy. And in the end, the Romans lost their freedom, and became slaves to an all-powerful emperor.” He let more of the Voice seep into his words. “Ancient history, you think? Dead and gone? The dust of the past. Wrong! It is this danger that faces the United States, I say, and it is the risk that we run!” His voice rose to a shout. A rustle went through the audience, and Wycliffe made a show of smoothing his jacket and straightening his tide. He felt the Voice ripple through them, felt the black magic work its tendrils around their minds and souls, inspiring emotions of his choice in their hearts.

“Pardon,” he said, smiling. “I got just a bit enthusiastic, there. After all, there’s nothing quite as exciting as ancient history.” Some people laughed. Wycliffe gripped the podium and put on a businesslike expression. “But history repeats itself, as we all know. And even if it doesn’t really repeat itself, certain patterns do. And I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, I am afraid that I see the pattern of the republic of ancient Rome repeating itself in the republic of the United States of America. Absurd, you say? After all, how plausible is the idea of an American Emperor? I don’t suppose we have to worry about a Douglas MacArthur or a George Patton returning from the grave with an army, or David Petraeus overthrowing the federal government. It’s not the danger of a one-man dictatorship we face. At least, not quite yet.”

His hands tightened around the podium as the black magic shivered through his will. He directed the Voice into his words, commanded the black magic evoke feelings of outrage and anger.

“But there are those who seek control,” he said, his voice quiet. “In the Rome of Tiberius and Gaius, the rich got ever richer…but the poor got ever poorer. Irrelevant to the modern American, you say? Well, consider this. Our economy is in ruins, destroyed by the folly of our government and the greed and stupidity of our business leaders. Wages are down. Taxes are up. Inflation and prices rise with no end in sight. Why, you ask? Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I tell that it is not a military dictatorship that haunts the United States, not rule by one man, not rule by the army…but rule by the wealthy, by those who would turn the rest of us into their slaves. Think of it,” he let the Voice grow stronger, raging in his words like burning ice, “corporate taxes are lower than any other time in our history. Just last year, the Senate passed another measure lowering corporate taxes.” It had been a struggle to pass that bill, requiring much judicious use of the Voice, but the payoff in political fallout had been worth it. “And attached to that measure was a tax cut for the top five percent. But what of the middle and lower classes, you ask? Was there a tax cut for them? No! Rather, a tax hike was attached to that soaking, money-leeching bill.”

He felt the rustles as the Voice rippled through the crowd. He hid his grin as he saw the anger in the faces of his audience.

He would direct that well.

“Citizens of the United States of America,” said Wycliffe, “we stand in danger of losing our freedoms. Not to a dictator, not the government, not to the army…but to the rich. Open your eyes and consider!” The Voice swelled in his throat, the black magic strong and potent. “Who bankrolls the election campaigns of our Representatives, our Senators, and our President? Who spends billions of dollars influencing Congressional decisions, and then moans and groans that to pay its workers a proper wage would ruin its profit margins? Who bends the laws, who tramples on individual rights, who treats you and I, our fellow citizens, like mere numbers, like mere cattle from whom the precious dollar can be milked?” His hands clenched into fists. He adjusted the Voice, letting it grow from disgust and mild anger to pure affronted rage. “The wealthy! Think about it, I beg you! They seek to control you through advertising. They dictate how you should look, calling a healthy woman fat and claiming that baldness makes a hardworking and honest man an unattractive slob. They offer cures for woes they themselves created. They drive the independent entrepreneur out of business and offer him work as an hourly wage-slave running a cash register or mopping a floor. They seek to make us all mindless, dull, droning slaves, and without us even knowing it!”

Ripples of anger went through the crowd. Angry cries of support rose up. Wycliffe raised his hands and waited for calm.

“Allow me to offer examples, lest you think I am another ranting fool.” He leaned forward and stared into the crowd. “Just last week, for instance, the fine and upstanding legislature of our own State of Illinois passed a bill slashing the education budget by a quarter. This is at time when our grade schools are overcrowded, our teachers are underpaid, and our educational facilities are substandard. And three days later, the legislature passed a bill giving tax cuts, massive tax cuts, to the upper-income bracket taxes.” It had been difficult to arrange that ill-timed “coincidence”, but the Illinois state legislature possessed an astonishing number of weak-minded fools. Wycliffe had had barely had to use the Voice to procure their cooperation. “A corporate tax increase of two percent would have provided sufficient funds to finance the schools for five years. Two percent! And yet did our wise legislators seek this? Did they? No!” His voice rose to a shriek by the last word.

An angry stir went through the crowd. Wycliffe felt the Voice working through them, conjuring up emotions. The Voice would make them want to believe.

Wycliffe let them stir for a moment.

He gripped the podium and let hope and fierce determination fill the Voice. “But there is still hope!”

The crowd fell silent, all eyes on him.

“Citizens of America, I have been successful in business, more through luck than any effort of my own,” said Wycliffe. “The fact that I have never taken a campaign donation of any sort is a matter of public record. And it is this success in business that has enabled me to rise in politics. But it has left me troubled. Should only millionaires be allowed to serve in high office? Is America a land for the millionaires? I think not! It occurred to me, fellow citizens, that perhaps this is why God permitted me such success in business, that this is His path for me…that I have both the opportunity and the ability to correct the abuses I have laid out for you tonight!”

The crowd applauded. Wycliffe let his gaze sweep the length of the arena. He felt the Voice building inside him, gathering its dark power for a final grand crescendo.

“You have heard, perhaps, rumors that I intend to seek either the Democratic or the Republican presidential nominations,” said Wycliffe, his voice calm and modulated. Cheers rose up, and Wycliffe held up a hand. “I shall not. I cannot. The Republican and the Democratic parties are nothing more than the established tools of the rich. A Democratic administration, a Republican administration…can you see the difference between them? No, I shall not seek, nor shall I accept, the presidential nomination of the Republican or the Democratic Parties.”

A hush fell over the crowd. The Voice built within Wycliffe until he felt it would break free of his will and tear free from him in a mighty scream of power.

He grinned. “But I have two other announcements. Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus failed, ladies and gentlemen. They failed and the Roman Republic became an Empire. But their mission is my own, and I shall not fail. Therefore I announce the formation of a new political organization, one dedicated to reversing the corruption that infects our republic. Citizens of America, tonight I announce the formation of the Gracchan Party!”

He let triumph and exultant hope burn through the Voice. The crowds cheered.

“And my other announcement,” said Wycliffe. “As of I today, I am hereby the Gracchan Party’s vice-presidential candidate for the 2012 election.” He looked over the crowd’s faces and smiled at their collective befuddled expression. “And may I, ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce a man who has given over thirty years of service to the state of Illinois, a man respected throughout the state, the country, and indeed, the world, the senior senator from Illinois and, incidentally, the Gracchan Party’s presidential nominee…Senator William Jones!”

A storm of applause rose up, the crowds erupting to their feet. A silver-haired man with a distinguished air strode to the platform. Wycliffe grinned and shook his hand. Senator Jones shook back, his eyes glassy.

“Smile, damn it,” hissed Wycliffe through his grin, the Voice snarling in his whisper. “You look like a damn corpse.”

Senator Jones’s eyes widened. His lips peeled back in a grin.

Wycliffe turned, trembling from the effort of keeping controlling the Voice for so long. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Gracchan Party’s presidential candidates, and the future president and vice-president of the United States of America!” The Voice leapt from his lips with the last word, the black magic conjuring a mighty note of triumph and hope and joy.

The notables on the platform stood and cheered.

And how the crowd roared.

###

“Senator,” said Goth, his voice a rumble. “Your car is ready.” The lights of the parking garage gleamed against his mirrored sunglasses. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, Goth resembled a dark shadow waiting to spring.

Wycliffe turned to the mob of reporters standing near the elevator doors. “No further questions, I’m afraid. I bid you all a good evening.” He glanced at his watch. “Or morning, rather.” Wycliffe turned and followed Goth across the gray concrete. His limousine sat idling in its stall, the chauffeur leaning against the hood.

“Senator!”

Wycliffe turned, eyebrows raised. A young woman in a gray skirt and jacket hurried after him, a notepad in hand. “Yes?”

“I’m with the Springfield paper, Senator,” said the woman, pushing blond hair from her face. “I have some questions…”

Goth growled, and for a moment Wycliffe glimpsed the yellow fangs hidden in his mouth. He grimaced and waved his hand, and Goth’s face returned to an impassive mask. “No further questions, Miss…”

“Louis. Anne Louis,” said the reporter. Desperation tinged her voice. “Please, Senator, just a few questions…”

“You heard the Senator,” said Goth. “Depart. Now.”

“Wait.” Wycliffe raised his hand. “Let me guess. You were a journalism major in college. You managed to land a job at the paper right out of college, but the newspaper industry is dying, and you fear losing your job. So if you don’t get an interview with me, you’ll have to go work flipping burgers to pay your student loans, assuming you can even find a job doing that. Am I correct?”

Miss Louis flushed. Between her blond hair and pale complexion, it made her look quite becoming. “Um…well…yes. How did you know?”

“Your utter disregard for journalistic protocol,” said Wycliffe.

“I’m…I’m sorry, Senator,” said Miss Louis, looking away, giving Wycliffe to the opportunity to examine her body. The gray skirt and jacket fit her quite well. “It’s…”

“Quite all right,” said Wycliffe. He smiled and gave her a business card. “I was once a struggling college graduate as well, you know. This is the address of my Chicago offices. Why don’t you stop by? I’ll give you an exclusive interview.”

Miss Louis blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Wycliffe spread his hands. “When it comes to politics, Miss Louis, I never kid.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “My editor is not going to believe this. Will tomorrow morning work?”

Wycliffe smiled. “It is tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come straight to my offices right now, do the interview, and then drive back to Springfield? You’ll have quite a scoop.”

She gave him a wide smile. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Senator.”

Wycliffe grinned back. “No, thank you, Miss Louis. After all, I am running for vice-president. I can use all the votes I can get.”

Miss Louis nodded. “See you in about an hour, then.” She waved goodbye and headed off.

“Come along, Goth,” said Wycliffe.

Goth opened the limo’s rear door. “A worthy specimen.”

Wycliffe climbed into the back seat. “Perhaps I’ll give her to you and your kin.”

Goth chuckled and sat down in the seat across from Wycliffe, the top of his hooded head brushing the limo’s roof. Wycliffe scowled. He hated sharing an enclosed space with the creature, but Goth made for an effective and skilled bodyguard.

“Driver,” said Wycliffe. “My offices.” The driver put the limo in gear and joined the sea of cars leaving the United Center.

Wycliffe pulled a wine cooler from the mini-refrigerator under the seat. “Something to drink?” Goth said nothing. “Well. I’ll indulge myself, then. A great success tonight.”

Goth said nothing.

Wycliffe raised an eyebrow and sipped at the wine cooler. “You disagree?”

“It matters not,” said Goth. “The fate of your world is of no concern.”

Wycliffe laughed. “Come, come, Goth. I’ve never known you to be a shrinking violet.” Goth turned to look at him, a red glare showing from beneath the rims of his sunglasses. Wycliffe tried not to look away. “What did you really think?”

Goth looked out the window. “It seemed a great effort to little purpose.”

Wycliffe set his bottle in the cup holder. “Oh?”

“I felt the black magic in your Voice,” said Goth. “The scum of the crowd rose in hysteria. Yet to what purpose?”

Wycliffe laughed. “The Voice worked well on them. It played off their emotions. Every one of them will vote for me.”

Goth hissed. “To what avail? So a million of them will vote for you. Your nation has three hundred million people. You need them all to vote for you.”

Wycliffe laughed louder. “Not quite. I only need a majority to vote for me.”

“A million is not a majority,” said Goth.

“No. But it is a start,” said Wycliffe. He stared into the darkness. “You saw those TV cameras. Millions more people will have seen that speech. They will be convinced. They will campaign. They will convince others.”

Goth laughed. Even after almost ten years, that sound still sent chills down Wycliffe’s spine. “Indeed? Then you will have elected that Jones creature, not yourself. For he will be president. You will just be vice-president.”

Wycliffe picked his wine cooler back up. “But that’s just it.”

Red light flickered under Goth’s sunglasses.

“Senator Jones is a puppet. I started using the Voice on him soon after I arrived in Washington. I have been bending his feeble little mind for years. I barely have to use the Voice to control him any longer. Senator Jones, Goth, is a figurehead. If anything goes wrong, he will take the blame. Once his two terms are up, I can run under my own name and rule for another eight years.”

And if all went to plan, he would not have to leave office. Ever.

Goth grunted. “Cunning.”

Wycliffe shrugged. “More than cunning, my friend. Brilliant. I will rule the country through him. And if anything goes wrong, if he dies, then I become president in my own right.” He smiled. “And if I tire of him, perhaps I’ll feed him to you.”

Goth showed his fangs.

“This country has gotten entirely too large and complex for a democratic body to rule effectively. But Americans are opposed to tyrants in any form. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, implanted in grade school when all the kids hear how George Washington gloriously freed the colonists from the vile rule of the King of England. But if I kept up the illusion of republican government, if I ruled through a puppet president and Congress, they will tolerate…”

Goth laughed harder. “Indeed.” Wycliffe got a glimpse of fangs through his thick lips. “You do not need to explain the will to power to me.”

Wycliffe half-smiled. “Good.” Had Goth made a joke? Wycliffe didn’t want to know.

“It seems a waste. You have the power over the rabble. Use it to rule them, not to sway them.”

Wycliffe snickered. “Marugon once told me true power lies in technology. He was right, of course, but there’s a greater power. It lies in the people, in the masses.”

Goth sneered. “They are weak.”

“Individually, yes,” said Wycliffe. “But taken as a whole, taken as mass, then they are a powerful. If you can unite a million of them, give them a single purpose and goal…that is true power.”

Goth’s sneer didn’t waver. “If they could but find the will.”

“A million of them,” said Wycliffe, his voice quiet, “could crush even you, oh mighty king of the winged ones.”

And soon that combined will and purpose would belong to Wycliffe alone.

Goth said nothing. Wycliffe sighed, sat back, and finished his wine cooler. They passed the rest of the trip in silence, Wycliffe’s mind whirling with plans and possibilities for the future.

###

“Markham,” said Wycliffe, striding into the campaign war room, Goth a half-step behind him. “What news?”

Wycliffe had taken one of the warehouses of his compound and converted it into the nerve center for the campaign. Rows of computers lined the walls and stood at desks through the room, interspersed with cubicles for phones. Huge TV monitors covered one wall.

Markham turned. His ruthless majordomo had been more than ready to take charge of Wycliffe’s campaign. The man knew about the winged demons and their…tastes, but did not care, so long as he was paid on time. That, and the promise of a high position once Wycliffe became vice president was all that had been needed to secure his loyalty.

Markham grinned ear to ear. “Congratulations on a fine speech, Senator. We had it on all the monitors. It was…rousing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone, even you, speak so effectively.”

“A cross of gold oration,” said one of the Gracchan Party volunteers manning a phone.

Wycliffe raised an eyebrow. “I should hope not. Williams Jennings Bryan lost the election. How did it take on the ten o’clock news?”

Markham checked his clipboard. “Excellently. Every major network carried it as the opening story, followed by some commentary, press reaction, people’s reactions, and so forth. Eight minutes of coverage, at least. They’re still talking about it on CNN, I believe.”

“Good, good,” said Wycliffe. “Any response?”

Markham laughed and gestured at the cubicles and the campaign workers hunched over the phones and computers. “The phones have been ringing off the hook all night, and your speech has dominated all the social networks. It’s only slowed down in the last hour or so. It’s been almost all congratulations and requests for membership materials. One or two negative calls, but I think they were from crackpots.”

Wycliffe smiled and clapped Markham on the back. “Good. This mad little venture of mine wouldn’t have gotten very far without your organizational ability.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Markham. “Do you want to say anything to the volunteers?”

“Later, when the morning shift comes,” said Wycliffe. “I’ll make a speech then.” He smiled. “And then even I need some sleep. Good night, Markham.”

“Good night, sir,” said Markham. “Oh, one other thing. Some reporter showed up right before you returned. Claims you promised her an exclusive interview. I tried to send her off, but…”

“It’s all right,” said Wycliffe. “I did promise to grant her a very exclusive interview. Send her to my office.”

Markham smiled knowingly. “Ah…one of those. Thought so. She is a pretty little thing. Though if you’ll forgive my bluntness, I suggest you be careful. A scandal could derail things just now.”

Wycliffe grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve had some practice cleaning up after myself by now.”

Markham laughed and walked to the intercom. Wycliffe set out for his office, Goth following.

“I hunger.” Goth’s growl dug into Wycliffe’s ears like a knife.

Wycliffe glanced over his shoulder. “You can rejoin your kin in 13A. There’s food there…at least the sort of food your kind prefers.”

Goth’s lips peeled back from his fangs. “I hunger for the woman. I prefer fresh meat.”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to make trouble for me? Having her disappear could cause complications.”

Goth didn’t say anything. A bit of red glare gleamed from behind his sunglasses. “Fine. Fine! I will instruct her to drive to that abandoned parking lot fifteen blocks west of here in five days. You should know the place very well by now. She will sit and wait for you. Satisfied?”

“Very well,” said Goth. He turned and departed, his leather jacket creaking with his stride.

Wycliffe scowled and headed for his office. Some days he wished Marugon had never left him with Goth and the winged demons. True, they were useful, and could eliminate opponents with remarkable celerity. Yet they liked to satisfy their appetites,  and they often made a tremendous mess doing so. Wycliffe suspected that a large percentage of Chicago’s unsolved murders in the last year could be traced back to Goth and his kin.

And even after all these years, the winged demons still made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They were like rabid wolves. If he didn’t have the black magic to keep them at bay, Wycliffe knew they would turn on him and devour him.

A woman waited outside his office door.

He smiled. “Miss Louis. I’m so pleased that you could make it.” She stood by his office door, iPad and notepad in hand.

Miss Louis smiled. “I almost didn’t. Your security men are…very thorough.”

Wycliffe unlocked the office door. “They are, aren’t they? I admit, the whole Hell’s Angels look almost threw me. But they’re very…effective and very professional.” He opened the door and flipped the light switch. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Miss Louis strode into his office. Wycliffe watched her and smiled. The winged demons were not the only ones with appetites. He had been busy the last year, and he hadn’t indulged himself for a long time.

He locked the door behind him and settled in his office chair.

“Well,” said Miss Louis, opening the voice recorder app on her iPad. “We might as well get started…”

“Oh, don’t bother,” said Wycliffe. “You won’t need to record anything”

Miss Louis blinked. A nervous smile tugged at her lips. “Why…why not?”

“Because I will dictate each and every word in the interview,” said Wycliffe.

Miss Louis laughed. “My memory isn’t that good.”

“You’ll have some help,” said Wycliffe. “But first, I want to relax. Take off all your clothes and come over here.”

Miss Louis’s eyebrows knitted in a scowling frown. “What the hell?”

Wycliffe offered her his best smile. “Oh, come now. You surely must find me attractive. Take off your clothes and come to me.”

Miss Louis stood, glaring. “That whole thing about the interview was bullshit, isn’t it? This is a seduction. And a bad one, I might add. Most guys have the class to buy me a drink and flowers first. Good day, Senator. Rest assured my editor will hear about this, at length, as will my lawyer.” She turned to leave.

Wycliffe smiled and summoned the full force of the Voice’s black magic. “Stop.”

She froze. Wycliffe watched her tremble as she struggled against his will.

“Turn around.”

Miss Louis turned, trembling. “What…what the hell is this? What are you doing to me?”

“You needn’t know,” said Wycliffe. “Take off your clothes.”

Her hands jerked to her jacket, pulled it off, and began undoing the buttons of her blouse. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I…I can’t stop.” She began to cry. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Do shut up.” Miss Louis’s jaw clicked shut. Her blouse joined her jacket on the floor. “And enjoy yourself. Wait…that’s not too likely, is it? Pretend to enjoy yourself, then.”

Miss Louis’s lips peeled in a wide grin, her eyes wide and terrified, as she undid her bra and slid out of her skirt.

###

“You will then conclude the interview,” said Wycliffe. “Describe how you were impressed by my sincerity and integrity and so forth.”

Miss Louis managed a nod, her hair tangled, her clothes rumpled, her eyes glassy.

Wycliffe smiled. “That’s a good girl. Don’t worry, in a few hours you won’t remember any of this.” He considered the timing for a moment. What would Goth do to her in five days? He thought about it and shuddered. But suppose he could turn it to his advantage? If she did a favorable interview with him, and then was found dead a few days later…

Miss Louis twitched every now and then.

“A few more instructions,” said Wycliffe. “There is an abandoned parking fifteen blocks west of here. Five days hence, you will drive there alone and in secret…”

He drove the instructions into her mind with the Voice, the black magic tangling like icy needles in his throat. Her face twisted with horror until he buried the instructions deep in her subconscious, a technique he had developed after years of practice with the Voice. She would follow his wishes, even if she could not remember why.

“Now,” said Wycliffe, the Voice vibrating in his words, “carry out your instructions, and remember only those things I have told you to remember.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered. An expression of profound bewilderment crossed her face. “Senator…”

“Ah, but I’ve kept you most of the morning,” said Wycliffe. “You should have enough material for a remarkably thorough article. Or so I should hope.”

“I…the interview?” said Miss Louis.

Wycliffe leaned forward, frowning. “Are you feeling quite all right? You look a bit pale.”

Miss Louis stood, blinking. “I…you know, I feel…I feel…I don’t know. Just not right.”

“Well, it’s been quite a long night,” said Wycliffe. He almost smiled. “You’ve likely worn yourself out. Go home and get some rest. You’ll feel better then.” He thought of Goth.

She would not feel better for long.

Anne Louis nodded, and Wycliffe watched her face. He saw the memories struggling to break free from her subconscious, but the power of the Voice kept them at bay. “I…thank you, Senator. For everything.”

Wycliffe smiled and rose to his feet. “The pleasure, I assure you, was entirely mine.” He shook her hand. She shook back and then withdrew her hand as if she had touched something filthy.

He watched Anne Louis retreat into the hallway.

A pity Goth would kill her.

He dropped back into his desk chair with a contented sigh. It had been a most enjoyable evening and early morning, but he was tired. He would go down to his bunker under 13A and sleep for a few hours. Then the demands of the campaign waited.

Wycliffe smiled and rapped his knuckles on the desk. Vice President of the United States of America. Who would have ever thought?

The wall intercom chimed. Wycliffe glared at it, considered ignoring it, and got up and hit the switch. “Yes?”

“Sir, it’s Thomson in 13A,” said a rough male voice. “There’s a caravan at the door.”

Wycliffe frowned. “A caravan? But there aren’t any caravans coming…” He snapped his fingers. “Wait. Goddamn it. That’s last month’s caravan, isn’t it? They’re a week and a half late.”

“Yes, sir,” said Thomson. “Should I let them in?”

“Do they have a good reason for being late?” said Wycliffe.

“They say portions of the Tower corridors became inaccessible for some reason,” said Thomson. “They had to take the long way around.”

“Very well,” said Wycliffe. “Let them in. I’ll be in the bunker if anything else comes up…”

“Sir? There is one more thing,” said Thomson.

Wycliffe heard the disgust in the freight handler’s voice. “What?”

“One of those stinking dog-faced things came with the caravan,” said Thomson. “It says it has a message for you from Mr. Marugon.”

“An imp,” said Wycliffe. “Very well. I’ll be there momentarily.” He hoped Marugon’s messenger had good news. With the campaign coming up, he did not need any complications. He checked his appearance in the mirror, retrieved his shoes from under the desk, and headed for warehouse 13A.

The interior of 13A bustled. Marugon had sent close to a hundred men and four times as many donkey-pulled wagons on the caravan. The black-uniformed soldiers unloaded sacks of gold from their carts, while Wycliffe’s freight handlers loaded guns, bullets, grenades, uniforms, and the assorted other baggage required by an army. Thomson stood on the platform by the opened door to the Tower, barking orders at everyone in sight.

“Thomson!” Wycliffe climbed the stairs to the door’s platform. “What news?”

Thomson leafed through a sheaf of papers. “Everything on the list is present, but…”

“Well?” said Wycliffe. “But what?”

Thomson pointed. Six black wooden crates stood in a neat stack. Each had been marked with Marugon’s sigil of a burning eye and a clawed hand. Marugon’s men took care to give the boxes a wide berth. So did Wycliffe’s freight handlers.

“What,” said Wycliffe, folding his arms, “are those?”

“Got me, sir,” said Thomson. “They came extra. According to the wagon drivers, Mr. Marugon personally ordered these boxes sent along.”

Wycliffe heard a claw tapping against the metal floor. An imp sat huddled on the corner of the platform, a rolled scroll cradled in its claws.

“Well, Gloaming,” said Wycliffe. “I see you have found your way to Earth once more.” Thomson scowled in disgust and stalked off.

Gloaming hissed and bowed. “My master Lord Marugon of the Wastes sends greetings to you, Lord Wycliffe of Chicago.”

“You have something to tell me, I assume?” said Wycliffe.

Gloaming bowed again. “Gloaming does. He has news and messages for Lord Wycliffe. Does Lord Wycliffe have flesh, fresh flesh, for faithful Gloaming?”

Wycliffe grimaced and thought of Goth. “You devils are all alike. I may have something for you, if I like your messages. First the news from your world.”

“Great news,” said Gloaming. “Antarese has fallen to my master’s men.”

“Antarese?” said Wycliffe. “You mean the last of the High Kingdoms?”

“Yes,” said Gloaming. “My master’s men destroyed Antarese with their guns. They killed the Antardrim, every last one. There are no High Kingdoms left. There are no Knights left. There are no Wizards left. My master is the master of the world.”

“Excellent,” said Wycliffe, some unease entering his mind. If Marugon had conquered his world, would he have any more need of his alliance with Wycliffe? Still, even if Marugon wished to terminate their arrangement, Wycliffe had learned more than enough of the black magic to accomplish his goals. “And the messages?”

“Three messages, Lord Wycliffe,” said Gloaming. “First. Lord Marugon will come to your world in four months time.”

Wycliffe frowned. “He will? Very well. And the second message?”

“My master grows impatient. He wants his…his,” Gloaming stuttered over the words, forked tongue flashing, “his new-klee-ar device.”

Wycliffe scowled. “His nuclear device, you mean.” That had been a nagging problem for years. “Please inform Lord Marugon that my associates are making every effort to locate and purchase a nuclear device. Regardless of cost.” He suppressed a mental wince. “And the third message.”

Gloaming bowed and offered up the scroll. “My master has a project he wishes you to undertake to prepare for his arrival.”

“Indeed?” Wycliffe took the scroll, broke the seal, and began reading. “I don’t have time to embark on some sort of project…” His voice trailed off as he read the message.

“My master instructed me to say that everything you require is in the black crates,” said Gloaming.

Something fell out of the scroll, and Wycliffe grabbed it before it fell to the floor. It was a cigarette, its sides marked with odd swirling designs. The paper felt thick and grainy beneath Wycliffe’s fingers.

Wycliffe finished reading the scroll, and a shiver of fear went down his spine. “Tell Lord Marugon that I will carry out his project with all haste.”

Gloaming cackled.

Chapter 6 - Scorpions' Hold

Year of the Councils 972

Arran awoke to agony and darkness, cool air brushing against his skin.

He lay naked on something soft, and pain raged through the left side of his chest and stomach. He moaned and tried to move, and that send another wave of agony through him. His throat felt drier than the desert dust.

His breath shuddered through parched lips. Had he died in the desert?

Perhaps he was dead and this was hell.

He trembled until the darkness swallowed him once more.

###

Dreams flitted through Arran’s feverish mind.

He saw his training as a squire in Carlisan, his older brother Luthar at his side. Their father Lord Carolus had been high in the King’s favor. There had been sword practices, banquets, tournaments, and a city filled with light and song. Luthar had married to a kind and generous woman. Arran had been betrothed…to who? He couldn’t remember, save for her face and her pale smooth skin.

He had been happy.

Then came the war against the Black Council and the winged demons. Arran served as Luthar’s squire, and the armies of the High Kingdoms and the White Council had been victorious, the winged demons driven into the Wastes and the Warlocks slain …

All except one.

And Lord Marugon, the last of the Warlocks, fled into the Tower of Endless Worlds, and the High Kingdoms rejoiced. For no one who entered the Tower of Endless Worlds ever came out again.

And then Marugon returned.

Arran thrashed and sweated in his sleep.

The roar of machine guns and the screams of the dying filled his mind. He saw the Scepteris Palace explode once more, saw Carlisan burn, saw Luthar’s head disintegrate as a bullet ploughed through it. Luthar’s wife had been with child, and Arran had never seen her again. Perhaps she lay dead in the ruins of Carlisan, or survived as an enslaved prostitute in the brothels for Marugon’s soldiers.

The Wizards had been slaughtered and the Knights hunted down. Only Sir Liam and Arran remained to take King Lithon to Earth and to safety. And Arran had taken up the hell-forged guns, and Liam rejected him as a damned thing.

He had spent nine years spent fighting against Marugon’s soldiers, watching the remaining High Kingdoms destroyed one by one.

He saw once more the ruin of Antarese, the pain so recent that it cut like a knife.

Arran could bear no more, and the agonizing despair crushed him. He wanted to see no more, to hear no more, and to dream no more. He wanted nothingness.

The darkness washed over him, blacker than before.

###

His eyes fluttered open.

A woman’s face, lean and intent, stared down at him, silver-streaked dark hair tied back. Her fingers writhed through strange motions, and she murmured a whispering song.

Just as the Wizards had once cast their spells.

“Rest,” she whispered, her voice low and husky. White sparks glimmered in her green eyes. “Rest, tormented one. Rest and heal.”

Arran coughed. Warmth filled him, and some of the pain dissipated.

White light pulled him back down into sleep.

###

Arran drifted in a warm daze.

A man’s voice spoke, deep with a strange accent. “Do you think he will live?”

“I do not know.” It was the woman with the husky voice. “His wounds are serious, but I think they will heal. Yet the wounds to his spirit are deeper, I deem. Something has utterly crushed him, and he simply may not have the will to live.”

“Good,” said the man. “I hope he dies.”

“Jabir, you are merciful as ever.”

Jabir growled. “He is a danger to the clan. You saw the weapons he carried. Death-rods, used by the Lord of the Ugaoun and his minions.”

“I remind you, Jabir, that he slew the Ugaoun that captured me.”

Jabir snorted. “A deserter, then, from the armies of the Lord of the Ugaoun.”

Steel scraped against stone. “I think he is a Knight of the Sacred Blade.”

“There are no more Knights,” said Jabir. “The winged hunters killed them all. This man likely took those swords from a fallen Knight. And who ever heard of a Knight wielding two swords at once?”

“Liam Two Swords did,” said the woman.

The man scoffed. “Liam Two Swords is dead. No doubt his ashes lie in the rubble of old Carlisan.”

“He used that Sacred Blade,” said the woman. “It burned in his hand and the fire destroyed the Ugaoun. Who but a Knight can do that?”

“Deserter or Knight, he is still a danger to the clan,” said Jabir. “If he is a deserter, they will send men to hunt him down. And if he is a Knight, the Ugaoun will come for him. Or even the Lord of the Ugaoun himself. Throw him out into the desert, I say, and let the jackals pick his bones. You said he does not want to live. Then let him die, I say! It will be better for all of us.”

The woman’s voice dripped with mockery. “How virtuous of you, Jabir. None are more cursed by the gods than those who betray a guest.”

“That wretch is not our guest,” snarled Jabir. “And don’t speak to me of virtue. You haven’t that right.”

“And why is that?” said the woman.

“You know,” said Jabir. “How many years have we been wed? And yet you still fail.”

“Perhaps the failure is not in me. Maybe I should have let the Ugaoun violate me. Perhaps the winged hunter could have gotten me with child.”

There was the sound of angry footsteps walking away.

###

Arran could see light.

With some effort, he lifted his head. He lay on a stone bed with a soft mattress. Bandages covered his chest and stomach, and a splint held his left leg in place. His eyes came into focus, and he saw that the bed was in a chamber of rough stone, illuminated by a lantern on a low stone table. A curtain covered an entrance in the far wall.

Arran tried to stand, and a line of agony shot up his leg.

“Peace!” It was the woman’s voice. “Lie still.”

Arran stopped struggling. He tried to speak. “Thirsty.”

“A moment.” She walked into his line of sight. She wore dust-colored trousers, boots, and a loose jacket. A hooded mantle covered her head and shoulders. Strands of silver-shot dark hair hung over her forehead. Despite the silver, she looked only a few years older than Arran.

She lifted a stone cup. “Drink this.”

“What…is it?” managed Arran.

She raised an eyebrow. “A draught for the pain, mixed with honey, so you won’t vomit it up. Now drink, I say.”

“Drink,” said Arran. He was too weak to nod.

She lifted the cup to his lips and titled it back. The dark fluid washed down his mouth and eased the dryness in his throat.

“Thank you,” said Arran. He felt a little better.

She smiled and wiped his chin. “It is I who should thank you. That Ugaoun would have killed me if you had not come along just then.”

Arran blinked. “The Ugaoun? You mean…wait. I saw you. Baal-Mar-Dan was about to kill you.”

“The devil had a name?” She shrugged. “It is said that you should know a man’s name before you kill him, but I doubt the Ugaoun count as men. Yes, it was me. You killed the Ugaoun, but you were near death. I took you back to our Hold and have tried to heal you since.” Her brow furrowed in a frown. “For several tendays I thought that you would die. It will surprise many that you have awakened.”

“Tendays?” said Arran. “How long have been here?”

“Two turns of the moon,” said the woman.

“Two months! Gods,” said Arran. He licked his lips. “Where am I? And who are you?”

She smiled. “I thought you would ask those questions sooner or later. You are in the Hold of Clan Hadazer. And I am Siduri, wife of Jabir, daughter of Shamadan.”

“Scorpions,” said Arran. “You’re the Scorpions. The clans of the desert.”

Siduri laughed. “Aye, there are those that call us such. Now, I expect you to pay me in kind. Who are you?”

“Arran,” he said. “Arran Belphon, of Carlisan.” His smile was bitter. “At one time.”

“Are you a Knight of the Sacred Blade?” She pointed at the wall. His Sacred Blade, Luthar’s sword, and his guns lay in a heap.

A muscle in his face trembled. “I was. Now I…I am…”

“Now you will sleep,” said Siduri. “You must rest, and conserve your strength. The Shan and my husband will come to question you tomorrow. It will be…trying.”

Arran yawned again. His eyelids felt weighted with lead, and he slipped into sleep.

###

“Wake him,” a harsh voice said.

“That may not be wise,” said Siduri. She sounded displeased. “He is on the mend, yes, but not yet whole.”

“We shall wake him, my Shan.”

“Jabir,” said Siduri, anger creeping into her voice, “that is not…”

Arran opened his eyes. “I’m already awake.”

Siduri stood by the door, her arms crossed. Besides her stood a squat, hook-nosed man wearing the same style of dust-colored clothing. A tall old man in a brown robe stood next to him. The old man held an ornamented wooden staff, and pitiless black eyes glittered in his gaunt, weathered face. Unlike Siduri, both men wore their heads bare.

Siduri blinked. “Honored Shan, this Arran Belphon, a Knight of the Sacred Blade from the kingdom of Carlisan.” She touched the arm of the hook-nosed man. “This is my husband, Jabir son of Jabaan.” She said it without any trace of affection. “And this is the Shan of our clan.”

“My greetings,” said Arran.

The old man grunted. “It is customary to rise to greet the Shan, but given your condition, I shall excuse you.”

Arran’s broken leg clenched. “Most gracious of you.”

A thin smile appeared on the Shan’s face. “Indeed. Tell me, Sir Arran Belphon of Carlisan, how you came to the lands of my clan.”

“I already told you what happened,” said Siduri.

The Shan didn’t blink. “Nevertheless, I would like to hear it from his own lips.”

“As you wish,” said Arran. “I was walking through the desert. I heard a scream, and saw a winged demon attacking Siduri. I managed to slay it, but it wounded me. Mortally, I thought, but I woke up here.”

The Shan tapped Arran’s weapons with his staff. “Tell me, are these your guns?”

“Yes,” said Arran.

“Where did you get them?”

The muscles in Arran’s arms tensed at the memories. “I killed their owners and took them. I caught the first one by surprise, in the Crimson Plain, on the other side of the world. I killed him and took his Kalashnikov. After that, it was easier. I used that gun to kill more of Marugon’s soldiers, and I took their weapons.”

Jabir sneered. “He fights like a coward.”

Siduri raised an eyebrow. “So do the Ugaoun Lord’s men, and they are usually victorious.”

The Shan tapped Luthar’s Sacred Blade with his staff. “And why do you seek these hell-forged machines, these…guns, as you say?”

“To kill Marugon’s soldiers.”

“And why do you wish to kill the soldiers?”

Arran closed his eyes. “Because it is all that is left to me. My family is dead. Carlisan is a pile of burned ruins. The Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade have all been killed. The White Council is gone.” His voice rose to a hoarse shout. “Everything I ever loved is dead and gone. Tell me, old man! Why would I not want to kill the soldiers?”

Jabir bristled. “You disrespect the Shan!”

The old man raised his gnarled hand. “All this I understand. Yet there are no soldiers of the Lord of the Ugaoun in the desert of the clans, Arran of Carlisan. Why did you come here, then?”

Arran stared at the wall. “Because there is nothing left. Antarese had fallen.”

Jabir hissed. “It is true, then. We could see the smoke on the horizon.”

“There is nothing left, nothing,” said Arran. “All is lost in ruin.” He glared at the Shan. “I came to this place to die.”

“Ha!” said Jabir, spinning on Siduri. “Did you not say he had lost the will to live? Did you not?”

“Jabir,” said the Shan. “Peace.”

Jabir lowered his head. “My Shan.”

“So,” said the Shan. “You came here to die, Arran of Carlisan?”

“Yes,” said Arran.

“Perhaps I should kill you, then, and have done with it?” The Shan reached into his robes, and Arran saw a dagger on his belt.

Siduri bristled. “You would kill a guest in our Hold? The gods would surely smite you for such wickedness.”

Jabir’s face crinkled in a sneer. “You should not speak to me of virtue.”

“Enough, both of you!” said the Shan. “What Arran of Carlisan desires is unimportant. Siduri brought him into our Hold. Therefore he is a guest, and it would be wickedness to throw him out.”

“Thank you,” said Arran.

The Shan’s face remained impassive. “But you are a danger to us, are you not?”

Arran snorted. “How so? I cannot stand. I cannot lift a sword or a gun. It even hurts to talk. How could I threaten you?”

“Because,” said the Shan. “The Ugaoun was hunting you.”

Arran remained silent.

“Yes,” said the Shan, “I knew it to be so. The Ugaoun do not come into the desert of the clans. What is here for them? It came hunting you, Arran of Carlisan, and you killed it. Others will come to find you. And they will find you, do not doubt.” His dark gaze bored into Arran. “And here you lie, in our Hold, in the midst of my people.”

Siduri shifted. “Even the Ugaoun could not find us here.”

“The Ugaoun are things of the black magic,” said the Shan. “They will come for Arran of Carlisan. That is unchangeable. Where he is…that can change.”

“Or even if he lives at all,” said Jabir.

Siduri scowled. “Would you murder him? Or throw him into the desert to die? His injuries are still great. The desert would claim him in hours.”

“Perhaps that is best, Siduri,” said the Shan. “He came here to die. Why not let him do as he wishes?”

“I will not stand for it,” said Siduri. “If you throw him out, then I will go too.”

“And such a loss that would be,” said Jabir.

Siduri scowled. “What do you say?”

“You heard me,” said Jabir. “And you know what I mean.”

“Enough,” said the Shan. “Jabir, I instructed you to speak of this with me later.”

Siduri glared at her husband. “Oh, so you already have asked the honorable Shan if you can send me away? Have you decided? Rahanna, perhaps?”

Jabir smirked. “Rahanna has wide hips. Perhaps she will have enough virtue to birth many sons…unlike you.”

“Enough!” said the Shan. “This is not the time or the place.” He looked to Arran. “We shall wait until you have recovered, man of Carlisan. Then we shall decide what is to be done with you.”

Arran nodded. Part of him wished the Shan had decided to throw him out into the desert. Another part, however, remembered the burning heat and the shriveling thirst and did not want to endure that once again. “I…I…”

A jolt of pain shot up his leg and sank into his chest wounds. His leg felt as if it had been stabbed with a hot knife, and his answer to the Shan disappeared in a wince of pain.

“Sandstorm!” spat Siduri. “His leg shifted. I must tend him.”

The Shan nodded. “Do as you must. We will speak later.” He turned and left. Jabir spun and stalked out without a word.

Arran gritted his teeth, pain pulsing through him.

“Here,” said Siduri. She held out a stone cup. “Drink this.”

She held the cup to his lips and he drank. The thick draught inside had a bitter tang. Heaviness swept through his jerking muscles, and he sank into sleep.

Chapter 7 - A Business Arrangement

Anno Domini 2012

Wycliffe picked up the phone, dialed, and listened to it ring. He leaned back in his chair.

Someone picked up.

“Hello, old friend,” said Wycliffe. “It’s your benefactor.” He paused and listened. “How are things on the police force? Good, good. What do I want? Just to complete our little contract. I did you a favor, and now you do me one. Oh, don’t worry. It’s nothing onerous. Nothing even particularly illegal. I just want a list of names. Specifically names connected to cigarette and tobacco related crimes in the last six months…”

Wycliffe blinked, and his scowl morphed into a grin. “You’re joking. That’s ideal.” His grin widened. “Yes, quite right. I’m in need of a flunky.”

###

Powdery snow fell against the limo’s windshield, the wipers’ blades screeching against the glass.

“Here,” said Wycliffe, pointing. “Driver. That motel right there.”

“Yes, sir,” said the driver.

Wycliffe adjusted his overcoat. Goth sat beside him, a dark and brooding presence in his black jacket and sunglasses.

“Talkative tonight, aren’t we?” said Wycliffe.

Goth said nothing.

The limo pulled into the motel parking lot. Wycliffe ran a hand through his hair. “An interesting missing persons report crossed my desk the other day. Anne Louis, the reporter who did that flattering interview of me.”

Goth’s lips pulled back in a fanged smile.

Wycliffe sighed. “You understand the last thing I need right now is a scandal?”

Goth seemed almost amused. “Nothing of her shall ever be found.”

“Well.” Wycliffe blinked. “Good. Driver! Remain here. I expect to complete my business momentarily.” The driver pulled into a parking space before the motel.

Wycliffe climbed out the back seat. “Goth. Wait over there by the door.”

“Why?” said Goth.

Wycliffe glared at him. “Because you send people into screaming fits. I’d prefer to avoid that, just yet. If I need you I’ll come and get you.”

“Very well.” Goth stood to the side of door, snow accumulating on his broad shoulders. He looked like some thug waiting to ambush a motel patron Wycliffe shook off the morbid thoughts and strode into the motel lobby, brushing snow from his overcoat.

The motel had seen better days. Artificial wood paneling peeled away from the walls, and dingy furniture stood around a coffee table covered with periodicals from the early eighties. An elderly woman with bright red hair sat at the front desk, attacking her nails with a file.

Wycliffe put on his politician’s smile and leaned against the desk. The woman didn’t look up. At last Wycliffe coughed into his palm.

The woman didn’t look up. “No vacancies.”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “No doubt, no doubt.” He focused his will and brought up a tiny portion of the Voice. “Ma’am.”

The woman blinked and looked up. “Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God, I don’t believe it.” Her hands began fluttering like anxious birds. She hopped up and down on the stool. “Oh my God…”

Wycliffe frowned in consternation. Had the Voice had an adverse effect on her mind? “Is there something amiss?”

“You’re Senator Wycliffe!” said the woman. “I voted for you! And…and I saw your speech the other night! It was great. You’re a great man, sir. I even joined the Gracchan Party, and I haven’t voted since 1982.” She produced her purse, fumbled through it, and brandished a Gracchan Party membership card.

Wycliffe smiled. “It’s always good to meet a supporter.”

“I’m going to vote for you, sir, and I’ll make my husband and his worthless step-kids vote for you, too,” said the woman. “I really think you should be running for president and not Senator Jones.”

Wycliffe smiled and raised a hand. “What can I say? Senator Jones is a wise and experienced statesman. I’d be honored to serve as his vice-president.” His smile widened. “Still, there’s always the 2016 election.” The woman beamed. “Now, do you think you could call my friend for me?”

“What? Oh, oh, sure. What’s his name?” She leafed through a dog-eared binder.

Wycliffe remembered the name his contact had provided over the phone. “Kyle Allard. Should have checked in just today.”

“Oh! Here it is.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll call him down for you.”

Wycliffe resisted the urge to clap. “Thank you.”

The woman dialed and argued with someone over the phone. “He’ll be right down.”

“Good,” said Wycliffe. The woman smiled at him. Fame did have its advantages. A pity she wasn’t forty years younger and forty pounds lighter.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs, and a skinny young man in a rumpled business suit walked into the lobby. He didn’t look older than twenty-five. A shock of greasy black hair crowned his head, dark stubble shaded his jaw, and a number of rings gleamed in his ears.

“Kyle Allard?” said Wycliffe. “I’m Thomas Wycliffe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Allard ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen, buddy, I’ve got a lot on my mind, so why don’t you just say your piece and get it over with. Unless you’re with the cops. Then you can go to hell.”

“Mr. Allard!” said the woman, shocked. “Speak respectfully to the Senator!”

Allard frowned. “Senator…” Wycliffe saw the realization dawn on his face. “Oh, God. A Senator. Listen. I…I was just broke, it seems like a quick way to pick up some bucks…”

Wycliffe laughed. Fame did indeed have its advantages. “Relax, Mr. Allard. I’m not here to talk about…that. At least not directly.”

“Right.” Wycliffe saw the bravado reappear on Allard’s face. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Tell you what, Senator. Why don’t you cut through all the bullshit and get to the point? I’m a busy man.”

The woman glared. “You apologize…”

Wycliffe smiled and waved a hand. “Quite all right. I deal with politicians all day. I appreciate a man who gets right to business. Let’s take a little walk, Mr. Allard. We have business to discuss.” Perhaps meeting Goth would put the fear of God into the insouciant little bastard.

The receptionist beamed. “It was an honor meeting you, Senator.”

Wycliffe nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” He took Allard’s shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk. We have quite a bit to discuss.”

Allard swallowed, but let Wycliffe lead him out into the night.

Wycliffe smiled. An appropriate comparison, really.

Allard frowned. “Right. Whatever. Listen, what do you want…” His voice trailed off. Goth strode out of the shadows and stared down at him. Allard took a step back. “I…I don’t have any money.”

“What?” said Wycliffe. “Oh, don’t flinch so, Mr. Allard. Petty theft is not my business. This man is an associate of mine.”

“Associate?” said Allard, staring at his reflection in Goth’s sunglasses.

Wycliffe bit back a laugh. “This is Mr. Goth Marson, a business partner of mine. He also works as my bodyguard. He’s very good at it.”

“I can imagine,” said Allard. He had gone paler. “Um…nice to meet you, Mr. Marson.”

Goth said nothing.

“Well, to business,” said Wycliffe. He hoped to convince this young fool without use of the Voice. He wanted to save his energies for the campaign. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarette Marugon had sent with the scroll. “Care for a cigarette?”

Allard scowled. “No!”

“Really?” said Wycliffe. “Why not?”

“It’s a disgusting habit,” said Allard. “I don’t want cancer. And I’m…well, I’m sick to death of cigarettes.”

Wycliffe grinned. “And just why is that?”

Allard shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Wycliffe. “I heard about your little misadventure with the cigarette sales.”

Allard flinched. “How’d you know about that? I only got arrested yesterday.”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Come, come, Mr. Allard. Do you seriously think I became a Senator without a few well-placed contacts?”

Allard bit his lip. “How much do you know?”

“All of it.” Wycliffe remembered the information his contact at the Chicago Police Department had provided for him. “It was a good idea, really. Buy up all the cigarettes you can in Kentucky, which has the lowest state cigarette tax in the nation, and sell them all here in Illinois. You’d turn a considerable profit. But you got caught, didn’t you?”

Allard glared. “How the hell was I supposed to know she was a cop’s wife?”

“It’s rather amusing,” said Wycliffe. “Professional criminals usually can pick their marks with greater skill.”

Allard shook with anger. “I’m not a professional criminal. I just got a bit over my head into some student debt for my MBA, okay? The interest was eating me alive. I needed some money, I gambled on the cigarettes, and it looks like I’ve lost. Do you have something useful to say, or are you should going to stand there and give me a shit lecture on morality?” His voice trembled with desperation.

“Hardly,” said Wycliffe. “In fact, I think your whole scheme rather admirable.”

Allard frowned. “You do?”

“Absolutely,” said Wycliffe. “You tried to defraud the cigarette companies and the greedy state government? So what? You seem like an ambitious and enterprising young man. It’s men like you, I think, that have made America great. But what’s the most you could have made from your little scheme? A few thousand dollars? A pity indeed that your career should end over such a trifle.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Allard. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here and listen to you make speeches. Like finding a lawyer, for instance. So do you have a point?”

“Oh, I do,” said Wycliffe. “I’m offering you a job.”

“What?” said Allard.

“A job,” said Wycliffe. “Employment. A regular source of income, something you seem to need at the moment.”

Allard folded his arms over his skinny chest. “A job. Okay. A job doing what?”

“Handing out free cigarettes,” said Wycliffe.

Allard laughed. “This is bullshit.”

“It most certainly is not,” said Wycliffe. “I’ve been looking for a man like you, Allard.” Marugon’s instructions had been quite clear. “A Senator’s salary is nice, of course, but I was a businessman before I went into politics, and I still am. My partner Mr. Marugon and I have recently acquired a controlling interest in Stanford Matthews Tobacco, a minor cigarette producer.” That, too, had followed Marugon’s instructions.

“Marugon?” said Allard. “Weird name.”

“He’s Romanian,” said Wycliffe. “Now, Mr. Allard, Mr. Marugon and I wouldn’t have bothered with Stanford Matthews, except that it’s developed a new strain of tobacco. I believe it will be very popular with cigarette smokers. In fact, we believe that within three years it will become the leading brand in this country.”

Allard laughed. “You’re shitting me.”

Wycliffe grinned. “When it comes to business, Mr. Allard, I never shit.”

Allard snorted. “So, what are you offering? Minimum wage, right?”

“A bit better than that,” said Wycliffe. “A hundred thousand a year.”

Allard gaped. “How much? You’ve got to be joking!”

“I assure you, I am not,” said Wycliffe. “Of course, the potential for raises are in the future. Mr. Marugon and I plan on a broad customer base for Stanford Matthews cigarettes. Tell me, are you not tempted?”

“I…have some legal troubles, sir,” said Allard. Wycliffe could see the eagerness gleaming in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can…”

“Rubbish!” said Wycliffe. “Mundane matters do not trouble one such as I, as Mr. Marugon often says. We’ll clear up this legal trouble, don’t you doubt.”

Allard hesitated. “How are you going to do that?”

Wycliffe grinned. “I have…a very convincing voice, Mr. Allard.”

The little fool had no idea.

Allard looked at the ground. “I’m…I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.”

Wycliffe snorted. “You do that.” He pulled a small roll of paper from his pocket and pressed it into Allard’s hand. “Take this for your trouble.”

“I don’t smoke!” said Allard. Wycliffe laughed as Allard’s eyes widened. “How much money is this?”

“One grand,” said Wycliffe. “As I said, a bit of compensation for your time. Come along, Goth. Let’s leave Mr. Allard to his thoughts.”

They walked towards the limo, leaving Allard staring at the money. Wycliffe smiled.

Allard belonged to him now. It was only a matter of time.

The same approach worked on his 13A freight handlers, the ones who knew where Wycliffe’s money really came from. He paid them well, they adored him, and the Voice cleared up any little problems. The same approach had worked on Simon Wester, years ago. Wycliffe blinked. Perhaps he should get in touch with Dr. Wester. The historian had been quite a talented speechwriter…

“Senator!” Wycliffe heard running footsteps.

Kyle Allard ran up behind him, panting. “I…I think we can work something out.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Good.” He only wished he knew what Marugon intended with this bizarre scheme.

He thought of all those black crates of strange tobacco Marugon had sent through the Tower.

Every last tobacco leaf positively radiated black magic.

Whatever Marugon intended, it was going to be big.

Chapter 8 - Exile

Year of the Councils 972

“Up now, Sir Arran. You can’t lie here forever.”

Siduri stood in the doorway, a pair of crutches under her arm.

“What?” said Arran.

She leaned the crutches against the wall and stood over his bed. “It’s time for you to get up and start walking again. You need to recover your strength.”

Arran looked at the wall. “Suppose I don’t want to?”

“And just why not?” said Siduri.

“It is not your concern,” said Arran. “Just leave me be.”

Siduri snorted. “You just want me to let you die?”

Arran glared at her. “Yes. That’s just what I want. Throw me out in the desert and let me rot. Let me die.”

Siduri walked to the far side of the room and sat down on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. Arran watched her for a moment, and then turned away. He could still feel her eyes on the back of his neck.

“Why do you stare at me?” he muttered.

“Did you know Sir Liam Two Swords well?” said Siduri.

Arran’s head jerked around. “What are you talking about?”

“You said his name,” said Siduri, “and others, while you lay in your delirium. Sir Liam. Luthar. Lithon. Anna. But you said the name of this Sir Liam the most. How did you know him?”

“It is not your concern!” said Arran, his voice hoarse.

“How did you fail him?”

Arran flinched as if slapped. “I did not fail him. I did not. I did what I had to do. There was no other choice.” The words poured from his throat in a torrent, as if Siduri had breached some dam within him. “He would have perished if I had not taken up that gun, him and King Lithon both. And what else could I have done? Marugon’s men were everywhere. They all had guns, bombs, liquid fire, and the other horrors. What else could I have done!” His voice rose to an angry scream.

“So you do blame yourself,” said Siduri.

“I…” Arran’s voice broke. “I have damned myself. The…the guns are evil things, forged on Earth. I…should have never taken them up.”

Siduri tapped his Glock with the toe of her boot. “They’re just machines.”

“Machines made to kill,” said Arran.

Siduri laughed.

Arran scowled. “You mock me.”

She shook her head. “What is a sword, if not a thing made to kill?”

“That is absurd!”

“How so?” said Siduri. “It is a sword. It is a piece of metal made to kill things.”

“It is a Sacred Blade,” snapped Arran. “It was forged of the finest steel and imbued with the power of the white magic. It is a symbol of everything a Knight of the Sacred Blade is supposed to defend, everything a Knight is supposed to uphold.”

“Perhaps that is all true,” said Siduri. “But it is still a sword.”

Arran rolled his eyes. “You simply do not understand.”

“I understand just fine,” said Siduri. “A gun is a gun, and a sword is a sword, but they are both made to kill. What of this world that makes the guns? Earth? Do you think in this world of Earth that there are Knights of the Sacred Gun who take vows on their guns, swear by them, and make flowery speeches about their virtues?”

“Ridiculous,” said Arran.

Siduri laughed. She knelt and picked up the sniper rifle.

Arran flinched. “Do not touch that. You might hurt yourself.”

She turned it over, the barrel gleaming in the light. “It doesn’t look hell-forged to me. Just another piece of metal.”

“Put that down,” said Arran.

Siduri smiled. “Make me.”

Arran gritted his teeth. “You are an exasperating woman.”

Siduri held out the rifle at arm’s length and spun it like a spear. “I’ve been called much worse, believe me. Oh, don’t worry. It’s not loaded…I took the lead cylinders out.”

“You’re certain?” said Arran. “Many of Marugon’s soldiers lost a finger or a head when they thought their weapons unloaded.”

Siduri nodded. “Maybe you should check it yourself.”

Arran held out his hand. “Give it here.”

Siduri’s eyes flashed. “Come and get it.”

Arran’s hand balled into a fist. “You are an exasperating woman.”

“You repeat yourself,” said Siduri. “Are you going to get up and check your weapon, and perhaps go for a longer walk while you’re at it, or are you going to lie there and let me hurt myself? Well?”

Arran gestured at himself. “You expect me to hobble about your chambers…”

“Hold,” said Siduri. “The home of a clan is called a Hold.”

“Fine,” said Arran. “You expect me to hobble around your Hold naked?”

Siduri smiled and held up a bundle of brown cloth. “I brought a robe. Now, let’s get you dressed.”

Arran rolled his eyes, but spread his hands in resignation.

###

“This…this is all underground?” said Arran, the crutches digging into his armpits.

Siduri laughed. “Where did you think you were, man of Carlisan? Some great fortress, like those in your land?”

Arran shook his head. “I never thought about it.”

They stood in a huge cavern, a dozen giant lanterns of colored glass throwing beautiful patterns across the rough walls. Walkways and paths had been carved along the walls, and brightly colored curtains marked off individual dwellings. The men, women, and children of the Hold went about their business.

All gave Arran strange glances as they passed.

“I’d always heard the Scorpions of the desert lived in tents,” said Arran.

Siduri laughed. “Tents are hot, and you are exposed to any beast that wanders past. The clans did live in tents, many years ago. But our ancestors found the caves, and since then we have lived here.” She pointed. “Some beasts live in the caverns, and we raise them for food. There are also great pools filled with eyeless fish and squids, and fungus that we can eat, though some of it is poisonous.”

Arran blinked. “How many people live here?”

“About four hundred,” said Siduri. “A clan’s Hold might have five hundred, or twenty. Their numbers are the will of the gods. Now, let us keep walking. You must build up your strength, and you must practice with the crutches. You shuffle along like a wounded jackal.”

Arran grimaced. “My leg is broken and my side is torn up. I think I’m entitled to shuffle along like a wounded jackal.”

“This way,” said Siduri, leading him along another path through the cavern’s Hold. Siduri took slow steps to keep pace with Arran’s lurching gait. “How does your side feel?”

“It itches,” said Arran. “So does my leg.”

“That is good,” said Siduri. “Your wounds are healing.”

“They shouldn’t be,” said Arran. “You should have left me there to die. It would have been better.”

“Oh, do be silent,” said Siduri. “You’ll work yourself into a black despair if you keep up like that.”

“You don’t know what I’ve seen,” said Arran.

“I don’t care,” said Siduri.

Arran had nothing to say to that.

They walked in silence. A group of children ran past, clad in the same sort of dust-colored clothes as Siduri, but some of the children wore black scarves wrapped around their mouths and noses. The children looked at Arran and laughed as they ran past, but he heard no malice in their voices.

“You mustn’t think anything of them,” said Siduri. “It’s the first time they’ve seen a man from outside the desert.”

“Why were some of them wearing scarves?” said Arran.

“They’re girls,” said Siduri. “A girl, or a woman, wears a scarf over her face until she is married.” She shrugged. “It is customary, though I think it is silly. The Shan insists upon it.”

A shapely young woman came up the path, her trousers and coat tighter than the clansmen usually wore. A dark scarf covered her face.

Siduri glanced at her. “Rahanna.”

The young woman flinched. “Oh…Siduri…”

“How is Jabir?” said Siduri.

Rahanna trembled. “I…do not know.”

“Oh, come now,” said Siduri. “You spend more time with him than I.”

“I would not presume,” said Rahanna. “He came to me. I…I am sorry…”

Siduri waved a hand. “I do not blame you. Rather, I pity you. Pray you have sons, Rahanna. Else you’ll find yourself wandering the desert one day, as will I.”

Rahanna trembled for a moment, then spun and ran the other way.

“A rival?” said Arran. He had seen similar things among the nobles of Carlisan’s court.

Siduri sighed. “No. I am no rival to her. She is seven and ten years old. I am eight and thirty. I have been married to Jabir for two and ten years, and have not borne him a son, or even a daughter.” She sighed again. “And it is a sign of virtue for a wife to bear sons. Yet I have not.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Arran.

Siduri glanced at him. “You are correct. It is not. When I was young, I became deathly sick. I lay in bed for months. The healer said I should have died. Yet I survived, but the disease scarred me. I would not have children, the healer said. So I became her apprentice, and was content with that life.” A lock of hair escaped from her cowl and slid across her face. “And then I met Jabir.”

“Why did he marry you, if he knew you could not have sons?” said Arran.

Siduri shrugged. “Jabir was…different then. That is all I can say. Now he dreams of becoming the Shan when the old one dies. When we were younger, he was different. He was smitten with me, and I with him. He did not want sons then. But a man must have sons to become the Shan, and he thinks Rahanna can give him sons.

“Jabir sounds a fool,” said Arran. “Perhaps you’re better off.”

Siduri shrugged. “Mayhap.” She smiled. The gleam in her eye made Arran uneasy. “But who can say what paths the gods have in store for us? Who can see his own destiny?”

Arran licked his lips. “There is…was…a saying among the Wizards of the White Council that no man is given the gift to see his own future.”

Except Alastarius, who had the gift of Prophecy. Yet he had still failed to foresee his own death at the claws of Goth-Mar-Dan.

“Perhaps it is a blessing,” said Siduri. “A man, or woman’s, fate may be too horrible to see.” She looked at his leg. “Look what happened to you. Still, who can say what the gods have in store?”

“I am sorry that had to happen to you, though,” said Arran. “It is not just.” Siduri laughed loud and long, and Arran felt color flood into his cheeks.

“You are a fool, you know?” said Siduri. “Like all men. Your home was destroyed and you are near crippled, and yet you say it is not fair that I was young and foolish and married a fool.”

Arran grimaced and looked away.

Siduri laughed again. “You have color in your face! That is good. You have looked pale as a ghost since I brought you in and your sunburn peeled away. Now, let us keep walking.”

Arran had no choice, so he kept going.

###

Arran tested his weight on the leg. “I can stand.”

Siduri watched from the corner. “Yes, I noticed.”

Arran rolled his eyes and took a tentative step. The muscles in his left leg trembled, tensed, but did not fold. He walked the far wall and back again before he had to sit down.

“Well?” said Siduri. “How do you feel?”

Arran shrugged. “I…lighter, I guess.”

“Lighter?” said Siduri. “Well, you have lost a lot of weight. You should see yourself. You look a wraith.”

“A pity you don’t have a mirror,” said Arran.

Siduri’s brows knit beneath her cowl. “A mirror? What is that?”

Arran clenched his fist. His hands felt damnably weak. “It’s a piece of silvered glass. You can see your reflection in it.”

Siduri snapped her fingers. “Oh, you mean a seeing-stone. I’ll get one, if you want.” She rose and disappeared through the curtain.

Arran pulled himself up to his feet once more, and his left leg felt like a wavering column of water. He cursed and reached out to steady himself. He must look like some bent old woman, moving with weak and feeble strides. Yet he did feel lighter. He had lost weight, as Siduri had said, but it couldn’t have been that much…

He looked at the swords and guns stacked against the wall.

He hadn’t been carrying his weapons. For the last nine years he had been carrying his Sacred Blade, his brother’s Sacred Blade, and his guns. It had been heavy at first, but he had gotten used to it. He scrubbed the wet from his eyes. The strength went out of his legs, and he sat back down on the bed.

The curtain rustled. Siduri reappeared, a thin disk of polished stone under her arm. “What is it?”

Arran blinked. “Nothing.”

Siduri arched an eyebrow. “And I am a noble lady of Carlisan.”

Arran shook his head. “It’s…it’s just…my weapons. I’d forgotten how heavy they were."

“Ah,” said Siduri.

Arran looked at his reflection in the stone disk Siduri carried. His face had taken new lines, and hollows, and his eyes looked like dead jewels in sunken pits. Greasy hair fell over his face, and an unkempt beard framed his jaw.

He looked pathetic. The wreck of a man. The damned shell of a Knight of the Sacred Blade who had taken up Marugon’s guns.

Arran looked down. “Take it away. I don’t want to see.”

Siduri blinked. “Arran…”

“Just go. Leave me alone.” He lay down on the bed and faced the wall. Siduri watched him for a moment, and then left.

###

Arran paced back and forth. He wore his old clothes, the dark leather and wool, along with a brown Scorpion tunic. He could walk without stumbling now, though his left leg still grew stiff from time to time. Exercise would loosen up the muscles in time.

He looked at the heap of weapons on the floor, and wondered why he should bother.

Leather scraped against stone. Siduri stood at the door, a strange expression in her emerald eyes. “How do you feel?”

Arran shrugged. “Not well. But better. I think I’m able to walk now.”

“That is good.” Siduri folded her arms. “You may need to.”

“Why?”

Siduri took a deep breath. “The Shan has sent me. You have been summoned before him and the other elders.” Her eyes flashed. “I think they will banish you.”

“Then they are wise,” said Arran. “They never should have let you take me in.” Siduri’s lips thinned. “Show me the way.”

Siduri led him through the clan’s Hold. Children stopped and gaped at him. Married women, in cowls similar to Siduri’s, whispered between each other, but flinched away from his gaze.

Siduri took Arran to a hemispherical cavern. A low row of seats had been carved along the base of the wall. The Shan sat in the center, his staff in hand, surrounded by the clan’s elders. Jabir stood near the Shan, and smirked when he saw Siduri.

Arran bowed. “Honored Shan. You sent for me?”

The Shan grunted. “Arran Belphon of Carlisan. Siduri wife of Jabir brought you to us, and by the laws of gods and men, you are our guest.” His unreadable eyes glimmered. “But you are not a guest I would have invited in.”

“You bring danger on us, outlander,” said Jabir.

Siduri glared at her husband. “Life is full of dangers.”

The Shan shifted. “This is true. Yet some dangers are darker than others. The Ugaoun hunt you. We are neither blind nor deaf. We know you have been a thorn in their side, Ghost of Carlisan.” Arran nodded at the name Marugon’s soldiers had given him. “The Ugaoun will come for you, or perhaps the Lord of the Ugaoun himself.”

“Marugon,” said Arran.

The Shan nodded. “The last and greatest of Warlocks. Against his power, and the power of the guns, we have no defense. You know this bitter truth well, I deem. He and his minions will come for you…and we would prefer you to be elsewhere when he does come.”

“So we will throw a guest out to face the mercies of the desert?” said Siduri.

The Shan glanced at her. “We will not throw him out unless he refuses to leave. We shall give him food and water sufficient for a week’s journey. That can take him back to the High Kingdoms, to what is now Marugon’s land, and back to where he belongs.”

Arran met the eyes of the old Shan. “They will come for you and your people, someday. The High Kingdoms are gone. How long will the lesser kingdoms stand? How long until Marugon comes for you?”

“We ask you to leave,” said the Shan. “We will throw you out, if necessary, but do not force us break the laws of gods and men. For we shall, if we must.”

“I care not,” said Arran. “Banish me or imprison me or kill me, it does not matter.”

“This is dishonorable,” said Siduri, her voice whip-sharp. “Shall we abandon him? What is to make us better than the Ugaoun themselves if we do such a thing…”

“Silence!” said Jabir, his face twisting with rage. “You do not speak to me of what is honorable or dishonorable…”

“Be still!” said the Shan. “You are not the Shan yet, Jabir. Hold your tongue.” Jabir scowled, but fell silent. “Arran of Carlisan. We will give you food and water for a week. Take your weapons, go, and never return.”

Arran sketched a mocking bow and turned to go.

He had taken six steps before Siduri seized his arm in a strong grip.

“This is wrong,” she said. “If you go to the desert, you will die.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Arran. He shook free of her hand. “I came out to the desert to die. You should never have tried to save me.”

He kept going, and did not look back.

###

Arran buckled on his sword belt and slid his Sacred Blade into its scabbard. The Glocks went into their holsters, and he slung his sniper rifle and Luthar’s sword over his shoulder. His pack thumped against his back with every step, and his water bag sloshed.

He strode through the cavern and to the surface. He felt the desert heat against his face before he saw the bright light and the blinding blue sky.

Arran looked around. The wastes of the Desert of Scorpions stretched away in all directions. Wind-swept crags loomed over him, and flurries of sand lashed the pitted stone. He didn’t know which way to go.

But did it really matter?

Arran picked a direction and started walking.

Chapter 9 - Memories

Anno Domini 2012

Ally walked to the counter, her bare feet slapping against the tiles, her skirt flapping around her shins. She grimaced, tugged at it, and then gave up.

“You'll be ready to go by nine, right?” said Simon, brushing the front of his suit with a sigh. He had put on enough weight that the suit no longer fit well, but he refused to admit it.

Ally rolled her eyes. “Dad. It’s only eight forty-five. Fifteen minutes. Plenty of time.”

“Not that much time,” said Simon.

Ally found a piece of toast and started to spread jam over it. “The ceremony doesn’t start until ten-thirty anyway.” She felt a flicker of uneasiness.

What would her life be like by this time next year?

Katrina walked into the kitchen, wearing a short black skirt and a white blouse, her high heels clacking.

“You don’t even have shoes on yet,” said Simon.

Ally waved her toast. “It doesn't take very long to eat a piece of toast and put on a pair of shoes.”

“Oh, calm down, the both of you,” said Katrina. She retrieved a can of V-8 juice from the fridge, opened it, and took a drink.

Simon scowled. “I still think she should have a longer dress on.”

“Mom's wearing a shorter skirt than I am," said Ally.

Simon looked at Katrina and flushed. “She, well, she’s your mother…”

Katrina grinned. “Simon likes my legs, you see.”

“Katrina," said Simon. "You’re not helping me here.”

Ally rolled her eyes. “Gross.”

Katrina's smile only widened. “That’s one of the advantages of having adoptive parents, kiddo. Most of your friends’ parents are already old, slow, and fat. Simon and I are still young and energetic.” She patted Simon on the cheek. “Aren’t we, dear?”

Ally made a face. “I really don’t want to think about it.”

Simon’s flush had deepened. “That’s probably wise.”

“Her dress is fine, Simon,” said Katrina. She smiled. “What was her name…Lisa Smith? Smythe?”

Simon frowned. “Who?”

“Someone I graduated with,” said Katrina. “We used to get drunk together. She went naked under the graduation gown, except for her shoes.”

Ally grinned at Simon. “I could always do that.”

Simon got himself a drink of water. “A very bad idea. Follow Katrina’s example and go fully clothed.”

Katrina's eyes sparkled, the way they usually did right before she embarrassed Simon. “Actually, I went topless under the robe.”

Simon coughed on his water. “You did what?”

“Topless,” said Katrina. Her grin took on a wicked edge. “You should have seen the principal staring at me when I bounced up the stairs to the stage. I almost doubled over laughing right there.”

“You keep dredging up these dark stories from your past," said Simon. "I’m never sure if you’re making them up to rattle me or, God forbid, you’re telling the truth.”

Katrina shrugged. “Which do you think?”

Simon poured himself a fresh glass of water. “I’d really rather not think about it.”

Katrina smiled. “That’s probably wise.”

“So should I go topless under the robe?” said Ally.

“Absolutely not,” said Katrina, her voice calm. “You see, I did that, and then I got drunk at the parties, and was absolutely miserable for the next week. You’re going to remain clean and healthy. Else you can stay here, in the house, in your room, until you leave for college.”

Ally finished her toast. “Yes, Mom.”

“The dress is fine,” said Simon.

Katrina and Ally laughed in unison.

“I’m serious,” said Simon. “You look very nice.”

Ally did a little curtsy. “Thank you, Father.”

Simon grumbled. “Sarcasm.” He looked at Katrina. “I can’t imagine where she gets it from.”

Katrina smiled. “Certainly not from you.”

Lithon burst into the kitchen, wearing the new suit Katrina had bought him for the occasion. “Good morning." He bounded to the refrigerator. “What were you talking about?”

“Nothing,” said Ally and Katrina and Simon in unison.

Lithon gave them a weird look, but began rummaging through the vegetable crisper. “Really? It sounded pretty loud for nothing. When are we leaving? Do we have any milk left?”

Katrina laughed and rubbed his hair. “You’re pretty cheerful this morning.” He was only thirteen, but he already stood head and shoulders taller that her.

Lithon gave up on the refrigerator, seized an apple from the table, and began devouring it. “Why shouldn’t I be?” he said, between bites. “Ally’s graduating, which is cool. I get out of school for that. And then she’s having a party, which is cool, because there’ll be free food. I like free food. And I have a baseball game tomorrow, which is even cooler, because I like baseball and I also get out of school for that.” He finished the apple, dropped the core into the trash, and started on another one. "When are we leaving?"

“As soon as Ally puts her shoes on,” said Simon. “Actually, you two are going with your mother to school. I’m going to pick up Grandma from her hotel.”

“Why was Grandma at the hotel?” said Lithon, starting a third apple. “She could have stayed here.”

Simon looked at Katrina. “Um…”

“Because,” said Katrina, smiling. “Grandma likes to look over Mom's shoulder as she writes and point out all the swear words.”

Simon coughed. “Well, I always thought you could cut back on the profanity just a bit…”

Katrina turned a blazing glare on Simon.

Simon headed for the door. “I think I’ll go pick up Grandma.”

“Good idea,” said Katrina, and Simon kissed her and left.

“You know,” said Ally, “sometimes I can’t understand how someone like you and someone like Dad wound up married.”

“It does defy all logical explanation, doesn’t it?” said Katrina, a fond smile on her face. Yet for an instant, just an instant, Ally caught a hint of pain there, as if the question had conjured up an old, unpleasant memory. “Let's just say...we've been through quite a lot together. Time to go. I’ll wait for you in my car while you get your shoes. Come on, Lithon.”

Katrina headed out the door. Lithon followed her, pausing long enough to grab another apple.

###

A circle of rough-looking men in black uniforms stood in a ring around Ally. They held heavy machine guns, the barrels gleaming with black grease in the faint light. The gray, bleak plain stretched away in all directions like a barren graveyard.

Over them all loomed the massive black shape of an unimaginably vast tower.

“I don’t trust this,” said one of the gunmen. “She just appeared out of nowhere…”

Ally watched the men, only half-hearing their words. White, thick haze filled her mind. She couldn’t remember how she had found her way to this place. She couldn’t remember her home. She couldn’t remember her parents.

Other memories threatened to break through the haze. She remembered a burning castle, and a man in a black robe with bottomless eyes of darkness.

One of the gunmen struck her. Ally went sprawling in the dirt with a cry…

###

Ally blinked awake, her left temple leaning against the window of Katrina’s fancy new car. Katrina sat behind the wheel, weaving in and out of traffic with an audacity that would have terrified a drunken sixteen-year-old.

“The Jones-Wycliffe campaign continues to make headlines,” said a calm female voice. The radio was on. “A recent poll among likely voters shows Jones-Wycliffe with thirty percent of the vote, Democrats with thirty-seven, and Republicans with thirty-three. However, the Gracchan Party’s approval rating is up eleven percent since January, when Senator Wycliffe made his groundbreaking speech at the United Center. Experts say that if this trend continues, the Jones-Wycliffe ticket will become a serious contender for the…”

Katrina snarled and flicked off the radio. “Jesus Christ. Goddamn it all to hell.”

“Mom!” said Lithon from the car’s cramped back seat.

“Sorry,” said Katrina. “I’ll put money in the swear jar when I get home.”

Ally stirred. “We haven’t had one of those for years.”

Katrina pumped the gas to run a yellow light. “I usually try to control my language around you kids.” She shook her head, eyes flashing like green fire. “But Senator Wycliffe…that bastard…I mean, that politician makes my blood boil.”

Ally leaned forward. “How come?” She knew both her parents loathed Wycliffe, though she had never been able to discover why. Wycliffe seemed no sleazier than any other Illinois politician.

Granted, that was a lot of sleaze.

“Your Dad and I used to work for one of Wycliffe’s companies, back after he’d been first elected,” said Katrina. “It was how we met.”

“Does it have something to do with…you know, the adoption?” said Ally. Katrina and Simon had never discussed the circumstances of the adoption, and Ally had never been able to recall the details.

In fact, she could remember very little before her tenth birthday.

Katrina frowned. “It’s not something I should tell you about without Simon here. We thought you remembered it all – you were nine or ten years old at the time. But later on we figured out you couldn’t remember any of it.” She shrugged and gunned the motor to pass a garbage truck. “You blocked the memory it, I guess.”

Ally frowned. “Was it…bad? Traumatic or something?”

Katrina’s hand rose from the wheel to rub her right arm. “Yeah. Traumatic. Yeah, you could say that.” A cloud passed over her face. “We’ll tell you someday. We thought about telling you when you graduated, or when Lithon graduated…” She shook her head. “Let’s worry about it later.” She smiled. “After all, you’re graduating, right? Celebrate now and worry later.”

Ally snorted. “Within limits, of course.”

Katrina smirked. “Of course.” She swerved around a semi and roared through an intersection.

“Mother,” said Ally, “you drive like a lunatic.”

Katrina’s smirk widened. “Absolutely. Now Simon, he’s the one who drives like a girl. Bet you ten bucks we’ll get to school before him.”

Ally looked over her shoulder at the receding road. “No bet.”

###

“I usually wind up having to park three blocks that way,” said Ally. She realized she would never need to find a parking space outside school again. She would never again have to deal with bullying teachers like Paulsen or jerks like Nathan.

Yet it still saddened her.

Katrina craned her neck. “Six blocks, looks like.”

Lithon squirmed. “Dad’s behind us.”

Katrina grinned, tapped the gas, spun the wheel, and parallel parked the car with six inches to spare.

“God!” said Ally. “Nothing like having a car accident the morning before graduation.”

Katrina rolled her eyes. “But I didn’t actually hit anything.” Simon parked a block farther up. “Well, let’s wait for Simon and your grandmother.” Ally climbed out of the car, cursing at her skirt. The stupid thing kept tangling up her legs.

Simon and Maura walked up.

Katrina grinned. “Beat you.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t a race.”

Maura Wester laughed, moving at a brisk pace behind Simon. She carried a cane now, though more for effect than for actual utility. “That’s my boy. If he’d gotten here first, he’d have claimed he won the race.” Her rusty voice danced with amusement.

Simon sighed. “Thank you, Mother.”

Ally grinned. “Hi, Grandma.”

Maura laughed. “Here’s my little granddaughter, all grown up.” She hugged Ally. “Eighteen, and beautiful, and smart as a whip. Who would have thought?”

“Thanks, Grandma,” said Ally. She smiled. “I tried.”

“And salute…boy, what’s that word? Second in her class?” said Maura.

“Salutatorian,” said Simon. “She could have been valedictorian, but for that last pre-trig test.”

Maura snorted. “Don’t you pay him any mind, Ally. Second in your class is good enough. Take your father, for instance.”

Simon groaned. “Mom!”

“Sparkling GPA all through high school and college, and what does he do? He winds up living with his mother until he’s twenty-six.” Maura thumped her cane against the ground. “Twenty-six! I had been married for eight years when I was twenty-six.”

Simon sighed. “What is this? Open season on poor Simon Wester?”

Katrina smiled, put her arm around his waist, and kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, but we love you anyway.”

Simon smiled. “All is forgiven. Let’s go find a seat before they all fill up.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” said Maura. “I need a cigarette. Simon wouldn’t let me smoke in his car.”

“He tends to be neurotic about that,” said Katrina.

“You’re seventy-four years old,” said Simon. “You should quit smoking. I’ve been after you to quit smoking since I was six.”

Maura cackled. “I’m seventy-four years old, boy. If smoking doesn’t kill me, then the blood pressure will get me, or a stroke, or my heart, or something else. I’m not gonna give up my cigarettes now.”

Simon grunted. “I wish they’d just ban cigarettes.”

“Not likely,” said Maura. “In fact, just this morning, I saw some nice young man handing out free cigarettes in the hotel lobby.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” said Ally.

“Oh, no,” said Maura. “Not if you give them to those of age. Was for some new South Carolina company…Stanley Mattias, or something like that. Sounded very Southern. I didn’t take any of those cigarettes, though. They smelled funny. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were funny cigarettes and the whole thing was a scam.”

“Are you going to die, Grandma?” said Lithon. He sounded concerned.

Maura looked down at him, surprised. “Of course I am, dear! But not today, I should hope. I want to see Ally graduate.” She rapped her cane against the concrete. “Tell me what you’ve been up to, young sir. I hear you’re in a baseball league?”

Lithon beamed and launched into his usual modest description of his exploits. The front steps of the school came into sight, filled with gowned graduates, grandparents, and parents.

“Miss Wester!” Dr. Burton strode out of the crowd, resplendent in a gray suit with a black silk tie. “Congratulations.” He shook her hand.

“Thank you, sir,” said Ally.

“It has indeed been a pleasure to have you as a student,” said Dr. Burton. He smiled. “And Dr. and Mrs. Wester, as well. Congratulations. You should be proud.”

Katrina smiled and squeezed Ally’s shoulder. “We are.”

“She could have been valedictorian,” said Simon.

“Quite right,” said Dr. Burton. “She entirely could have been. It was a difference of only a hundredth of a decimal point, as I recall.” He shrugged. “When it’s this close, it’s almost invariably chance that determines valedictorian status. A bad test here, a sleepless night there, perhaps a sick day. Little things, really, in the greater scheme of things. You should take just as much pride in your daughter, Dr. Wester, as if she had indeed taken valedictorian status.”

Katrina’s arm tightened around Simon’s waist. “You’re…ow…absolutely right.”

“One more thing. You’ll receive formal notice after the ceremonies, Miss Wester, but you are invited to a special dinner on June 19th,” said Dr. Burton. “It’s something the Chicago school system holds to recognize the achievements of honors students. Most of the major colleges will be there, as well,” he smiled, “though your future at the University of Constantina has already been arranged.”

“Thank you,” said Ally.

“I’ll see you all at the ceremony,” said Dr. Burton, moving to greet another family.

“He seems like a nice man,” said Maura.

Ally looked at her watch. “I’d better go get ready.”

“Okay,” said Simon. “Just please keep all your clothes on.” Maura coughed, snorted, and began digging a cigarette from her purse.

Ally laughed and hugged him. “All right. I’ll see you inside.”

“Try not to be nervous, dear,” said Maura.

Lithon grinned. “Yeah. Don’t trip over your gown or something”

Ally flashed him a smile. “Me? Nervous? Never.” She turned and headed up the front steps, ignoring the odd fluttering in her stomach.

###

Ally stared into the band room mirror. She adjusted the angle of the mortarboard, scowled, and adjusted it again. The stupid honors tassels kept swinging into her eyes. She fiddled with the hat some more, tugged at the robe, and stepped back to examine the mirror.

At least she’d gotten all the wrinkles out of the robe. She looked like…like…

Ally felt an intense itching in the back of her brain, like something trying to crawl its way free from her skull. For an instant she saw not her robed reflection, but a pale-faced man swathed head to foot in black robes…

“Ally?”

Ally whirled, her heart pounding. “What? What is it?”

Bill Ryan took a step back. “Er. I’m sorry. Is…is this a bad time? I can come back…”

“No, no.” Ally looked at the mirror and saw nothing but her own reflection. “You just startled me, that’s all.”

“Oh. Okay,” said Bill. “Um…” He looked at the floor, at her, then back at the floor again. “So.” He appeared to reach a decision and stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”

Ally laughed and shook his sweat-slick hand. “Congratulations.” She noticed the gleaming medal hanging from his neck. “Mr. Valedictorian.”

Bill flushed. “Thank…thank you. And you too, Mr. Salutatorian.” He blinked. “Um…no, that’s not right.” Ally laughed. “Miss Salutatorian, I mean. Er. Ms. Salutorian?”

“That’s better,” said Ally. “You’re going to have interesting speech, I think.”

Bill shuffled a stack of sweat-damp note cards. “Do you think so? I’ve been going over it again and again…”

“Just don’t start with a dictionary reference,” said Ally.

Bill blinked. “Huh?”

“You know, a quotation from dictionary,” said Ally. “Webster’s Dictionary defines ‘graduation’ as whatever and so forth.”

Bill went pasty. “Oh. Oh, crap. Crap!”

“What?” said Ally. “You did start out with a dictionary reference?”

“Oh, man, I did,” said Bill. He started to look hysterical. “What am I going to do?”

“It’s not that big a deal,” said Ally.

“But it is!” said Bill, fresh beads of sweat popping out on his face. “My parents are here, and my grandparents, both sets, and my aunts and uncles, and my older brother, and he’s a doctor and if I screw up he’ll laugh and laugh…”

“Bill!” Ally grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Get a grip!”

Bill blinked. “You’re…you’re right. Have to stay calm. What I am going to do?”

Ally thought for a minute. “How…about this?” She remembered a joke she had heard Katrina tell Simon a few years ago, and repeated it to Bill.

He stared at her. “A joke? But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would the college graduate take the mayonnaise…” His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, and he began to laugh. “Oh my God. That’s…that’s…the mayonnaise…that’s funny! It’s a little raunchy…”

Ally grinned. “Just a little?”

“But it’s funny,” said Bill. “Oh, man, that’s so funny. And it fits for graduation. Do…do you think I should use it?”

Ally laughed. “Of course you should use it! Live a little, Bill. Take a risk every now and then.”

“It’s…” Bill looked at the ground. “You should have been valedictorian. You would…have made a better speech than I could.”

“Bill,” said Ally. “Oh, come on. You worked for this. You studied your butt off. You studied harder than I did.” That was true. “I guess you wanted it more.”

Bill licked his lips. “It…I…it was the last pre-trig test, wasn’t it? I thought you would pass it. I mean, we studied so hard.”

Ally shrugged. “I choked at the end.”

That was a lie. She missed a few questions on the test on purpose. Valedictorian status meant so much to Bill. And Ally had been surprised to discover how little it really meant to her.

“Well, okay,” said Bill. He seemed to screw up his nerve. “I have to tell you something. You’re…you’re the best friend I’ve had. I was…I was miserable my freshman year. I didn’t have any friends. I think I might have killed myself if I hadn’t met you.”

“Bill,” said Ally, “everyone has a miserable freshman year. I think it’s a law of nature or something. You would have come out of it on your own.”

“Maybe,” said Bill. He flexed his hands. “You’re…you’re…I don’t what you are. Just really special, I know that much.”  He grimaced. “This is getting really sappy.”

“That’s okay,” said Ally, voice quiet. ”

“I could transfer to Constantina, with you,” said Bill.”

“Bill,” said Ally. One of her premonitions came, filling her with certainty. “You will go to MIT. You will be astonished to discover how happy you are there.”

A hurt look, quickly hidden, crossed Bill’s face. “You’re sure?”

“I am,” said Ally, still staring into nothing. “I know you’re afraid. One part of your life is over and another is beginning. Yet you want to cling to the past through me. I am your friend and you are mine.” The feeling of the premonition grew stronger, and darkness flashed through her vision. “And you would not want to share my life.”

Bill stared at the floor. “Oh, man. You’re right.” He looked up and grinned. “I’m sorry. I guess I just made an ass of myself.”

Ally smiled. “That’s okay.”

“You must be right,” said Bill. “You got that weird…glassy look.”

Ally stamped her foot. “I do not get a glassy look! How many times do I have to tell you?”

“But you did,” said Bill. “You got that weird psychic-glassy look. You’re always, always right when you get that look.”

“My psychic look,” said Ally. “That’s what Mary used to call it.”

“It’s…it’s too bad she can’t be here,” said Bill.

Ally scowled into the mirror. “She could have been, if it weren’t for that bastard Nathan Jameson.”

“They caught her with that weed,” said Bill.

Ally felt her teeth grind. “Which she would never have done if it weren’t for him. He led her into it, Bill. She never did drugs, not even once, until she met him.” The familiar cold fury returned. “Now she has a cigarette habit and God knows what else. Her father’s going to throw her out at the end of the summer. She has no job and no way to get one. I don’t know what’s going to happen to her. And it’s all because she thought that idiot junkie Nathan would get a football scholarship and get rich.”

“What’s Nathan doing?” said Ally.

“He enlisted, I think.” Ally grimaced. “Damn him for what he did to Mary. I hope he winds up stranded in some godforsaken place like Afghanistan.”

Bill shrugged. “Mary made her choices, I guess.”

Ally tugged at her honor cords. “Which she wouldn’t have, but for him.”

“Well, she did make her choice,” said Bill. “I just feel sorry for her. You told me she was weak, right? I’m weak, too, and you’re so strong. You’re…you’re the strongest person I know, really. I guess it’s easier for me to understand Mary.”

Ally sighed, the anger draining away. “Maybe you’re right. But she was my best friend for years.”

“It might work out,” said Bill. “I mean, who can see the future, right? Except for you, of course.”

Ally glared at him, but he just grinned. He had indeed begun to grow some backbone. “Bill, I think you’ll turn out just…”

“Everyone, your attention please!” Dr. Burton stood in the doorway. “It’s time. Please proceed to the west hallway and line up for the procession as we rehearsed.” The graduating seniors shuffled towards the door, Dr. Burton barking instructions.

Ally looked at Bill. “Well, let’s go graduate.”

Bill nodded. “Okay.”

###

“And so,” said Bill, staring into the microphone, his half-mumbled words echoing through the packed gymnasium, “the college graduate said to the bartenders. ‘You know, I don’t care what he wants, but I think I’m definitely going to take the mayonnaise.’”

Dead silence reigned. Bill managed to go redder.

Then someone snickered. A few more people began to laugh, then a sudden gasp of comprehension went through the gymnasium, followed by a gale of laughter. Dr. Burton removed his glasses and wiped his eyes, chuckling. Bill blinked, and then beamed.

Ally winked and him and glanced over the audience.

Even from halfway across the gymnasium, Simon managed to shoot her a look. Katrina was laughing.

Bill grinned and waited for the laughter to subside. “And so, fellow students, now that we are on the graduation and the cusp of adulthood,” Ally had never heard anyone else use the word “cusp” before, “let us resolve that, we, too, shall always take the mayonnaise in the bar of life.” Fresh laughter flooded the gym.

Ally smiled. Bill would do just fine.

###

“Richard Wesley!” said Dr. Burton. Richard Wesley waddled up the stairs to the makeshift stage. Dr. Burton handed over the diploma and offered a solemn handshake.

Ally licked her lips, her heart pounding. This was stupid. Why should she feel nervous? It was just a piece of paper and a handshake. It was just a symbol.

A symbol…

She remembered symbols of white fire, traced into the air by the hands of an old man…

Ally blinked, her mind reeling with that strange itching sensation. She wondered if she should see a doctor.

“Ally Wester!”

To her horror she realized that Dr. Burton had called out her name twice. She felt her parents watching her with concern. Was she about to pass out?

Ally tightened her lips. She was not going to pass out in front of five thousand people.

She squared her shoulders and marched up to the stage. Dr. Burton stood at the center of the stage, the vice-principal at his shoulder.

Ally hesitated.

For an instant she saw not Dr. Burton and the vice-principal, but a grim-faced old man in white robes, a gaunt young man with a goatee and haunted eyes at his side. Waiting for her. Waiting to take her…

A strange feeling of déjà vu shot through her, so strong she almost fell.

The sensation faded. Ally realized that she had stopped. Everyone was staring at her.

Ally summoned a smile, took the diploma, and shook Dr. Burton’s strong hand.

Polite applause rang out.

She sat down, her legs trembling.

Dreams. Just dreams. Sometimes her strange dreams intruded into her waking moments.

That was all. Nothing to worry about.

Chapter 10 - The Hour Of My Death

Year of the Councils 972

Sweat trickled down Arran’s face, evaporating before it reached his jaw.

He took a sip of his water and slung the skin over his shoulder. He only had about six days worth, all told. He had fashioned a covering for his head from his cloak, so at least the sun did not press down on him as heavily as before.

Arran looked around. The desert’s sun-blasted wastes stretched in all directions. A low, moaning wind wandered the rocky ground, blowing fine grit into his face.  He remembered the thirst, the heat, and the burning. He had no wish to die in the desert.

But what would he do instead?

His sword hand started to tremble, and he balled it into a fist. What should he do? He had no reason to keep on living, yet he had no wish to remain in the desert, to die a sun-maddened wreck. He could not go back to Antarese. He could not go back to the Scorpions’ Hold.

So what could he do?

Arran drew one of his guns and looked at it, the sun glinting off the black metal. He remembered his oath not to die from a bullet and wavered. It would only take one shot through his temple. A brief stab of pain, and then blessed nothingness. After all the years of pain and struggle, it would be a relief.

A tall needle-shaped spire of rock rose up ahead, casting a long black shadow over the earth. Arran started towards it, gun in hand. He wanted to die in the shade, at least.

“You’re going the wrong way, you know.”

Arran whirled, his reflexes bringing his gun up. Siduri sat cross-legged on a nearby boulder. Her cowl was gone, and she wore her black-and-silver hair in a long braid. A pack and a waterskin rested over her shoulders, as did the butts of three long spears, including the black one she had stabbed into Baal-Mar-Dan.

Siduri waved her hand at the rock spire. “Besides, that rock is rife with poisonous snakes. You will be bitten a dozen times before you get within forty paces. The venom will hold you paralyzed as the snakes feast on your flesh. You might want to die, true, but I do not think even you want to die in such a manner.”

“Damnation,” said Arran, frustration and amazement mixing in him. “Why have you followed me?”

“It’s not good for a man to wonder the desert alone,” said Siduri. She shrugged. “Besides, there is nothing left for me at the Hold.”

“You took your scarf off. You abandoned Jabir,” said Arran.

Siduri laughed. “Jabir abandoned me years ago. Let him wed Rahanna and become Shan. I foresee that it will bring him no joy. I shall travel with you, instead.”

Arran shook his head. “Go back. Just go back, and leave me alone. I am grateful for your help, but I have no reason to live. Go back.”

Siduri stirred. “You do have reason to live, but you just don’t know it yet. And I will not let you kill yourself.”

Blackness filled Arran’s vision. “You can’t stop me.” He raised the gun to his temple, his finger tensing over the trigger.

But Siduri was faster. She leaped to her feet and flung out her arm, shouting a phrase in a language Arran did not recognize.

White light flashed from her fingers, and unseen force wrenched the gun from Arran’s hand and flung it to the sand.

Siduri shuddered. “Don’t make me do that again. It’s draining.”

Arran stared at her in stunned astonishment. “Who are you?”

“I’ve told you before, Siduri wife of…well, Siduri of the desert now, I suppose.”

“No!” Arran snatched his gun and jammed it into its holster. He stalked across the sand and glared at Siduri. “No games. Why do you care so much? Any reasonable woman would have left me for dead in the desert after the fight with Baal-Mar-Dan. How far did you have to drag me to your Hold?”

Siduri shrugged. “Four or five miles.”

“I wanted to die, and yet you insisted on healing me,” said Arran. “And now this…” He remembered his stupor while he lay recovering in Siduri’s chambers. “I saw you! You made gestures and chanted. You were casting a spell. Are you some manner of demon, some creature of the black magic?”

Siduri laughed at him. “Black magic? Hardly, Arran of Carlisan. I am no Ugaoun.”

“Then you know the white magic?”

Siduri nodded. “Some. I had to use it when I thought you would die. I could think of no other way to call you back.”

She knew the white magic? “But…how? Marugon killed all the Wizards.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Siduri. “But I am no Wizard.”

“Then just who are you?” said Arran.

“I am who I told you I am. But I shall explain nevertheless,” said Siduri. She paused for a moment, green eyes distant. “How to say this? I…haven’t always lived in the desert of the clans.”

“What do you mean?” said Arran.

“When I was a young woman, I visited the nation of Carlisan for a time.” She smiled. “It was as wonderful as you said, Arran of Carlisan. A beautiful city. Of course, many of the people were weak and fat, but in such prosperity, who could blame them? While I was there, I met an old Wizard, a man named Alastarius.”

The hair stood up on Arran’s neck. “Alastarius?”

“You know of him?” said Siduri.

“He was the Master of the White Council, and the mightiest Wizard of our age,” said Arran, bitterness in his voice. Alastarius had also persuaded Sir Liam to fly on a fool’s errand to the Tower of Endless Worlds, convinced that young King Lithon could save them all.

“Does he yet live?” said Siduri.

Arran shook his head. “He was betrayed and killed after the fall of Castle Bastion. Goth-Mar-Dan, king of the winged demons, tore Alastarius apart limb from limb. Sir Liam saw it.”

Siduri sighed. “I am grieved to hear of his death. He was a very wise man, and he taught me many things I had never dreamed. He also taught me a few minor spells of the white magic, as you have seen. He…also told me part of a Prophecy.”

Arran flinched. It has been on account of Alastarius’s Prophecy that Sir Liam had been willing to cross a continent’s length to the Tower of Endless Worlds. “What did he say?”

Siduri met his gaze. “He said that one day I would find myself in mortal danger from a thing of the black magic…what we of the clans call an Ugaoun, and what you call a winged demon. But a dark man would save me from it. Alastarius told me I had to do everything in my power to help this man, else a darkness would come that no light could ever break.” She titled her head. “He also told me the hour of my death. Which I admit was disturbing, but everyone dies someday.”

But Arran barely heard her.

“Damnation!” said Arran. “Damn it!” He paced in a little circle, pounding his thigh with his fist. “Damn him! Damn him and his Prophecies!”

“You do not seem pleased,” said Siduri.

“That damned Wizard’s Prophecy has brought me no end of grief,” spat Arran. “Sir Liam believed him, and because of that, we spent a year seeking the Tower of Endless Worlds.” Arran stalked back and forth, mad fury burning him. “Gods damn him and Liam and Lithon! I wish I could have met Alastarius so I could see the charm that made so many believe him. I wish he yet lived, for I would tear his head from his neck!”

Siduri laughed, her shoulders shaking.

Arran spun on her. “What in the blazing hells is so funny?”

“I have left the Hold and Jabir, but I have not thrown my life away,” said Siduri. “Just because you have given up, do not think that I have.” She leaned forward. “Arran. I can help you, if you but let me.”

“There’s no help to be had,” said Arran. “There’s nothing left. Marugon has triumphed. Antarese was my last hope, and now it is dead and gone.”

Siduri snorted. “Antarese might have been your last hope, but there are others.”

“Such as?” said Arran.

“The desert of the clans is vast,” said Siduri. “On its far side, over a month’s journey, is a great ocean that no man of the High Kingdoms has ever seen. And on that shore dwells the Oracle of Time.”

“What is that?” said Arran.

“No one knows for certain,” said Siduri. “It is a creature of magic, one with great power. We of the clans call it the Oracle of Time, for our legends say that it has vast knowledge, and can see things from the past, the present, and the future. The elders’ stories tell that in times past, warriors of the clans went to the Oracle seeking guidance. Most did not return. But those who did rose to greatness.”

“So what good would this Oracle do me?” said Arran.

Siduri snorted. “Thick-headed fellow. Alastarius told me, long ago, that if I did save you, I had to take you to the Oracle of Time. It would show you the way.”

“And just how are we to get there?” said Arran.

“I may not know the path of your life, but I know the path to the distant sea,” said Siduri. “Tribes of fishermen live there, and we of the clans sometimes trade with them. The Oracle’s abode lies near the villagers of the fishermen. I can take you there. I know the desert. I know the safe paths, where dangerous creatures live and things of old magic dwell, and where we can rest safely.”

Arran looked at the ground. “I…”

Siduri shrugged. “I know you do not care. You think you have no purpose left, no? Then what does it matter? Come with me. You have nothing to lose. You may die in the desert, we may die on the journey…or you may find what you seek. Think on it.”

Arran’s mind whirled. Ten years of defeat and constant destruction had crushed the hope out of him. But, then, what did he have to lose? If he died when he shot himself, or if he died seeking this Oracle of Time, what did it matter?

Arran licked his dry lips. “You said I was going the wrong way. Well, which way, then?”

Siduri smiled. “I’ll show you.”

Chapter 11 - I Don't Know What I Did

Anno Domini 2012

The day after graduation, Ally drove to the park.

She looked at the parked cars lining both sides of the street, scowled, and pulled Simon’s Ford Focus into an empty space about a block distant. Ally climbed out of the car, taking an envelope and tucking it into her pocket. The cool night air brushed at her face, and she pulled her green coat tighter. She felt much more comfortable in a T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes than in a dress and heels.

It was a good night for a party.

Rows of picnic tables had been set up, their surfaces covered with pizzas, chips, cookies, and juice. Coolers marked “SODA: LIGHT”, “SODA: REGULAR”, and “ALCOHOLIC” stood at the end of the tables. A scowling elderly man guarded the “ALCOHOLIC” cooler, glaring at anyone underage who happened to wander past. A crowd of people stood around the tables, eating and talking. A horde of little kids played some sort of game with a bright blue beach ball.

“Bill!” said Ally. “Congratulations.”

Bill stood by the coolers, a soda in hand. Behind him stood his parents, each dressed in a severe lawyer-like black suit.

Bill beamed at her approach. “Ally! You made it!”

“I said I was going to come, didn’t I?” said Ally.

“I’ll be going to your party, don’t worry,” said Bill. “It’s on Saturday, right?”

“Right,” said Ally. She handed over the envelope. “Happy graduation, Bill.”

Bill took the envelope, opened it, laughed at the card. “A twenty-five gift certificate to the book store!”

Ally shrugged. “You’re always reading those long books about goblins and knights and wizards and stuff like that. I can never keep track of them, so I thought you could pick out what you like with this.”

That, and she didn't like to read them. Reading about wizards always seemed to trigger her nightmares.

“Thanks, Ally,” said Bill. “Thanks. This is a really cool gift. Now I have to get something good for you.”

“We’ve heard quite a bit about you, young lady,” said Bill’s father, a balding man with a severe face. “I’m William Ryan.”

Ally shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Jill Ryan,” said Bill’s mother. Ally shook her hand as well. “I hear you gave William Junior quite a run for valedictorian.”

Ally shrugged. “It was pretty close.”

“Well, I never had any doubt William Junior would come out on top,” said Mrs. Ryan.

“Mom,” muttered Bill, his ears turning red. “You heard what Dr. Burton said. It was close that anything would have tipped it.”

“True, true,” said Mrs. Ryan. She kissed her son on the cheek. “But you didn’t tip it, did you?”

“Dear.” Mr. Ryan touched his wife’s arm. “The Coltons are here. We’d best go say hello.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Ryan, straightening up. “Stay right here, Junior, we’ll bring the Coltons over in a minute.” The Ryans hurried off, leaving Ally alone with Bill.

Ally raised an eyebrow. “William Junior?”

Bill sighed. “Don’t ask.”

“You have to stand here all night?” said Ally.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “My parents bring the guests over here, and I say hello, they say congratulations and good luck and, my, how tall I’ve gotten, and then they go to talk business with Dad.”

“That sounds like a real pain,” said Ally.

“It is.” Bill took a drink of his soda. “I was thinking about sneaking some beer, you know, just this once to celebrate. But Grandpa Ryan won’t stop guarding the cooler. He’s Baptist and thinks alcohol is the devil. I hope your party is better.”

“Me too,” said Ally.

“I’m sorry about my mom,” said Bill. “It was pretty rude, what she said.”

“That’s okay,” said Ally. “I don’t think she meant anything by it. It was close, after all. I mean, if you’d gotten sick an extra day, I probably would have gotten it.” She still did not understand why it meant so little to her.

It was as if more important things had already happened to her.

“Ally. Um…I…” Bill looked at his shoes.

“What is it?”

“It’s…I’m not sure I should tell you…”

Ally frowned. “Bill. What’s wrong?”

Bill sighed. “Mary was here.”

Ally stiffened. “She was? When?”

“Just twenty minutes before you got here,” said Bill. “She…she doesn’t look good, Ally. And Nathan Jameson was with her. Mary tried to talk to me, but Nathan stopped her. I think he was stoned or high or drunk or something. My dad told them to leave or he’d call the police.”

Ally scowled. “Did they leave?”

“No.” Bill pointed at a rusty black truck parked against the curb. “At least, Nathan’s truck is still here. I think they went off into the woods together.”

Ally turned. “I have to talk to her. Sorry, Bill.”

“Ally. Don’t,” said Bill.

Ally frowned. “Why not?”

“Nathan’s high on something, I’m sure of it,” said Bill. “And he was mad. He was mad when he showed up, and he was even madder when my dad made him leave. He hates you. He might try to hit you if he sees you.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Ally.

“He’s a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than you!” said Bill. “Ally! Come back…”

Ally headed towards the woods on the far side of the park, her shoes sliding against the dew-damp grass. She spotted a path leading into the trees, and followed it. Worry churned in her stomach. She had tried to get in touch with Mary dozens of times in the last four months. Mary had never returned her calls or her emails, and Nathan had screamed at her a few times over the phone. Then Nathan had been expelled for drug use, and Mary quit school to move in with him. They disappeared off the face of the earth...

Ally heard voices, one loud, angry, and male, the other soft, terrified, and female.

“You bitch. I do not believe this. You dragged me to that stupid prick’s party. And then…I don’t believe this! After everything I’ve done for you. I let you move in with me. I let you eat my food. I don’t believe this, I don’t believe this.”

“Nathan, please.” It was Mary. “I wanted you to marry me. Why won’t you marry me?”

“Bullshit,” said Nathan. “Don’t tell me you believe all that church bullshit?”

“It…it just wouldn’t feel right,” said Mary.

“It’d feel right to me,” said Nathan, his voice slurring. “Oh, come on, baby. I’m leaving for boot camp in two days. Just give me what I want.” His voice grew hard and angry. “I gave up everything for you. I’d have gotten that football scholarship, but I spent so much time on you. It’s your fault I had to join the Army. So you owe me. So just give me some more money.”

“No!” said Mary, her voice shrill. “You lost the scholarship because of all those drugs!”

There was silence for a moment.

“You bitch. You did not just say that. Apologize. Now.”

Mary began to cry. “I won’t! I thought you’d be rich and famous. But you’re a bum, you’re just a drunk bum. And look at me. Look at me! I have to work in a cocktail bar to pay our bills. I do that to pay the bills and you still call me names and hit me. I’m tired of it, Nathan! I’m tired of you. I’m leaving, and I never want to see you again.”

“You…” Nathan’s voice rose in an animal scream of rage. “You bitch!”

Ally heard the sound of flesh striking flesh.

She sprinted down the path, her mind churning with a mixture of rage and terror. The path ended in a deserted bike trail, the path and the surrounding trees illuminated by a few lamps.

She spotted Nathan and Mary beneath a tree. Mary lay writhing on the ground, her face mottled with bruises and blood.  Nathan stood over her, fists clenched, eyes glittering with manic rage. He looked high on something.

“Oh my God,” said Ally. “You bastard. You bastard!”

Mary turned her head. “Ally. Run. Don’t stay. Don’t…”

Ally reached for her pocket, intending to grab her iPhone and call 911.

Except she had left her phone in the car.

Oops.

Nathan turned, that crazy light in his eyes growing brighter. “Well, well. It’s the ice queen.” He staggered toward her. “You put that attitude into Mary’s head.”

“Ally,” whispered Mary. “Run. Please run. He’ll kill you.”

“Let her go,” said Ally. Nathan stalked towards her, and Ally felt a stab of fear.

He was so much larger than she was.

Nathan laughed. “Guess what, ice queen? There’s no teachers or cops around. We’re all alone. I’m going to teach you a lesson. I’m going to break that pretty little nose of yours and knock out a few of those white teeth.”

“Go away,” said Ally. Her voice shook. “Now.”

“What, are you going to make me?” said Nathan.

Ally blinked. One of her premonitions struck her, and she knew what would happen to Nathan.

“You’re nothing,” said Ally, her voice cold and calm. Her fear had vanished. “You were a third-rate quarterback from a fifth-rate high school football team who squandered his moment of glory. Now you’re nothing but a drunken brute.” Nathan flinched. “You wasted your past, you have no present, and you have no future, and you know it. You’re going to wind up standing on street corners begging for change so you can buy your next drug fix…”

Nathan bellowed in rage and charged her, his fists swinging. Mary screamed and huddled against a tree.

Ally stood her ground. Katrina had dragged her to self-defense classes for years, and she knew she should run. But Nathan was big and slow, so slow, and it was almost as if Ally could see into the future and know exactly what he would do next.

He swung at her face with a wild roundhouse punch. Even without the strange foretelling whispering inside her skull, she would have seen it coming a mile away. She pivoted just as Katrina had taught her and swung her foot. Her heel slammed into the back of Nathan’s knee, and he stumbled several steps with a cry of pain.

Nathan staggered to a stop and spun. “You bitch! You kicked me!”

Ally circled him. “Perceptive.”

Nathan roared and lunged at her again. Ally veered to the side. He was big and strong, but the booze and the drugs had slowed his movements, and he shot past her with a curse. It was as if a fire burned in her blood, telling her exactly what he would do next.

He turned to face her, snarling, hands raised to grab her neck.

Ally kicked him in the groin.

He staggered back, face going red, but the blow did not hurt him as much as Ally expected. The chemicals coursing through his bloodstain must have taken the edge off his pain.

“Bitch!” said Nathan. “I’m going to make you bleed!”

Hot fury blazed in Ally’s mind. The fire in her blood spread, made her brain and chest felt like they were burning. “Just like you made Mary bleed?”

He roared and came at her, murder in his eyes.

A hint of a long-forgotten memory came to Ally’s thoughts, and she hit him in the chest, driving her palm against his breastbone. It should have done nothing. He was eight inches taller and seventy pounds heavier. He should have simply plowed her over.

Instead Ally felt the fire inside her erupt from her hand.

There was a dazzling white flash.

When her eyes cleared Nathan lay in a sprawled heap at her feet, his limbs trembling and his eyes wide with terror.

“Don’t,” whispered Nathan. “No, please, don’t, no more, no more…”

Ally felt calm, so glacially calm.

She reached down and grabbed the front of his shirt. “Listen to me. If you ever hurt Mary again, I’ll hunt you down. You’ll wish you had gone to prison. You’ll wish you had never been born. Nothing they could do to you in prison, in the Army, or even in Hell can compare to what I’ll do to you if you ever hurt Mary again. Understand?”

Her voice sounded alien, as if someone else spoke through her lips.

Nathan cringed away from her, quivering like a landed fish. “No! Please…I promise, I promise, I won’t…I won’t ever hurt her again.” He began to shake. “Just…just please don’t do that, please don’t…” He curled up into a ball and began to weep

Ally blinked. Why had she ever been frightened of this weeping wreck?

And what had she done that had terrified him so much? What had that white flash been?

She released his shirt and let him fall in a heap to the ground. He crawled away from her, still weeping.

Ally walked to Mary and knelt beside her. Her left eye had swollen shut, and blood crusted her lips and chin. She seemed a pathetic echo of the friendly, outgoing girl Ally had known.

“What…what did you do?” said Mary, her voice faint.

Ally looked at Nathan. “I don’t…I don’t really know.”

“I’m cold,” said Mary.

“Here.” Ally slid out of her battered green coat and slung it around Mary’s shoulders. “That’ll keep you warm until we can get you home.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” said Mary.

“Then you can come stay with me,” said Ally. She would convince Katrina and Simon of that, however much it took. She looked at Nathan’s whimpering form. “After we call the police. I don’t want…I don’t want him hurting anyone else.”

“Ally,” whispered Mary. “I…”

She burst into tears.

Ally hugged her. “It’s okay. It’s okay now. We’ll get you through this.”

Ally heard footsteps, and saw Mr. Ryan burst into sight, followed by a half-dozen of his friends. Bill trailed behind them. “Dad! See, I told you. We should have come right away…”

“Bill,” said Ally. “Everything’s fine. Mostly.”

“What is going on here?” said Mr. Ryan. His bushy eyebrows narrowed. “Isn’t that the boy I threw out of William Junior’s party? And isn’t that his girlfriend?”

“Mr. Ryan,” said Ally.

Mr. Ryan’s head snapped around. “I trust there is a good explanation for all this commotion?”

“Bill told me Mary and Nathan went this way,” said Ally, her voice quiet and hard. Mr. Ryan glared at her. “I followed them here and saw Nathan attacking Mary.” Mr. Ryan’s frown deepened. “I stopped him.” She helped Mary up. “Mr. Ryan, I think you should call the police. And maybe an ambulance.”

Mr. Ryan ran a hand through his thin hair. “This is going to cause such a scandal.” He slipped an iPhone from his belt.

Ally looked at Bill. “Sorry I ruined your graduation party.”

Bill shrugged. “It’s…um…it’s okay. Really.” He looked at Nathan’s sprawled form. “My God. Who beat the crap out of Nathan like that?”

Ally wiped sweat from her forehead. “I guess I did.”

“You did?” said Bill.

Ally nodded. “I did.”

“Jeez.” Bill swallowed a few times. “Jeez. I mean…jeez!”

“I always said I could take care of myself,” said Ally.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “But…Nathan…he’s big…and you’re…you’re not.”

“I wasn’t going to let him hurt Mary,” said Ally.

“Yeah,” said Bill. He looked at Mary, who seemed almost comatose. “Is…she…um…is she okay?”

“No,” said Ally. “But she will be. Eventually.”

“Okay!” said Mr. Ryan. “The police are on their way. We’re supposed to keep the attacker under guard.” He gave Nathan’s prone form a cursory inspection. “I don’t think that will be a problem. And they want to question you, Miss Wester.”

“Ally nodded. “I understand.”

“William Junior, go to the pavilion and wait for the police,” said Mr. Ryan. “Bring them here when they arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill. He hesitated, and looked at Mary. “Um…could I get her anything while I’m there?”

“A soda,” said Mary, staring at the ground. “I’m thirsty.”

“Okay. A soda,” said Bill. “A soda. What kind…”

“Bill,” said Ally. “Just go.”

“Okay,” said Bill, sprinting away. Ally waited for the police and wondered how she could possibly explain all this to her parents.

She didn't know what had happened.

Chapter 12 - The Ildramyn

Year of the Councils 972

Three weeks after leaving the Hold, Arran practiced his sword work.

“Parry,” mumbled Arran, gripping his Sacred Blade’s hilt with both hands. He slid through the positions, his tired muscles relearning the moves. “Parry high, parry low. Block high, block middle, block low.” The Sacred Blade’s silvery length gleamed crimson in the sunset. “Thrust high, thrust low.” He began working the blade through the more advanced routines. “Silver Lance, Steel Lightning, Wrath From Above, Hammer of the Gods.” His muscles felt better, looser, than the first few times he had done this. “Blades’ Circle, the Crowning, Serpent’s Kiss…”

“You are getting better,” said Siduri. She sat against a nearby boulder, her spears across her lap. She oiled and sharpened the spearheads every day. “You are faster now. You are almost healed, I think.”

Arran smiled as he whipped his sword through the Lords’ Dance. “What would a woman know about battle?”

Siduri snorted. “I can hit a jackal from a hundred and fifty paces with my throw. It is fortunate that you were not my enemy when you came into the desert of the clans. You might a carry fine sword and powerful guns, but they would not help you if I buried a spear in your chest.”

Arran remembered staggering out into the desert to die, and his movements slowed.

Siduri jumped to her feet. “Well, come! Let us see how well you have recovered!”

She flung a spear at him.

Arran just had time to sputter a curse. He danced aside, his sword flashing, and deflected the spear with her blade. Siduri charged and flung her second spear. Arran ducked and managed to bat the weapon aside with a whirling slash.

He came out of his spun with Sacred Blade leveled at Siduri’s throat. “What is this? Did you go through all that trouble only to spear me?”

Siduri laughed. “Do not be foolish. I was aiming past you. Besides, you dodged and blocked, did you not?” She walked past his astonished stare and scooped up her spears. “I think I saw a jackal go past. We may have fresh meat for our meal tonight, no?” She vanished into the twilight without a sound.

Arran rammed his sword back into its scabbard with a mingled curse and laugh. The woman was insane. She disappeared and returned without a moment’s notice. But she was as good as her boast with her spears, perhaps even better. Yet she believed Alastarius, and had followed him out into the desert.

That was certainly proof of madness.

Arran shook his head and set to work making a campfire. Siduri might be insane, but he had come to rely on her. She knew the desert, and without her starvation and thirst would have claimed him weeks ago. Arran ran a hand through his hair, chopped short to resist the desert heat. She had done so much for him, sacrificed so much, that it would be churlish to kill himself now.

Siduri returned, a pair of dead rabbits dangling from her spear shaft. “I was fortunate. It seems the jackal was hunting a pair of hares.”

“Easier to spear?” said Arran.

Siduri arched an eyebrow. “You should thank me. Hare meat is better by far than jackal.”

They set to work skinning the rabbits.

“You are getting stronger,” said Siduri. “You are still young yet, and can recover quickly from such wounds.”

“You’re only ten years older than I,” said Arran.

“Yet those ten years make a difference,” said Siduri. She stuck her knife in her teeth long enough to adjust the crude spit. “Tomorrow, I think, we can set a faster pace. We should reach the Oracle of Time in four or five tendays.”

Arran looked over the darkening desert. “And then what?”

Siduri shrugged. “Who knows? You worry too much, I say. The future will sort itself out, whether we like it or not. Now be quiet and eat your hare.”

Arran had to laugh. “Yes, my lady.”

###

A month passed, and they traveled ever deeper into the Desert of Scorpions. Arran wondered if the desert would ever end. He wondered if any man of the High Kingdoms, even Alastarius, had dreamed of the desert’s size.

They passed canyons large enough to hold all of Carlisan and ancient volcanoes jutting from the earth like the ruined citadels of ancient gods. Once Arran saw the sandblasted bones of a dragon, its jaws large enough to swallow a house, its fangs like lances. He saw living dragons, too, brown rock dragons like titanic rattlesnakes, lying wrapped around the base of jagged cliffs.

A week later they traveled through a desolate plain dominated by monumental stone pyramids. Ruined temples ringed the pyramids like the foothills of a mountain. Towering statues of kings with crowns of cobras stood among the ruins, and strange statues of lions with the heads of men. Odd writing marked the walls of the temples.

“No one knows for certain, not even the wisest. Not even Alastarius knew,” said Siduri when he asked her about the ruins. “They are older than the clans, older than the desert itself. Legends tell that they are the tombs of wicked kings. They made their nations into slaves and spent the wealth of a thousand empires to raise the pyramids, for the kings thought they could live forever with such tombs. Yet the gods cursed them for such wicked pride, and turned the land to a desert. Now the kings lie forgotten and cursed, and all that remains are their pyramids.” She shook her head. “Very foolish. The dead are dead. Why build them pyramids when they are dead?”

To Arran the pyramids looked like mountains raised by the hand of man. “Are they older than the Oracle of Time, do you think?”

Siduri snorted. “Silly man. Nothing is older than the Oracle.”

They kept going.

The land grew less harsh, the air less oppressive. Soon Arran saw green things growing amongst the barren sand and rock. The occasional seagull flapped overhead, and the smell of salt filled the air.

The next day they laid eyes on the farther sea, two months after they had left the Hold of Clan Hadazer.

###

Siduri smiled. “Look well, man of Carlisan. You may be the first man of your nation to see such a sight.”

Arran followed her advice and looked. The desert plain ended in a sharp cliff that plunged two hundred feet to the sea. White-crested green waves crashed against the crumbling boulders, the constant roar filling his ears. He wondered how many centuries, how many millennia that sea had been eating into the cliff. “Carlisan is gone. I may well be the first and only man of my nation to see this.” He shook his head. “We could use some fresh food. Are any of these fisher villages nearby?”

“No,” said Siduri. “None dwell for twenty miles in any direction, even on the islands, for fear of the Oracle.”

A mixture of dread and anticipation churned in Arran’s gut. “The Oracle. It is near?”

Siduri nodded. “Very near. It is only a few miles east. Come, I shall take you.”

They walked along the coast. Seagulls called and circled overhead, and the sea crashed and foamed. Arran didn’t mind the sound. It was better than the low, moaning wind of the desert. After they walked for a while, he saw a dark mass on the horizon.

“What is that?” he said.

As they drew closer he saw a huge, ruined castle of dark stone. It squatted, black and malignant, at the edge of the cliff. Some of its towers and walls had crumbled into the sea, and the remaining structures looked worn and crumbling. The castle looked unspeakably ancient to Arran, older than the desert and its pyramids. He wondered how long it had sat here, brooding at the edge of the world.

“It is the house of the Oracle,” said Siduri. “Here it has dwelt, since before the memory of the clans. It is in there that you must go.”

“Will you come with me?” said Arran, staring at the ruin.

“No,” said Siduri. “All the old lore agrees that he who seeks wisdom from the Oracle of Time must enter its house alone.”

Arran hesitated. Part of him wanted to run from the black ruin and never look back. But what else could he do? He had come thousands of miles to the very edge of the world. He had nowhere else to go. Something deep inside him whispered that this was his last chance.

“I’ll go,” said Arran.

“Be careful,” said Siduri. “The tales say that the Oracle offers some sort of challenge to those who confront it. Those who fail it are lost forever.”

“I am already lost,” said Arran.

“I know,” said Siduri, “but not as lost as you might think.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a good and true man, even if you yourself do not think so. I will wait for you here. Go, now, with my blessing.”

Arran managed to nod. He turned and walked towards the looming black ruin.

“Arran.”

He looked over his shoulder, saw Siduri smiling at him.

“Remember,” she said, “that you are a Knight of the Sacred Blade. No matter what weapon you wield. Remember that always.”

He nodded once more, and continued toward the castle.

He saw a doorway in the base of a tower, yawning like a toothless black mouth. He made for it, the dirt scraping beneath his boots. The castle was huge. How would he find the Oracle of Time? He reached the doorway and peered inside. A broad flight of worn stairs descended into the earth. Arran looked over his shoulder and saw Siduri watching him.

He took a deep breath, turned, and began walking down the stairs.

The air felt cold after the heat of the desert. His boot heels clicked against the cold black marble. In the distance he saw a faint green glow.

Then he heard whispers in the dark, muttering voices groaning in madness and pain. He drew his Sacred Blade and whirled, and the voices faded to nothing. Arran’s eyes darted over the passage, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt unseen eyes crawling up and down his body, dissecting him with their gaze.

“Gods above,” said Arran. “I’m going mad.” He kept his sword in hand and descended.

The stairs opened into a cavernous hall of gleaming black stone. A dark pool, its waters still and deep, ran the length of the hall. A stone throne stood over the pool, and a figured sat slumped in it. The green glow came from the figure on the throne.

Arran stepped towards the throne and frowned in revulsion. A shriveled corpse sat in the throne, eye sockets empty and staring, mouth open in a silent scream, leathery skin pulled tight over jutting bones. Rusted iron chains bound the corpse to the throne.

Arran lowered his sword in disgust. “A corpse? I’ve come all this way to see a corpse? Has the mighty Oracle of Time died?”

He turned to go.

“I was dead millennia ere you were born, Arran Belphon of Carlisan.”

The voice had been low and female, seductive and husky. Arran turned back, blue light glimmering along his Sacred Blade. He saw sparks of green light flaring in the chained corpse’s eyes. The moldering head shifted and turned to watch him.

“What manner of demon are you?” said Arran.

The corpse laughed. “The first,” it said, its voice purring. “I have waited so long for you. So very long.”

The air seemed to waver, and then…

The thing upon the throne became a vision of beauty.

It looked like his long-forgotten betrothed in Carlisan, the way she had looked when she had lain naked beneath him, her arms around his back and her lips against his mouth.

A wave of longing and desire washed through him.

The shape on the throne held out its hand. “I can give you peace, Arran Belphon.”

”How?” said Arran, wary.

“Drink from the pool,” whispered the beautiful shape. “Its water is that of peace, of rest, of forgetfulness. Drink now and rest, tormented one.”

Arran stared at the dark water. He felt so very tried, and he did indeed yearn for rest. He knelt, the dark water flickering before his eyes.

He blinked.

He heard screaming.

In the depths of the pool he saw the ghostly images of men and women bound with chains driven through their flesh. The forms writhed and screamed, faces contorted in endless agony.

Arran cursed and reeled back, his Sacred Blade coming to guard position. The beautiful illusion had vanished, and he now saw the thing on the throne for what it was, a long-decayed corpse. “No.”

The corpse hissed. “Fool!” Its voice remained a melody of beauty. “Drink from my pool now. Save yourself the suffering that lies ahead.”

“Who are you?” said Arran. “Are you the Oracle of Time?”

The corpse laughed. “What is a name? The mortals that dwell in the desert name me such. I have also been called the Seer, the Watcher, the Ancient One, the Master of Ages, the Cursed Lord.” It hissed again. “But I have been and I am the Ildramyn.” A thousand whispers seem to ring through the chamber, echoing that name over and over.

“The Ildramyn,” said Arran. “And just what is that?”

The corpse’s empty gaze rested on him. “I was the first. I was the greatest of all mortal spell casters, a master of the white magic and the black magic, a lord of Wizards and a master over Warlocks. My power challenged the very gods themselves. But my enemies were jealous. They banded against me, combined their powers, and bound me here in this ruin thousands of years ago, ere the High Kingdoms rose, ere the pyramids were made, ere the desert came. Now I am condemned to sit on my throne for all the ages, damned to watch the epochs pass. I am the Ildramyn.” The sparks flared in its eyes. “You would have joined me in my torment, if you had but drunk from my pool.”

Arran raised his flashing Sacred Blade. How many souls had the Ildramyn trapped over the centuries? “I ought to destroy you.”

The Ildramyn laughed. “With that toy? The combined White and Black Councils could not defeat me! No, no. You have resisted my temptation, young one. Therefore, I am bound by the spells that constrain me. You may ask a question of me, and I will answer. Ask.”

Arran hesitated.

The Ildramyn growled. “Ask. Or stand there until you die.”

“I…” said Arran. “Marugon.”

“Yes,” said the Ildramyn. “The Marr’Ugaoun. The soul of the voidspawn made flesh. The Destroyer of Worlds. I know of him. The last of the Warlocks and the greatest. He has crossed the void between the stars, and brought back engines of destruction from a poisoned world. You carry some on your belt and over your shoulder.” Arran touched the butt of his sniper rifle. “Yes, I can see their aura. They are not of our world.” The corpse titled its head to one side. “But I digress. Your question.”

“I have spent the last ten years fighting against Marugon,” said Arran.

“I know,” said the Ildramyn. “My gaze pierces your heart and mind. You have a strong soul, Arran Belphon. You have suffered, you have wavered, but you have not yet fallen.” The light in its eyes flashed. “I can see the despair that chokes your soul.”

“All is lost,” said Arran. “The High Kingdoms are destroyed. The Wizards are slaughtered. And I am the last of the Knights of the Sacred Blade, and I am not even a proper Knight any longer. Marugon’s darkness covers everything. I have no hope.”

The Ildramyn laughed. “Such a tragic tale. Do you think I have not heard its like before? Marugon is the darkness? Yet not as dark as he will become. And he is as nothing compared to the darkness he will unleash.” The corpse leaned forward, the rusted chains grated. “I tire of your whining. What is your question?”

Arran’s hand tightened around his Sacred Blade. “Is there a way to defeat Marugon?”

The Ildramyn’s laughter rustled through Arran’s ears like dead leaves. “Is that all? Young fool. You do not see what is truly happening. All you see is Marugon. And he is nothing, by himself, yet also everything.”

Arran spat. “You speak in riddles, like all oracles.”

“A fool sees riddles where the wise see truth,” murmured the Ildramyn. “Great darkness clouds the future. I see the fire of the stars themselves shattering the chains of the void, and shadows diving from the night sky. I see a world of great wonders and greater evils, and a Wizard and a lover reborn once more. And I even see myself, freed and dancing among dying stars with the voidspawn. All this I see, and more.”

“How poetic,” said Arran. The corpse’s words filled him with doubt and a strange fear. “Yet what good does this do me?”

“You are at a crossroads,” said the Ildramyn. “Yes. I shall show you three visions. Shadows of the past, of the present, and of the future.” The corpse waved its withered hand. “Look, Arran Belphon of Carlisan! Look into my pool and see your fate!”

The long pool boiled and churned, steam rising from its depths. Then it stilled. Arran’s gaze sank into the void, deeper, deeper…

###

“A vision of the past,” murmured the Ildramyn.

Arran stood in a huge corridor of vaulted stone. A pale green light gleamed off the walls. Arran turned, confused…

His eyes widened in shock. “Sir Liam!”

He saw the old Knight standing before a gaping breach in the wall. Behind him stood a skinny girl, King Lithon cradled in her thin arms. Arran frowned. Queen Annemarie Scepteris stood before Liam, her face bone-pale. But hadn’t Queen Annemarie died in Carlisan?

“We were there before you,” said Annemarie. Her cold, whispery voice sent a chill down Arran’s spine. “The worlds were ours long before you mortals lived.” She hissed. “The Divine cast us out, threw us into the black places between the worlds, and built this wretched Tower to keep us out. The Divine left us to scream and gnaw on the nothingness between the worlds. And for what? For the sake of you crawling, mewling, dying little mortals?” Sir Liam yelled something, his twin Sacred Blade flashing with blue flame.

Annemarie hissed, and as Arran watched, she transformed into a hideous thing of shadow.

“Sir Liam!” yelled Arran, lifting his Sacred Blade and running to his mentor’s side…

###

The world swirled, and Arran found himself once more in the Ildramyn’s gloomy hall.

“Damn you!” said Arran. “Take me back! I must aid him…”

“Fool,” said the Ildramyn. “It was a vision of the past and naught else. It has already happened. Even if I were free, I would not have the power to change the past.”

“What was that place?” said Arran.

“The Tower of Endless Worlds, I deem,” said the Ildramyn. “My gaze is not so clear in the places between the worlds.”

“A vision of the past, you said?” said Arran. “How long past?”

The Ildramyn considered this. “A mere moment. Nine or ten years.”

“He made it,” Arran breathed. “He made it to the Tower. But Queen Annemarie is dead. How…”

“Look into the pool,” said the Ildramyn.

Arran turned and stared into the water…

###

He stood in a peculiar room. A thick carpet covered the floor, and strange lights hung from the ceiling, casting a pleasant glow over the walls and floor. A magnificent wooden desk stood in the center of the room, covered with papers and a large panel of glowing glass.

A short, stout man in outlandish clothing sat at the desk. Slicked-back dark hair crowned his head, and thick glasses hid his eyes. The stout man stared into the panel of glowing glass, controlling it by pressing buttons on a small black board.

“A vision of the near future,” whispered the Ildramyn.

The stout man looked up. “Ah, Kurkov.”

A gaunt man in dark leather strolled to the desk. “Senator Wycliffe.”

“Do you have it?” said Wycliffe.

Kurkov nodded. “The nuclear device? Yes. It was difficult to acquire, but I have it.” He grinned. “It will cost you. Dearly.”

Wycliffe sighed and waved a hand. “Marugon wants it.” Arran stiffened at the Warlock’s name. “And what he wants, he gets. Still, I wonder what good it is too him. He’s already destroyed his opposition. A novelty, perhaps…”

###

Arran himself standing once more before the Ildramyn’s throne.

Arran gazed up at the corpse. “Why show me this? Who are these men? What is a nuclear device?”

“Those men are Marugon’s associates on Earth, the world Sir Liam sought to reach,” said the Ildramyn. “As for the nuclear device, see for yourself.”

The pool rippled and shimmered, pulling Arran down into its depths.

###

Arran stood in a colossal chamber of black stone. The domed ceiling vanished into darkness over his head, and great pillars, each one the size of the long-destroyed Scepteris Palace, supported the ceiling. A huge silver seal, easily a quarter-mile across, rested in the center of the chamber, carved with strange runes.

“The Chamber of the Great Seal in the Tower of Endless Worlds,” whispered the Ildramyn. “A vision of the near future. Ah. Soon you will see your nemesis.”

Arran frowned. “My nemesis…” He clenched his fist. “Marugon.”

A tall, dark-haired man, clad in a black suit similar to Senator Wycliffe’s, strode into the Chamber of the Great Seal. Lines of silver hair glimmered at his temples, and his eyes were pits into an endless nothingness. Power and dread rolled off him like smoke.

“Marugon,” whispered Arran. He yearned to draw his Sacred Blade and ram it between the Warlock’s eyes.

A strange black box the size of a child’s coffin floated behind the Warlock. Marugon walked to the center of the vast silver seal and lowered his hand. The box dropped to the floor, and Marugon knelt and flipped open the lid. Wires, flashing lights, and gleaming machine parts filled the box. An odd symbol, a yellow circle with three black cylinders, marked one of the machine parts. Marugon flipped switches and pressed buttons. The machine in the box began to whine.

A strange mixture of triumph and despair crossed Marugon’s face, and he began to laugh.

Then the box exploded in fire, devouring Marugon and ripping the silver seal to shreds. Before the light blinded him, Arran saw huge breaches opening in the walls, legions of hideous shadow-things swarming through…

###

Sweat drenched Arran’s brow. He turned from the pool and saw the Ildramyn staring at him, green sparks glimmering deep in its empty eyes.

“What does it mean?” said Arran.

“It is your fate, the events that have captured the threads of your life,” said the Ildramyn. “You are cursed, Arran Belphon. The choices you make shall change the lives of many. Hardship and pain fill every path before you…yet light and healing await you, should you have the power to dare the darkness and claim it.”

“I don’t understand!” said Arran.

“I care not,” said the Ildramyn. “I am bound to answer your question, not to make you understand the answer. Go now. Already you bore me.” The corpse tilted its head. “Ah. Your first challenge waits above. Go.”

Arran glared at the Ildramyn a moment and then left. His mind whirled with the visions as he climbed back to the surface. Sir Liam had reached the Tower. Had he made it to Earth? Did Lithon yet live? And who was the skinny girl with the grim eyes?

Daylight flashed as Arran returned to the surface. Arran wished he had gone to the Tower with Sir Liam. He had loved the old man, his mentor and his teacher, even after their split. The gentle crash and roar of the sea tickled his ears, and a deep longing filled him. He wanted to go to the Tower, to Earth, to find Sir Liam and…

“Fallen Knight!”

Arran froze. He knew that deep, mocking voice.

It didn’t belong to Siduri.

He turned, his hands going to his weapons.

Khan-Mar-Dan stood not twenty paces away. The winged demon loomed like an armored shadow against the sea, his scimitar and his weapons ready at his belt. In his right hand he held a gun leveled at Arran.

In his left he held Siduri, his iron claws curled around her throat.

She looked calm, so calm.

“Fallen Knight,” said Khan-Mar-Dan. “I must congratulate you.”

“You demon bastard,” hissed Arran.

The winged demon laughed. “Do you wish to watch as I slay your companion, fallen Knight? Perhaps I’ll cut off your hands and feet, and make you watch as I plant my child in her belly.”

“I’ll kill you, as I killed your brother!” said Arran, his voice a snarl.

Khan-Mar-Dan’s laughter redoubled. “And I must thank you for that, fallen Knight. My brother was a fool. I am well rid of him. You have led me on a merry chase. It took me months to find you. You have no place left to run. My glory shall be vast when I return with your head on my sword. Lord Marugon will reward me greatly.”

“Fine,” said Arran. “You want me, take me. Just let Siduri go…”

Khan-Mar-Dan shook Siduri like a wet rag. Blood trickled down her neck. “This woman? She is yours? She was a fool to follow you.”

“Let her go,” said Arran.

The winged demon growled. “You favor her, do you not? I intend to plant a child in her.” Khan-Mar-Dan’s deep eyes flashed with fire. “But, then, my brother and I have never given my father anything but trouble. Why should a son be any different? I should take heed.”

His claws tightened. Arran bellowed and charged the demon.

Siduri smiled. “Arran! Find Alastarius on Earth…”

Why was she so calm?

And too late Arran remembered that Alastarius had told Siduri the hour of her death.

Khan-Mar-Dan closed his clawed fist. Blood sprayed everywhere, and Siduri’s head and body both fell to the dirt in a splash of gore.

Arran roared and drew both his pistols.

Khan-Mar-Dan spun and started firing.

Arran threw himself to the side, bullets tearing at the ground. Two ripped through his cloak, and another grazed his collarbone in a line of hot fire. Khan-Mar-Dan bellowed and took to the air, his great wings beating. He drew a second pistol and opened fire. Arran couldn’t keep dodging two guns at once…

Then Khan-Mar-Dan ran out of bullets.

The winged demon cursed and flew higher, pulling ammo cartridges from his belt.

Arran yanked a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. He slipped it into his hand beneath the gun butt and stared shooting. All his shots struck Khan-Mar-Dan, and none appeared to trouble the winged demon. Khan-Mar-Dan howled a battle cry and dove, Arran’s gun clicking empty. He feigned terror and flung the gun and the grenade. Khan-Mar-Dan laughed as the empty gun bounced off his breastplate.

He stopped laughing when the grenade struck his chin.

Arran dove and threw his cloak over his head.

The blast rattled his bones and sent a gust of wind and a spray of pebbles over him. Khan-Mar-Dan shrieked in fury and struck the ground. Arran jumped to his feet and lifted his Sacred Blade. Khan-Mar-Dan scrambled to his feet nearby. The grenade had destroyed his guns and ammunition, damaged his armor, and broken one wing, but the winged demon looked otherwise unharmed.

Mortal weapons, even grenades, did little to such creatures.

Blue light flashed within the steel of Arran’s Sacred Blade.

Khan-Mar-Dan sneered. “So, we are to settle this in the old fashion, then? Good. It has been too long since my blade tasted blood.”

He charged, black scimitar spinning.

Arran roared, sword in both hands, and raced to meet the winged demon’s charge. They met with a tremendous clang, swords flashing and stabbing. Arran slashed the winged demon’s shoulder and ribs, and Khan-Mar-Dan’s scimitar struck Arran in the hip and in the forearm. Arran’s fury drove him on, the memory of Siduri’s death filling him with mad rage. He thrust, swung, and stabbed, and Khan-Mar-Dan retreated, blade working furiously to parry Arran’s mad attacks.

“Damn you!” roared Khan-Mar-Dan. He parried and shoved, and Arran stumbled. He regained his balance, his arms trembling with exhaustion. He couldn’t keep up this furious pace…

Khan-Mar-Dan went on the offense, driving Arran towards Siduri’s beheaded corpse. A leaden weight filled Arran’s muscles. He couldn’t stop the winged demon. Khan-Mar-Dan was too fast, too strong.

Arran almost stumbled over Siduri’s legs and hopped back.

He glanced down, and his eyes widened.

Siduri’s blood glowed, and sparks of white fire glowed in the crimson pool. She had known the white magic. Khan-Mar-Dan did not notice, his fanged maw pulled back in a hideous grin.

And if the power of the white magic still waited in her blood…

Arran went to one knee, parried, and slid his blade through the pool of blood.

Khan-Mar-Dan laughed and raised his scimitar for the killing blow.

And Arran’s sword erupted with power.

Siduri’s blood seemed to sink into the sword, the steel absorbing the blood like a sponge soaking up water, turning the blade a deep crimson. The blue glow brightened, and a throb of power shot up Arran’s arm The sword’s glow went from a gentle blue to brilliant azure.

And then the blade erupted in roaring white flames.

Khan-Mar-Dan flinched away, squinting at the sword’s light. “What trickery is this?”

His scimitar plunged down, and Arran parried. White fire flashed, and Khan-Mar-Dan reeled back.

A hint of terror appeared on the demon's face.

Arran surged to his feet and attacked, his sword a storm of white flame. Khan-Mar-Dan reeled back from the furious glare of Siduri’s magic. Arran thrust, whirled, and slipped under Khan-Mar-Dan’s guard. His Sacred Blade tore a burning gash across the winged demon’s belly. Khan-Mar-Dan howled, and Arran slashed.

The winged demon’s sword arm disintegrated in a spray of flames.

Khan-Mar-Dan stumbled to his knees, and Arran raised his sword and stabbed down with both hands. The blade sheared through Khan-Mar-Dan’s throat, plunged into his chest, and burst through his back. The winged demon howled as white fire erupted through him.

Khan-Mar-Dan shuddered and vanished into smoking ash and gleaming obsidian bones. The fire on Arran’s sword glimmered, faded, and went out. Yet the blade remained crimson, as if it had been forever marked by Siduri’s blood.

Arran staggered to Siduri’s corpse. He felt the tears rise up in his eyes.

He knelt and crossed her hands over her chest. He found her head and closed her eyes. “Siduri. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have shown me the way. I’m so sorry.”

Arran was alone again.

###

The next morning Arran watched the sun rise over the sea.

He sat next to the cairn he had raised for Siduri and brooded. The shafts of her spears, and Khan-Mar-Dan’s scimitar, rose from the grave. Gulls crowed and wheeled overhead.

Her last words played in his head over and over again.

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” he repeated. He clenched a fist. “Find Alastarius on Earth.”

He thought of the Ildramyn’s visions, of Sir Liam and the thing in the Tower, of Marugon and the strange box. But most of all he brooded over Siduri’s last words. “Find Alastarius on Earth. Find Alastarius on Earth.”

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.

Wycliffe reached for his smartphone and cursed as he remembered its fate. “Fletcher. Call the O’Hare information desk and ask if the flight’s landed yet. It’s private flight number 567, as I recall.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. He produced his own phone, asked a few questions, grunted acknowledgement, and slid the phone back into his jacket. “The plane landed ten minutes ago. Our guests are on their way.”

“Good.” Wycliffe watched the terminal’s doors. He had wasted a lot of time on this, time that could have been better spent campaigning. But Marugon had been insistent about this for years. Why did this have to happen during the campaign? Public opinion was so fluid, and if any whiff of scandal attached itself to the Gracchan Party…

Four men walked out the terminal doors and made for the limo. Three wore black, and the fourth wore a hideous mauve suit with a plaid tie and a battered fedora.

Wycliffe grinned and opened the door. “Gentlemen. It has been entirely too long.”

“Oh? I am not in agreement,” said Vasily Kurkov. He settled on the seat between Wycliffe and Goth. “The weather is always miserable when I come to this country. Always. It snowed nine inches the last time.” Kurkov had aged in the five years since his last visit to America. He had lost weight, and his eyes had sunk deeper into his skull. The man looked mired in the later stages of drug addiction.

“Bah.” Dr. Krastiny sat opposite of Wycliffe. The mauve suit had kept the worst of the rain from him. His grim-faced protégés Bronsky and Schzeran settled on either side of him. “It is still better than life in the Army. And a little spring rain never hurt anyone.” He took off his hat and settled it on his knee. Krastiny, unlike his employer, had not aged a bit. He glanced at Goth, flinched, and looked away.

Bronsky and Schzeran remained as silent as ever.

“Fletcher,” said Wycliffe. “Make for the compound.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. He put the limo into drive, joining the constant mass of traffic around O’Hare.

“So,” said Wycliffe. “I trust you had a pleasant flight?”

Kurkov snorted. “What, are you a flight attendant now? Are you going to offer me peanuts and watery Pepsi?”

Krastiny chuckled. “Don’t mind him, Senator. It’s been two days since he had a cigarette.”

Kurkov snapped his fingers and slid a pack from his pocket. “The airlines have gone to hell. No smoking. No alcohol. No women, at least willing ones. Nothing to do but stare at out the window at the ocean.” He lit up, inhaled, and let out a long sigh of relief.

Wycliffe coughed. “I do hope those aren’t Stanford Matthews cigarettes.”

Kurkov frowned. “Stanford who? No, these are Camels. Russian cigarettes are no good.”

“Our baggage has already bent sent on to your compound, Senator,” said Krastiny. “It should be waiting for us when we arrive.”

“Good,” said Wycliffe. “And your weapons?”

Krastiny grinned. “Why, right here, of course.” He patted a bulge under his left armpit. “We are Mr. Kurkov’s bodyguards, and we can’t be expected to do our jobs without our weapons, can we?” His eyes gleamed with that chilling razor light Wycliffe remembered. “The benefits of flying a private jet. And a few hundred dollars in judicious bribes, of course.”

“I trust you did not bring anything that would cause me undue embarrassment?” said Wycliffe. “This is a very delicate time.”

Kurkov laughed. “What, the election?” He coughed, his throat rasping. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Of course,” said Wycliffe, reaching for the refrigerator. “Water, soda, and wine coolers.”

Kurkov scowled. “Wine coolers? What, are you a teenage girl? You have nothing stronger? Damn it all, I’ll take a wine cooler.”

“I as well, if it’s no trouble,” said Krastiny.

“Of course,” said Wycliffe, opening the fridge and passing out the bottles.

Kurkov drained off half his bottle in one drink. “So. I hear you are running for the office of vice president.”

“That’s correct,” said Wycliffe.

Kurkov laughed. “Vice president? Not president? What good is a vice president? There is a joke. A woman had two sons. One became a monk. Another became vice president. Both…”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Were never heard from again. Yes, yes, Vasily, I’ve heard that joke before. Numerous times.”

Kurkov lit another cigarette. “I thought you had more ambition. I’ve seen pictures of this William Jones. He looks like a shriveled-up old corpse.” Kurkov himself did not look much better, but Wycliffe remained silent. “Why run as his vice president? Why not run as president yourself?” He finished the wine cooler and dropped the bottle to the floor. “Then I would not need to do all this scrounging and searching for your weapon.”

“Oh,” said Krastiny, smiling. “I think our Senator Wycliffe has much more ambition than he lets on. Much more. William Jones is an old man. Perhaps he will not live for very long once he becomes president, hmm?”

Goth’s lips almost twitched into a fanged grin.

“Perhaps,” said Wycliffe, his tone neutral. “I hope and pray for Senator Jones’s continued health. But you did not come all this way to discuss politics, I would assume.” He turned to Kurkov. “The weapon. Have you found one?”

Kurkov took a long draw on his cigarette. “Yes. It was not easy. The Russian army is the Russian army, of course, and soldiers are never paid enough to live. Krastiny, if you ask him, will prattle on for hours about the subject.” He scowled. “But the soldiers who are in charge of the nuclear weapons, they are paid a bit more. And they know what they guard is dangerous. So they are not so willing to sell as the regular soldiers.”

“But the bomb,” said Wycliffe. “How did you find it?”

“There was a secret base in Armenia,” said Kurkov. “No one knew about it. Khrushchev built in the early 1960s when the Americans put missiles in Turkey. A small base, with only four missiles, but enough to destroy Istanbul and a few American bases.” He snickered. “Of course, when the Americans took the missiles out of Turkey, the missiles in Armenia stayed. The base sat there until…”

“Until the earthquake in December of 1988,” said Wycliffe.

Kurkov nodded. “Yes. The quake destroyed the base, buried it under rubble.”

“And here is the stroke of good fortune,” said Krastiny. “As it happens, the quake also killed the military personnel who knew about the base.”

Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”

Kurkov nodded. “Everyone who knew about it was killed, except for a common infantryman who had been on guard duty. He had the good luck to go on leave the day before the quake. When the Soviet government collapsed, the military command forgot about him. But he did not forget about the base. And when I began searching for a weapon, he remembered. For a substantial fee, of course.”

Wycliffe’s lip twitched. “Of course.” He leaned forward. “So did you find a weapon there?”

“Yes,” said Kurkov. “Well. Not entirely. The quake destroyed the weapons, the missiles, and their housings.”

Krastiny rolled his eyes. “So much for fail-safes, eh? It was probably a favor to the locals that our men dug out the radioactive material and bomb components. I shudder to think of the neighboring village’s cancer rate in thirty years.”

Kurkov rolled his eyes. “No one cares. Besides, we paid the mayor and the village council much money to look the other way during excavation. They better not care, if they know what’s good for them.”

“So were you able to find enough parts and plutonium to build a working weapon?” said Wycliffe. His mind crawled with the potential dangers this held to his campaign. If any whiff of this reached the press, even the Voice might not suffice to contain the damage. He wished Marugon could wait until after the election. The United States had tens of thousands of nuclear weapons, and once Wycliffe was vice president, Marugon could have one. But, no, Marugon wanted his damned bomb now. So Kurkov had to scrounge around on the black market.

“Enough? Yes,” said Kurkov. “Finding someone to put it all together, that was hard. It took us two years to find a competent nuclear scientist.” He dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out, and lit another one. Wycliffe was going to have to replace the carpet. “Finally found one a year past. Some Pakistani fool…ah, what was he, Krastiny?”

Krastiny grunted and adjusted his ugly tie. “Him? I believe he started his career as a secular atheist. Sometime in his mid-thirties he converted to one stripe or another of radical Islam. And he was disgruntled at the CIA and the World Health Organization for some reason. Why, I’m not sure. I could never quite work my way through his unending rants.”

Kurkov made an irritated noise. “Obnoxious bastard. He never shut up.”

“So you have a functional bomb?” said Wycliffe.

“Yes,” said Kurkov. “It is not quite in my hands yet. That is why I have come to America. The bomb is still in Russia. It would have been hard to get it through customs at Petrograd, impossible in any of the European countries. The Mediterranean would have been no better. The Turks and the Israelis are bastards about customs. So I am shipping it via the Trans-Siberian Railroad to Vladivostok. I have hired a freighter captain who knows to keep his mouth shut. He will take the bomb straight to Los Angeles. My agents in the port there will bypass customs, and from there it is a small matter to have the bomb loaded onto a truck and taken to Chicago.”

Wycliffe laughed. “So that’s why you’re in America, isn’t it? In case the authorities in Russia catch the bomb. You’ll already be safe here.”

Kurkov helped himself to another wine cooler. “I have not lived this long by doing stupid things.” Wycliffe almost commented on the cigarettes, booze, and drugs, but thought better of it.

“But the bomb does work?” said Wycliffe.

Kurkov drained off a large portion of the wine cooler. “It’s not as if I’ve tested it.” Krastiny snickered. “But it works. That Pakistani, he is nuts, but he is good.” Kurkov held his hands out about four feet apart. “The bomb was about as big as a large steamer trunk when he was done. Very small, but heavy. And he used parts from all four wrecked missiles.” He grinned. “So instead of four little bombs, you will have one great big bomb.”

Wycliffe suppressed a shudder. “Marugon should be pleased.”

Krastiny frowned. “What does our mysterious friend need with an atomic weapon? His opponents are armed with swords and spears. Fifty men with AK-47s could conquer his world.”

“He said something like that,” said Wycliffe. “I don’t know what he intends to do with the bomb. Something big and dramatic, I suppose. It’s hardly my problem.” He looked at Kurkov. “And just how much is this wonderful little bomb going to cost me?”

Kurkov grinned. “Thirty million dollars.”

Wycliffe sputtered. “What the hell? You can’t be serious.”

“Thirty million dollars,” said Kurkov. “This was a very expensive operation. More expenses are coming, once all the bribes have been paid out. A nuclear device will cost you thirty million dollars.”

“Thirty million?” said Wycliffe. “I thought you said ten.”

Kurkov shrugged. “Expenses.”

Wycliffe swore. “Fine. Thirty million goddamn dollars. Do you have any idea what a serious hole this is going to put in my pocket?”

“No.” Kurkov smiled. “But it will patch many holes in my pocket.”

“Fine. Damn it. Fine.” Wycliffe rubbed his forehead. “Marugon had better send a lot of gold with his next caravan. No. He’s coming himself in a few days. I can tell him then. He’ll be impatient.” Wycliffe shook his head. “When can we expect delivery?”

“October,” said Kurkov. “Or possibly September, if everything goes well.”

“October?” said Wycliffe. He swore again. “So not only am I paying thirty million dollars for an atomic bomb, you’re going to be driving it through the middle of the country at the very height of campaigning season?”

Kurkov shrugged. “Doctor. What is it that Americans say?”

“About what?” said Krastiny.

“Life,” said Kurkov.

Krastiny thought for a moment. “Ah…life is a bitch?”

Kurkov nodded. “Yes. That’s quite right.” He turned to Wycliffe. “Senator, life is a bitch.”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “I hadn’t noticed.” He sighed. “All right. Fine. Thirty million dollars.” He waved a finger. “But this bomb better work.”

Kurkov grinned and spread his hands. “Boom! Don’t worry. Very big boom.”

Chapter 14 - A Doorway

Anno Domini 2012

An old man’s voice, deep and sonorous, whispered in Ally’s ear. “You cannot run.”

She sprinted down a corridor of dark stone, Lithon wailing in her arms. Things of nightmare and shadow pursued her, claws of icy nothingness reaching for her neck. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The old man with two burning swords stood in the midst of the shadow-things, his blades flashing and whirling.

The rune-carved door loomed before her. Hope flared in Ally’s heart. She would be safe…

###

“You cannot run forever,” said the soft voice. “Sooner or later, you will remember. And they will find you.”

Ally sat in the back seat of a van, the engine roaring. Lithon leaned against her, shaking with fear. Simon sat in the middle seat, thinner than she remembered, his face taut with strain. Katrina drove, her hands clenched around the wheel. A lean man in a suit leaned out the window, a staff of burning light in his hands.

Metal shrieked, and bullets tore through the ceiling and shredded the seat. Lithon screamed.

Ally heard a thump. Something huge and terrible landed on the hood of the van. The windshield exploded in a spray of glass, and a winged fiend seized Katrina and dragged her kicking and screaming through the windshield…

###

“They will find you,” murmured the old man’s voice. “You must be ready. You must face them.”

Ally lay dying on the cold ground.

Red flames lit the courtyard, billowing smoke rising from the ruins around her. She groaned, tried to stand, and fell back to the ground. She felt the hot blood seeping into her clothing, pulsing from the gaping wound in her chest. Her heart shuddered like a dying child beneath her ribs.

Something dark and monstrous plummeted from the sky. The creature stood over her and roared. Its black wings blotted out the night sky.

“No,” sobbed Ally, “no, damn you, help me, no, no…”

The beast’s clawed hand plunged into her chest, iron talons tearing flesh and sliding between her ribs. Ally screamed, her back arching, her heels drumming against the cold stone. Fingers curled around her heart and pulled…

###

Ally sat up with a shriek, her legs tangling in the sheet. She looked around the dark bedroom. Her eyes saw nothing, and she felt her chest, half-expecting to feel a gaping wound there. Pain lingered beneath her ribs for a moment, and then faded away. She lay back down and stared at the ceiling.

“God,” she muttered. “I’m too young to have a heart attack.” She pulled the sheet tighter against herself. “It was just a dream. Just a dream.”

“Ally?”

Ally shot upright, her heart kicking back to high gear. She saw a looming shadow standing over her bed, dark wings enveloping the room. She blinked and the shadow resolved into Mary, a blue bathrobe wrapped around her.

Ally closed her eyes and blew out a long breath. “Mary. You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry,” said Mary. She sat down on the bed, the faint light from the window playing across her face. She looked so thin and tired. She had lost a lot of weight in the last few months. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Ally shook her head. “It’s not your fault. It…I did a pretty good job of scaring myself, I’d guess.”

“You were shrieking and thrashing,” said Mary.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” said Ally.

“No,” said Mary. “I was up already.”

Ally frowned. “How come? You aren’t having nightmares too, are you?”

Mary laughed. “Um…no.” She shook her head. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, after…everything. But I wasn’t having nightmares. Your…um…your parents woke me up.”

Ally blinked. “They did? Why did they do that? It’s…oh. Oh.” She grimaced. “Gross. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Mary paused. “Sounds like they’re pretty energetic, for old people.”

“Mary!” said Ally. “Now that is gross.”

Mary giggled. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“And they’re not that old,” said Ally.

“I still don’t think your dad wants me here,” said Mary.

Ally sighed. “Dad’s…well, I think he’s afraid you’re going to try and live here forever. You know, mooch.”

“I’m not going to do that,” said Mary. "I’m trying to find a job right now. I was going to try and find one right away, but the trial…it got in the way.”

“I know,” said Ally. “But the economy’s bad right now. That Senator Wycliffe guy is complaining about it on TV all the time.”

“I’m afraid your dad wants to throw me out,” said Mary. She looked at the floor. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Mary,” said Ally. “Dad’s not going to throw you out. Mom would never forgive him. She understands. They won’t throw you out. They didn’t throw me and Lithon out. They never told me how we were adopted, but I think we just kind of dropped into their laps, the same way I brought you home. I’m not going to let you go home to your father.”

“Thank you,” said Mary.

“Okay,” said Ally. She looked at her clock and yawned. “It’s three in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

“I worry about you,” said Mary.

Ally laughed. “Me? I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But I do,” said Mary. She fiddled with her robe’s belt. “You have those nightmares all the time.”

“I do not,” said Ally.

“You do,” said Mary. “I can hear you, sometimes. I don’t think you always remember the dreams. All those nightmares can’t be good for you. I don’t want to lose you. You’re the best friend I have.”

“Mary.” Ally hugged her. “I’m fine. Lots of people have nightmares. Don’t worry about me. Instead, we’ll worry about getting you back on your feet. Okay?”

Mary hugged her back. “Okay.” She stood up. “Good night.”

“Good night,” said Ally. Mary went back to the guest room. Ally lay back down and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. She hoped she would feel better tomorrow. She usually did.

###

Ally blinked awake and smelled something frying. Katrina never fried anything. Ally hoped the house wasn’t burning down. She rolled out of bed, found a pair of jeans, and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen.

Mary stood at the stove, an eye on a half-dozen sizzling pans.

“Oh! Morning, Ally,” said Mary.

“Um…good morning,” said Ally. “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast,” said Mary, adjusting a skillet.

“Is that bacon?” said Ally. Katrina never bought bacon, much to Simon’s dismay.

“Yup,” said Mary.

“Okay,” said Ally. Mary returned her attention to the frying pans, and Ally went into the dining room. Simon had taken over the table again, books and papers on the Roman Empire covering every free surface. He sat with his back to the kitchen door, typing on his MacBook.

“Don’t you have a desk?” said Ally.

Simon glanced up. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Ally sat down. “At your age it’s not good, right?”

“Funny,” said Simon. “I do have a desk, as you well know.”

“Then why can’t you use it?” said Ally. “Suppose I want to eat breakfast here or something?”

“The desk is buried,” said Simon, leafing through a stack of journal articles. “Well, at least, I think it is. I haven’t cleaned out the study in a while. I have to finish this before we…”

“Before what?” said Ally.

Simon coughed. “I’ll tell you later. As for breakfast, you can always eat in the kitchen…” He looked up and smiled. “Breakfast. Oh, yes. Breakfast. Your friend’s making pancakes and eggs and bacon…”

Ally grinned. “Mom doesn’t know about this, does she?”

Simon blinked. “Your mother? Well, um, she’s still asleep, and…”

Ally looked through the door and saw Katrina talking to Mary. She smiled, patted Mary on the shoulder, and entered the dining room.

“Simon,” Katrina said. The word seemed to carry paragraphs of meaning.

Simon gave her a wide smile. “Good morning, Katrina. Did you sleep well?”

Katrina sat down next to Ally. “Mary’s making breakfast.”

Simon glanced into the kitchen. “She is, isn’t she?”

“Bacon and eggs and pancakes,” said Katrina, her tone clinical. “All very unhealthy foods. Where do you suppose she got those, Simon?”

“Um.” Simon shuffled his papers. “I took her shopping. Early, before you got up.”

“You did?” said Katrina. “None of those foods are good for your blood pressure, you know.”

“I know,” said Simon. He sighed. “I got up early to work.” His voice lowered. “I think she had been up crying. I asked if she had any breakfast, we got to talking, and she mentioned how much she used to enjoy making breakfast, back when her mother was still alive. She asked if she could make me breakfast, and I said sure. But it’s hard to make a proper breakfast with just granola bars and bran muffins. So we went shopping, and, well,” Simon shrugged, “I did my best to stop her. But the poor child just wanted to make breakfast…”

Katrina laughed. “You just wanted pancakes and bacon for breakfast.”

Simon gave her a hurt look. “Is this what I get for trying to help her? Just because I get a pancake breakfast out of it…”

“With bacon,” said Ally.

“Yes, with bacon,” said Simon. “But…”

“And eggs. And syrup and butter on the pancakes,” said Ally.

Simon sighed. “Daughter dearest. You are not helping me here.”

Katrina leaned back in her chair and stared into the kitchen, watching Mary.

Simon leaned forward. “Look at her,” he said, his voice low. “She’s been almost catatonic since Ally brought her home. I haven’t seen her this cheerful…well, ever. And I think a bit more grease in my arteries is a small price to pay for that.”

Katrina leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Simon Wester. Sometimes you still surprise me, even after all these years. And some pancakes would be nice.”

Ally stared at her. “Are you feeling okay?”

Katrina frowned. “Yes. Why?”

“Pancakes?” said Ally. “You?”

“What?” said Katrina.

Simon snickered. “Nothing, dear.”

Katrina raised her eyebrows. “It’s not as if I’m a complete health fanatic.”

Simon’s lips twitched. “You’re…I’m not even going to say anything to that.”

Katrina patted his cheek. “Wise man.”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Katrina laughed and looked at Ally. “He’s scoring all sorts of points today, isn’t he?”

Mary stuck her head in through the door. “How many pancakes does everyone want?”

“I’ll take two,” said Katrina.

“Two,” said Ally.

“Four,” said Simon.

Mary beamed. “Okay.” She hopped back into the kitchen.

Footsteps thudded down the back stairs. Ally saw Lithon careen into the kitchen. He stopped and stared at the stove. “Is that bacon?”

“Yup,” said Mary, pouring pancakes onto the griddle.

“Wow! Mom never makes bacon!” said Lithon. “And are those pancakes? We never have those, except when we go to Grandma Wester’s house.”

Simon glanced at Katrina.

Katrina scowled. “Not a word.”

“Yes, dear,” said Simon, turning his attention to his laptop.

“So what are you working on so feverishly?” said Katrina.

“That journal article. It needs to be done so we can…” Katrina scowled. “Oh, right. Well. It just needs to be done.”

Lithon scratched his head. “Done in time for what?”

“Our project this afternoon,” said Simon.

Ally frowned. “Project? What project? This sounds suspiciously like work.”

Simon smiled. “A mind like a trap, this daughter of mine. Remember Grandma Wester’s old house?”

Ally blinked. “You…mean that big white place out in Cicero, near those woods?” Something unpleasant swelled just beneath the surface of her mind. “I…remember it. I think.”

Lithon shrugged. “I don’t.” He trotted into the kitchen, fetched an apple, and started munching on it.

Katrina frowned. “Ally? You okay?”

Ally shook her head and pushed the hair out of her face. “Yeah. It…I don’t remember it very well, that’s all.”

Katrina and Simon shared a look.

Katrina moved her arm through one of the exercises she did from time to time, the muscles of her forearm flexing. “Grandma Wester moved to Florida right after we adopted you. I don’t think you would remember much of that old house.”

“Perhaps that was for the best,” said Simon.

“Why?” said Lithon around a mouthful of apple.

“Well,” Simon stared out the window. “Ah. It’s a long story. Pretty boring.”

Lithon finished his apple, curiosity gleaming in his blue eyes. “Can we hear it?”

Katrina and Simon shared another look.

“You sure, kiddo?” said Katrina. “It involves how we met. There’s a lot of kissing in it.” Simon coughed.

Lithon made a face. “You guys are gross.” He went to the kitchen and got another apple, ignoring Mary’s warnings about ruining his appetite.

“Anyway,” said Simon, “Grandma never managed to sell the place, especially after the market crashed a few years ago. It needs a lot of work, and neither she nor I wanted to invest the time and money to fix it up. It’s been on the market for eight years, but we only had someone show interest last week.”

“Who?” said Ally. Lithon wandered back in, halfway through his apple.

“Dr. Heloise Francis, my old dissertation adviser,” said Simon.

Katrina grinned. “Really? Dr. Francis?”

“You know her?” said Simon. “Wait, of course you would. She was at the wedding.”

“Not that,” said Katrina. “She came to one of my book signings, back when I still had a traditional publisher. She liked my book, which one was it…about the Swiss bank robbers. I was surprised.” She smirked. “She was your advisor, Simon. I thought she wouldn’t deign to read a common crime novel.”

“She always had excellent taste,” said Simon.

Katrina laughed. “More points.”

“Years of practice,” said Simon. “Anyway, Dr. Francis is going to look at the place on Friday. So we’re going to go over and vacuum, sweep, wash the floors, rake up the leaves, just tidy up.”

Ally groaned. “I wanted to go see a movie tonight. Can’t we do it on Thursday?”

“Nope,” said Simon. “Thursday is when we’re going to that special honors dinner.”

Ally rolled her eyes. “And that’s going to be a pain.”

Simon waved a free finger. “Never turn down free food. Besides, your friend Bill the valedictorian…”

“Simon,” said Katrina.

“Your friend Bill will be there,” said Simon, not missing a beat. “After that, we can tell you about your big graduation present.”

That caught Ally’s attention. “My what?”

“So, I think you can help clean the old house this afternoon,” said Simon. “It’s not as if you have a job.”

Ally scowled. “That’s no reason. I applied at three dozen places. There’s simply no jobs available right now.”

Simon nodded. “So you’ll have plenty of time to help tidy up. Besides, we can order pizza after we finish, have a little picnic behind Grandma’s old house.”

“Simon!” said Katrina. “Pancakes and pizza in the same day?”

“Cool!” said Lithon.

Simon spread his hands. “Rewards and punishments, dear, rewards and punishments.”

“You’re a historian, not a psychologist,” said Katrina. She sighed. “All right. Fine. Pizza tonight.” Lithon grinned and finished off his apple. “Just don’t blame me when you have to get a stronger blood pressure medication the next time you see the doctor.”

“Just this once won’t hurt, dear,” said Simon. “All things in moderation, right?”

Katrina did not look convinced, but she nodded.

Mary stuck her head into the dining room.

“Oh, don’t worry, you can interrupt,” said Katrina. “We’re not talking about anything important. Just my husband’s long-term health, that’s all.”

Mary bit her lip. “Um…okay. Are you going away tonight?”

“This afternoon,” said Simon. “We’re going to go clean up my mother’s old house for a potential buyer, but you don’t have to come if…”

“Oh, I’ll come!” Mary did a little hop. “It gets dark and lonely here when you all leave. And it’ll be nice to go outside for a bit. Oh! I almost forgot. Breakfast is ready.”

“Well!” Simon snapped his laptop shut. “Then by all means, let’s eat.”

They sat down around the kitchen table and began eating. Simon let out a little sigh of pleasure as he devoured a slice of bacon.

“Mary,” said Katrina. “This is very good.” Lithon wolfed down his stack of pancakes and started on another.

Mary grinned, and Ally felt some relief. Maybe Mary would pull out of the depression after all.

###

Images shot through Ally’s mind, mingling with the growl of the car’s engine. She saw a castle burning, smoke billowing from the towers, dark things circling in the sky. She saw an old man with two swords on his belt. A door of dark stone carved with runes of binding appeared before her…

Someone elbowed her in the ribs. “Hey. Wake up. We’re here.”

Ally blinked, yawned, and came out of her doze. “I’m a teenager. I need my sleep.”

Katrina snorted. “Only for another year and a half. So use that excuse while you can.” The car’s tires squealed as she pulled into a driveway. “And we’re here.”

Ally glanced over her shoulder. “Before Dad, too.”

Katrina laughed and put the car into park.

The large white house stood in the midst of its overgrown lawn, its paint peeling, its windows curtained and dark. A driveway led past a spacious back porch to a garage. The backyard sloped away, leveling out before a patch of woods. Ally got out and stared at the small forest.

“Weird, isn’t it?” said Katrina. She leaned against the hood.

“Those woods?” said Ally. “Yeah. Here in the middle of the city. I’m surprised someone hasn’t cut them down and built a gas station or something.”

“There might be a reason for that,” said Katrina, her voice quiet.

Ally looked at her. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Katrina shook her head. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…a lot of memories here. A lot of memories. Simon and I came here a lot when we were still dating.” Her arm twitched. “And we met you and Lithon here for the first time.”

Ally blinked. “You did?” She had never heard this before. “When was this?”

“It was…” Katrina turned as Simon’s car pulled into the driveway. “We’ll tell you later. It’s something we both have to tell you.”

Ally grimaced in frustration. “All right.”

Simon got out of the car, eyes fixed on the house as Mary and Lithon got out of his Focus’s back seat.

“You okay?” said Katrina.

“Yeah,” said Simon. “I guess so. Are you okay? You…came out of this rougher than I did.”

“I’m fine,” said Katrina. She smiled. “Not all the memories are bad. Remember the cold pizza? And the couch?”

Simon grinned. “Oh, yes. Definitely.” He gripped Katrina’s shoulders and kissed her. Lithon made a gagging noise and tucked a pair of mops under his arm.

“Everyone’s a critic,” said Simon. “Okay. Let’s decide who’s doing what. I get to supervise, of course…”

“Dad,” said Ally.

Simon rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll do the upstairs bedrooms.”

“I can do the bathrooms,” said Mary.

“Okay,” said Simon. “Katrina, you can,” Katrina gave him a look, “you…um, you can do as you think best.” He grinned. “Ally. You want to mow the lawn?”

Ally looked at the thick woods behind the house. “Sure.”

Simon blinked. “I thought you hated mowing the lawn.”

“I do,” said Ally. She glanced at the woods. “I want to think about some stuff, though.”

Simon shrugged. “If it means I don’t have to do it, then suit yourself.”

###

Ally shut off the mower and wiped sweat from her forehead. She wished she had worn shorts. She stepped away from the mower and tugged at her damp, sticking shirt. Good thing Bill wasn’t here. His eyes would have been riveted to her chest.

She pushed the lawnmower up the hill and into the garage, wincing at the heat. The musty air inside seemed to ripple. She saw the sunken woods behind the house through a dusty window.

An odd itching tugged at Ally’s brain.

She strode outside and stared at the woods. They looked green and shady and quiet, no different than any other woods in the Midwest. Yet why did they tug at her mind?

Maybe she just needed exercise. Tonight she would go to the gym and run ten or twelve miles. Perhaps that would cure the odd moods she had been…

“Ally!”

Mary stood on the broad back porch. “Hey! You done with the bathrooms already?”

Mary made a face. “Already? It’s been two hours. Oh my God, do you know how hard it is to clean up ten years worth of dust? And that toilet…man! I don’t think anyone’s flushed it since your grandma moved out.” She squinted. “You look sweaty.”

Ally laughed. “It got hot out. And that old lawnmower’s like a furnace. You could have cooked breakfast on it.”

“Your mom told me to make some lemonade,” said Mary. “Want some?”

Ally grinned. “Sure!” She jogged up the stairs. Mary had set up a pitcher and some glasses on a cardboard box. Ally dropped into a faded old lawn chair, poured herself a glass, and took a long drink. “I could use a shower.”

Mary wrinkled her nose. “Yeah. Your Dad totally stinks.” She leaned forward. “Don’t take this personally…but…he’s not in very good shape.”

Ally burst out laughing. “Oh, God! Don’t do that when my mouth is full!”

Mary giggled. “No wonder your mom rides him so hard about the food.”

Ally looked at her and smiled. “Yeah.”  Mary looked happier than Ally had seen her in a long time.

Mary sipped her lemonade. “What? What’s so funny?”

Ally shook her head. “Nothing. You’re just…it’s…” She sighed. “You just seem…better than I’ve seen you in weeks. Healthier. Happier. That’s all.”

Mary shrugged. “It seems like a bad dream lately. You know what I mean. The last few months. Nathan.” She shook her head. “Nathan. God. I can’t believe I was such a moron.”

“Well,” said Ally. The woods kept drawing her eye. “You know better now.”

Mary half-smiled. “Yeah. A lot better. I wish I didn’t always have to learn things the hard way.”

“Yeah. I’m doing a lot better. But I’m still worried about you,” said Mary.

Ally rolled her eyes. “Not this again. I told you, I’m fine.”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Her hair came loose, and she grimaced and started tying it back in a ponytail. “You have those bad dreams a lot. I can hear them. Remember how Bill used to say that you’d go psychic sometimes?”

Ally rolled her eyes. “Yeah. That was so annoying.”

“You do that a lot now, too,” said Mary. She fingered a lock of her hair. “You sometimes just sit and stare for hours. It’s…kind of scary.”

Ally snorted. “Mary, I’m fine.”

“You’re stronger than I am,” said Mary. “That’s why I’m worried. It’s…it’s like you’ve blocked off part of yourself, locked it behind a door or something…”

Ally smiled. “For the last time, I’m…”

Something buried deep in her mind lurched.

“What did you say?”

Mary blinked. “It…I didn’t say anything.”

“No.” Ally shook her head. “You said something. What did you say?”

“That…it’s like there’s something locked up in your head you won’t let out, like it’s behind a locked door or something,” said Mary. “I mean…you were adopted when you were ten, right? You don’t remember what happened before, you told me that. But what if it was something bad? Like something that happened to me, but only you don’t remember?”

Ally stood. “A door,” she whispered. “A door. I…remember. A door. There was a door.”

“Ally?” said Mary. She climbed to her feet. “You’re really scaring me.”

“It was in the woods,” said Ally. “We came through the woods.” She jumped the railing and walked across the yard.

“Ally!” Mary hurried down the porch steps and ran after her. “Where are you going?”

Ally reached the edge of the trees. She saw a half-overgrown path that led into the woods. “I remember this path. I was with Lithon. He was only a toddler. Mom and Dad were there…but they weren’t Mom and Dad yet.” She started down the path, Mary at her heels. It was cool and shady beneath the trees.

“Where are we going?” said Mary.

The path ended in a small clearing. Ally sniffed at the air, her mind swirling. There was something here. She could not have said what. Something crackled just beneath the level of her senses. “Here. It was here.”

Mary grabbed Ally’s arm. “What was here?”

“The door,” said Ally, staring into the air. “I remember. It was…stone, and carved. A symbol…an eye and a claw.” She shuddered. “I ran through the door. The light…the light was so bright. I was carrying Lithon. It slammed shut behind me. I couldn’t go back. I had to go back. But I couldn’t.” She blinked. “Mom and Dad were here. They were waiting. How did they know? Someone…someone had to tell…tell them…”

“Ally?” said Mary.

A wave of dizziness surged through her. Ally blinked, reeled, and fell to one knee.

“Ally!” shrieked Mary.

Ally licked her lips. A sheet of sweat poured down her face and soaked into her T-shirt. The world spun in a thousand circles around her. She closed her eyes, her breath panting. Her mind bulged and heaved, like something trying to claw its way free from a deep grave.

“Ally.” Mary knelt besides her and hugged her. “Don’t scare me like this, okay? Just don’t. Please come back.”

Ally blinked her eyes open. “What am I doing here?” Confusion washed over her in a great wave. “Jeez. What the hell am I doing here?”

“I don’t know,” said Mary. She sounded downright terrified. “You…you started acting all weird, and then you wandered down here…”

“Yeah,” said Ally. She shook herself free from Mary’s arms and climbed to her feet. “I feel fine. Just…a little confused, that’s all.” She remembered the events of the last few minutes in perfect detail. She could not remember, though, just why she had walked into the woods. “Weird.”

“I’ll say,” said Mary.

Ally sighed. “It was like a senior moment, but I’m a little young for that.”

“Not a senior moment,” said Mary, folding her arms. She still looked rattled. “An honest to God glassy-eyed psychic moment, like Bill always used to say.”

Ally scowled. “Don’t say that.”

“Then what was it?” said Mary. “Was it a seizure? Do…do you have a brain tumor, or something?”

Ally shook her head. “No. No. I don’t think that’s it.” She stared at the center of the clearing, frowning.

“Then what?” said Mary.

“It’s…” Ally licked her lips. Her eyes remained riveted on the clearing’s center. “It’s…as if…I’m looking right at something, but I’m not seeing it. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I probably just dehydrated or something.”

“Yeah,” said Mary. “Right. We should take you to see a doctor.”

Ally shook her head and turned away from the clearing. She didn’t want to look at it anymore. It gave her a headache, for some reason. “I don’t need to see a doctor.”

“Whatever,” said Mary. “You do something like this again, wander off into the woods babbling about invisible doors or whatever, I’ll…I’ll knock you out and take you to the doctor myself.”

Ally burst out laughing. “That would be a sight.” They started out of the woods.

“I’d do it,” said Mary. “I mean, you just stood there staring. I could sneak up behind you and conk you over the head.”

Ally laughed again. “You’re a true friend, Mary.” They climbed up the slope and into the backyard. The smell of fresh-cut grass hung in the air. Katrina stood on the back step, staring at them.

“Hey,” said Ally. “The yard’s done.”

Katrina frowned. “Where did you go?”

“Just out into the woods for a bit,” said Ally. Katrina’s frown deepened. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Katrina folded her arms. “Nothing.”

Ally sat down and poured herself a glass of lemonade. “You don’t look as if nothing’s wrong.” Mary opened her mouth. Ally glanced at her, and she remained silent.

“Did you see anything?” said Katrina.

Ally took a drink. “No. Just some trees, a path, and an empty clearing. Do you want some lemonade?”

“Sure.” Katrina stared out into the woods, her lips compressed into a thin line.

“Mom.” Ally leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”

Katrina swirled her glass of lemonade. “You heard me and Simon talking about the memories, right?” Ally nodded. “Not all the memories are good. Not by a long shot.”

“What happened?” said Ally, curious.

Yet some small part of her mind whispered that she did not want to know.

“Simon was…mugged,” Katrina said, pointing at the driveway. “Right there. The mugger got his wallet, his keys, and his van.”

“Oh my God,” said Mary.

“How come you never told me this?” said Ally.

Katrina sighed. “Simon doesn’t like to talk about it. I don’t, either. Ally. Don’t mention this to your father. If we’re going to talk to you about it, we have to do it together.”

Ally hesitated. “Okay.” Katrina had left something out. Ally was sure of it. “I won’t mention it.”

Katrina nodded. “Good. I…”

The back door banged open, and Simon walked out, iPhone in hand. “Katrina! Guess what? The travel agent called. He was able to get an extra ticket for…”

Katrina gave him a ferocious glare. “Simon.”

Simon blinked. “Oh.”

Ally frowned. “Extra ticket for what?”

Katrina rolled her eyes. “Good one, Simon. Real good.”

Simon groaned and dropped into the last empty lawn chair. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

Katrina nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, come on already!” said Ally. She looked at both of them. “Extra ticket for who?”

“You may as well tell her,” said Katrina.

“Okay,” said Simon. “Fine. An extra ticket for Mary.”

Ally blinked. “A ticket to what?”

“You know how we said you had another graduation present coming?” said Katrina.

Ally grinned. “A car, I hope?”

“Dream on,” said Simon. “No. We’re going to Europe, Ally. Britain, Spain, France, Italy. For six weeks.”

Ally’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Europe.” Simon waved his hand. “You know, largish continent, a few thousand miles that way. A graduation present. I’d wanted to go sometime in the next few years anyway, do some research at a few of the monastery libraries in Italy.” He grinned. “A lot of good stuff in there. Anyway, your mom suggested that it might make a good graduation present.”

“Oh my God.” Ally began to hop up and down in her seat, much to her embarrassment. “Oh my God. Yes!” She jumped up and engulfed Simon in a huge hug. “That is so awesome.”

“Ally. Can’t breathe,” said Simon. Ally blushed and let go.

“Happy graduation, Ally,” said Katrina. “You deserve it.”

“No I don’t,” said Ally. “But thank you. Oh, wow. Europe. This is so cool.”

“See?” said Simon, turning to Katrina. “She’s surprised. Doesn’t she look surprised?”

“Simon,” said Katrina. “Your luck has been reduced to tattered shreds. I suggest you don’t push your shreds.”

“Yes, dear.” He grinned. “The best part is that the university is paying for most of it. I just have to do some research, well, a lot of research, while I’m in Italy.” He shrugged. “Of course, we have to pay for Mary’s ticket ourselves. We’ve been planning this for about a year and she came up…um…rather suddenly.”

“Really? We’re taking Mary?” said Ally.

Katrina nodded. “We knew you wouldn’t want to come unless she came, after she moved in with us. So we got an extra ticket.” She looked at Mary. “If Mary wants to come, of course.”

Mary looked back and forth. She stood up, opened her mouth to say something, and started bawling.

Simon flinched. “What? Did I say something? What?”

Ally took her hand. “Mary. You okay?”

She sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “I’m…I’m fine. It’s just…no one has ever done anything this nice for me before.” She squeezed Ally’s hand. “Except for you.” She looked at Katrina and Simon. “Why are you so nice to me? I just moved in with you one day. Most people would have thrown me out.”

“Well.” Simon coughed. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time, and, well, I….”

“What Ally’s dad is trying to say,” said Katrina, “is that we’re used to taking in people, I suppose. Ally and Lithon are both adopted, you know that. And Simon and I have been through some rough times together.” She looked at the woods and shuddered. “So I guess we couldn’t have turned you away.”

Ally grinned. “So you’ll go?”

Mary rubbed her eyes and nodded. “Yes. Yes! I’ll go. Oh my God. Europe. I never thought in a thousand years I would ever go to Europe.” She giggled through her tears. “I never thought I would get to go to California.”

The back door banged open. Lithon walked out, a bucket and a mop in hand. “Hi everybody.” He dumped the water over the railing. “Hey! Lemonade!” He frowned. “Did I miss something?”

Chapter 15 - Changelings

Anno Domini 2012

The office door swung open, and Wycliffe glanced up from his desk. Goth strode inside, his leather jacket creaking with every step. The ceiling lights glimmered off his mirrored sunglasses.

“You wished to see me?” said Goth.

Wycliffe cursed and threw his pen down. “Yes, damn you! I don’t suppose you even have any idea why?”

Goth grunted and said nothing.

Wycliffe stood. “Two days, Goth. Two days! Do you have any idea what kind of problems you caused by disappearing for two days?”

“Minor concerns,” said Goth.

Wycliffe threw up his hands. “Is that so?” He walked forward and poked Goth in the chest. “I’ll have you know…”

Goth hissed, a glimmer of red light appearing in his sunglasses, and Wycliffe felt weight of the winged demon’s glare. Terror struck him like a hammer, and he took a step backwards before he regained control of himself.

“Do not,” said Goth, his fangs flashing behind his lips, “touch me.”

“Alright,” said Wycliffe. He felt sweat dripping down his back. This was foolish. He had nothing to fear from the winged demons, so long as he had the black magic. “Fine. Just tell me where you thought fit to go without telling me.”

Goth remained silent, the glare of red light seeping through his sunglasses.

Wycliffe folded his arms. “You’re not even going to bother to tell me? Don’t you think I know already?”

“Then tell me,” said Goth.

“It was on the news last night,” said Wycliffe. “Two women were kidnapped not twenty blocks from here. Eyewitnesses say an unknown assailant, described as a large man in black, grabbed them, threw them into a van, and drove off.” He gritted his teeth. “Twenty blocks from here, Goth. Did you have something to do with this?”

Goth said nothing.

“The police are investigating this, damn you,” said Wycliffe. “They even came here to ask questions, cross-examined several employees. Do you even realize the potential danger?”

Goth shrugged. “If they find me, I shall dispose of them.”

Wycliffe slapped the desk, his anger boiling over his fear. “I can’t have the police snooping around here. I have enough weaponry to conquer a small nation locked up in 13A. I have a Russian Mafia boss, who happens to be buying a nuclear weapon, and his pet assassins staying here, and I have you and your kin here. I have quite a bit I need to keep quite secret, wouldn’t you agree?”

Goth did not seem impressed. “You have the power of the Voice. Use it on any interlopers.”

“I can’t use the Voice on every person in America,” said Wycliffe. “If any sniff of any potential scandal gets out…I don’t even want to contemplate the problems that would cause.”

“Your point?” said Goth.

Wycliffe sighed. “Just try to be more discreet.” He wondered if he could use the Voice on the winged demons. Some gut instinct told him it would be a bad idea. “Try not to make such messes. For a nightmare of black magic and shadow, I think you could kidnap people a bit more…quietly.”

Goth almost smiled. “Very well.”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Might I ask why you thought it necessary to kidnap those women?”

Now Goth did smile. It was not a pretty sight. “My appetites required satisfaction.”

Wycliffe felt his stomach turn. “Are they still alive?” He’d long suspected that Goth had set up a lair somewhere in the city.

“One. For now,” said Goth.

Wycliffe grimaced. “Why on earth are you keeping her alive?”

“I may wish another son,” said Goth.

Wycliffe’s nausea grew. “Don’t you have offspring already on your world?”

“Several,” said Goth. “They grow to maturity. Two in particular, twins, have reached the fullness of their powers. They will prove troublesome. But my offspring will fight amongst each other and slay one another. I will then devour the survivors.”

“How very civilized,” said Wycliffe.

Goth sneered. “I survive.”

A thought occurred to Wycliffe. “But why father a child on a human woman? Won’t it be…I don’t know, half-human, half-demon, or something? Why not knock up a winged demon woman?”

Goth chuckled. “There are no women of the kin.”

Wycliffe’s frown deepened. “Then how…”

Goth grinned like a toothy wolf. “One of the kin will claim a human woman as his mate and father a son on her. He will keep the woman in captivity. When the child is ready to be born,” Goth’s smile widened, “it claws its way free of her womb and takes its first meal on her flesh.”

“Dear God,” said Wycliffe. “That’s ghastly.”

“We are the kin,” said Goth. “We survive.” He chuckled. “They tried to exterminate us. The High Kingdoms, the Wizards, the Knights, they all feared and loathed us.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Wycliffe.

“But Lord Marugon has exterminated them, hunted them down like vermin,” said Goth. “They have perished. The kin have survived. And now their world belongs to us.”

Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “Then why are you here?”

“Because,” said Goth, his voice a quiet hiss. “Your world. It fascinates me. So full of darkness and power. Not even Lord Marugon himself could have dreamed of your world.”

“A ringing endorsement, indeed,” said Wycliffe. “There is one thing I wonder about, though.” His lip curled. “There are no female winged demons. They can only father offspring on human women. Correct?”

Goth nodded.

“Then how did the winged demons begin?” said Wycliffe. “How did they originate?”

Goth shrugged. “I know not. I care not. Perhaps Lord Marugon knows. You may ask him, if you wish. But it matters not…”

The door opened a crack. “Senator?” Kyle Allard stepped inside, briefcase under his arm. “We had an appointment…”

Goth spun, his lips peeling back in a wide snarl. Allard yelled and hopped back a step, his briefcase falling to the floor. Goth towered over the skinny man like a wolf looming over a lamb.

“Goth!” said Wycliffe. “Mr. Allard. Do come in. Please pardon Mr. Marson. He’s very zealous in his job.” He put on his kindliest smile and picked up Allard’s briefcase. “You have met Mr. Marson, haven’t you? He’s head of security here.”

“Charmed,” said Allard.

“I’ll see you tonight, Goth,” said Wycliffe, his tone dismissive. “Ah…make sure you carry out Mr. Marugon’s instructions. Without making a mess, please.” Goth stalked out of the office. “Mr. Allard. Are you quite all right? You look as if you’re about to faint.”

What had he seen in Goth’s face? Did he know too much already?

“Yeah,” said Allard. He wiped his mouth on his hand. “Yeah. I’m…I’m fine. It’s just a hot day out.”

“Quite so,” said Wycliffe. “You’ll excuse my lateness for our appointment, I hope. Mr. Marson and I had quite a bit to discuss. Reporters are constantly sniffing around.” He laughed. “They all want to expose the next Watergate, and they all come to me to find it. Fortunately, Mr. Marson is quite adept at keeping the premises secure.”

“Yeah.” Allard shuddered. “He…he looks pretty good at his job.”

Wycliffe smiled. “You didn’t happen to overhear anything, did you?” He watched Allard’s face. If necessary, he would use the Voice to modify Allard’s memory. Or to arrange a convenient suicide.

Allard was useful, but not indispensable to Marugon’s little side project.

Allard shook his head. “No. I was waiting outside, but I couldn’t hear anything through the door.”

“Good,” said Wycliffe. “Now, to our business. I hear you have reached every address on your list?” Marugon’s instructions had been clear. Using his connections, Wycliffe had obtained a list of everyone who had bought cigarettes using credit cards or checks in the last six months. Allard had been sent to distribute the cigarettes made from the tobacco in Marugon’s crates, under the pretext of establishing a customer base for Stanford Matthews Tobacco.

Wycliffe still wondered what Marugon had in mind.

“Yes, sir,” said Allard.

“And what did they think of Stanford Matthews Tobacco’s cigarettes?” said Wycliffe.

“I think we have a big hit on our hands,” Allard said.

Wycliffe leaned forward. “Do go on.”

“Almost everyone liked them,” said Allard. He rummaged through his briefcase and produced a notepad. “Eighty-nine percent of the consumers who received free samples said they would switch to Stanford Matthews as their preferred brand of cigarette.”

“Eighty-nine?” said Wycliffe. “Well, well. Our little test has gone rather well, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Allard. The man had learned respect, at least.

“Good, said Wycliffe. “Very good.”

Allard coughed. “Do…um…you have another list for me?”

“No,” said Wycliffe. “Stanford Matthews’s board of directors is planning to go to full production in another month.” It had been some trick, setting up the front company without attaching his name to it, but he had done it. “Your efforts have laid the foundations for a strong customer base in Chicago. You will find a definite bonus in your next pay envelope.” He made a little tent with his fingers. “I had originally intended your position as temporary, you know that, but you’ve done so well, I’ve decided to keep you on. If you’re willing, of course. How does a position as a sales executive sound to you, Mr. Allard?” Allard had been good at his job.

And if Stanford Matthews Tobacco fell apart, Wycliffe could always use Allard as a scapegoat.

Allard gaped. “But…but…I’m hardly qualified.”

Wycliffe snorted. “Stuff and nonsense. You have an MBA, do you not?” He bit back his opinion of business degrees. “More importantly, your…ah…previous job experience in sales tax evasion,” Allard coughed, “shows great ingenuity. I think you’re quite qualified for the position. So. What do you say?”

Allard grinned ear to ear. “Thank you, sir.”

###

“You’re back,” said Wycliffe.

Goth strode through the gloomy shadows of warehouse 13A. Behind him walked two of his kin, both disguised as slouching thugs. They pushed a wheeled metal table covered with a thick canvas cloth. Every now and again a low groan rose from beneath the canvas.

“Dear God,” muttered Wycliffe. “I hope you managed to keep this quiet.”

Goth’s thick lip curled in a sneer. “Quiet as the grave.”

“How terribly reassuring,” said Wycliffe. “Put our new friend over here,” Wycliffe pointed at an empty space between two aisles of massive wooden crates, “and you are excused for the evening.” The winged demons pushed the table to the directed spot and vanished into the darkness.

“Is the Russian arms merchant here?” said Goth.

“No,” said Wycliffe. He walked towards the platform against the warehouse’s far wall. The rune-carved door to the Tower of Endless Worlds stood open, the green-lit hallway fading away into infinity. “He’s terrified of Marugon, though he’ll never admit it. Besides,” Wycliffe glanced back at the wheeled table, “it’s best that he’s not here tonight. All the workers have left for the evening, I presume?”

“Yes,” said Goth. “Lord Marugon desires secrecy. He shall have it.”

“Good,” said Wycliffe. It was almost midnight. He peered through the open door and into the Tower, and saw black specks in the distance. Marugon’s caravan. “Tell me. What do you think of Marugon’s little plan?”

Goth said nothing.

Wycliffe laughed. “You don’t know either, do you?”

“When the time is right,” said Goth. His bearded head turned toward the stack of black crates in the corner. “I can smell the black magic. I know not what he plans. But it shall be great, worthy of Lord Marugon.”

“It better be…ah, here’s Marugon now,” said Wycliffe. Fear and anticipation tugged at him. He straightened and tried to assume a calm mask.

One by one the gunmen and donkeys stepped through the door, each accompanied by a white flash. Bulging canvas bags weighed down each of the donkeys. With luck, Marugon had sent enough gold to pay the thirty million dollar cost of Kurkov’s bomb.

The door flashed again, and a figure cloaked in heavy black robes stepped onto the platform. Wycliffe’s sense of the black magic had grown with practice in the Voice, and he felt the power radiating from the black-robed form, the iron icy might of a true master of the black magic. Had Marugon always been this powerful? Or had Wycliffe never had the skill to sense the Warlock’s power before?

He shook aside his doubts, climbed the stairs, and extended his hand, Goth trailing after him.

“Lord Marugon,” Wycliffe said, smiling his politician’s smile. “Welcome once more to Earth.”

Marugon pulled back his hood. He looked older than Wycliffe remembered. More silver marked his temples, and fresh lines marked his face. His eyes looked deeper and darker than Wycliffe recalled. The power of the black magic hung about him like smoke.

He did look wearier than Wycliffe remembered.

“Senator Wycliffe,” said Marugon. He shook Wycliffe’s hand, his fingers like bars of frozen iron.

Wycliffe withdrew his hand and tucked it into his pocket. “Or should I say King Marugon? Or Emperor?”

Marugon smiled. “Not quite, my friend. But very soon. The last of the High Kingdoms has fallen. Antarese is ash on the winds. A pity you were not there to see the Battle of the Emerald Field. Twenty-five thousand horsemen, the flower of Antarese’s nobility, armed and armored in the finest steel, charged my army.” His smile looked like something Goth would wear. “Four hundred of my men armed with Kalashnikovs slaughtered them all, and once they were finished, they killed every man, woman, and child in the city. Never has my world seen such a victory. Antarese was the last of the High Kingdoms. The Knights of the Sacred Blades and the Wizards of the White Council are slaughtered, and the High Kingdoms are destroyed. There is no one left to stop me.” His voice grew distant. “No one left.” His wolfish smile returned. “You were wrong, Alastarius.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Who?”

“No one,” said Marugon. “An enemy dead and gone.” Goth chuckled. “Ah, Goth-Mar-Dan, my friend. I trust you have served Senator Wycliffe well?”

Wycliffe snorted. “Quite well, save when he and his kin are not out terrorizing the city.”

Marugon laughed. “They are energetic, are they not?”

“Not quite the word I’d use,” said Wycliffe.

Marugon gestured at the donkeys. “Perhaps I have a proper reward for them.” Wycliffe frowned. Eleven people stood amidst the caravan. They wore only rags. Hoods had been pulled over their faces, and rough cords bound their hands and ankles. “But, that is a matter for later. I hear you have undertaken a campaign to seize the presidency?”

“Well, not quite,” said Wycliffe, smiling. “The vice presidency, actually.”

“Indeed?” said Marugon. “Then I assume you have the future president well leashed and chained with the Voice?”

Wycliffe blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

“It was a common strategy of the Warlocks, in ancient days,” said Marugon. “They would control a king with the Voice, and rule all from behind the throne. A wise choice. Now, to business.”

“Yes, the cigarettes,” said Wycliffe. “I’ve…”

“Later,” said Marugon. “The bomb. The nuclear device. Has your pet arms merchant made any progress?”

“Yes,” said Wycliffe, trying not to blink under Marugon’s intense stare. “A bomb has been located. Kurkov is in the process of bringing it here.”

Marugon’s eyes bored into his face. “How long?”

Wycliffe shrugged. “You must understand. It is not easy smuggling a nuclear weapon into this country. Smugglers must be paid, customs officials must be bribed, authorities must be evaded.”

“I am well aware of the difficulties,” said Marugon, “having listened to you recite them over and over. How long?”

Wycliffe tried to push aside his fear. “Four months. Possibly six or seven. And thirty million dollars are needed.”

“Four months,” said Marugon, his voice a murmur. “After all these years. Four months. I can wait.”

“If I might ask,” said Wycliffe, trying to sound annoyed, “what use could you possibly have for a nuclear bomb?”

Marugon blinked. “Oh?”

“You’ve conquered your world, you’ve said so yourself,” said Wycliffe.

Marugon laughed. “My dear Senator. The conquest itself is immaterial. What matters is that no one on my world can possibly stop me.”

“Yes,” said Wycliffe. “Then why do you need a nuclear bomb, if all your enemies are crushed?”

Marugon blinked, weariness flickering over his face. “The last stronghold of my enemies.” His voice was a quiet rasp. “It has been there for so long. So very long. Inaccessible to me. I cannot touch it. I have tried. But the bomb, Senator Wycliffe…the bomb would give me the power to destroy it. Then at last I could rest.” He shook his head, and his face returned to its usual cold, smirking mask. “But, then, why should you care, my good Senator? It is not as if I plan to detonate the bomb on your world, after all. And you would make a tremendous profit from the purchase.” He gestured at the donkeys’ sacks. “More gold than this is on its way to the Tower as we speak. You will be wealthier than ever. A useful asset when running for the presidency, I would imagine.”

“Well, yes,” said Wycliffe. The uneasiness would not leave him. “At any rate, you shall have your bomb by October by the earliest, November by the latest.”

“Good,” said Marugon. “You were speaking of the cigarettes?”

Wycliffe nodded. “I set up the front company, Stanford Matthews Tobacco, and I hired some desperate fool to distribute the sample cigarettes, per your instructions. But I still fail to see the point.”

“You shall see soon enough,” said Marugon. “Do you have the test subject?”

Wycliffe nodded. “This way.” He led Marugon away from the caravan and to the canvas-covered wheeled table. He reached for the canvas and pulled it away.

A metal operating table gleamed under the humming warehouse lights. Steel cuffs and heavy chains pinned a naked young man to the table. Tattoos marked the man’s muscled chest and arms, and a piece of duct tape sealed his mouth. Wycliffe heard him screaming through the tape.

“Christopher J. Colebrook,” said Wycliffe. “One of the people my lackey gave a free cigarette.” He glanced at Goth. “At least it should be Colebrook.” Goth remained impassive. This was too risky. If someone had seen Goth and his kin snatch Colebrook out of his bedroom, or followed the truck…

“Ah,” said Marugon. “Well done.” He cocked his head. “Remove the tape. I wish for him to speak.”

Goth leaned downed and ripped away the tape.

Colebrook gaped in pain. “You bastards!” he screamed. “My girlfriend will call the police when she wakes up, she’ll…” His eyes fell on Wycliffe. “What the hell is this? I voted for you, man! My girlfriend made me!”

“Silence,” said Marugon, his command ringing with the Voice. Colebrook’s jaw clapped shut. “You are in serious trouble, young man. And you have brought it upon yourself. Ironic, no?” He chuckled.

“You…” Colebrook’s jaw worked. “What are…you?”

“Do you truly wish to know?” said Marugon. He smiled and turned to Goth. “Show yourself to our disrespectful young friend. Perhaps he will come to understand his peril.”

Goth chuckled and took off his sunglasses. His crimson eyes burned like dying coals. He yanked off the fake beard, revealing his yellowing fangs. He tore off his jacket with a fluid motion, and his huge black leathery wings unfolded, beating at the air.

“Few on your world ever see the slouching thugs lose their slouch,” said Marugon. “Those who do, my young friend, wish they had never been born.”

Colebrook screamed and screamed, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his limbs jerking against the restraints. He flopped against the steel table like a dying fish.

“Do be silent,” said Marugon, the Voice crackling. Colebrook shut up, his bulging eyes fixed on Goth. “Did this young fool smoke one of the cigarettes?”

“He did,” said Wycliffe. “If not, Allard and I are going to have a long talk.”

“Good,” said Marugon. He turned back to the trembling Colebrook. “Your world is a strange one, my young friend. When Senator Wycliffe first told me of these cigarettes, I thought him a fool.” He fluttered his fingers and muttered a spell. “Ah. I sense the black magic within you already. You see, there are nothing like cigarettes on my world. What man would willingly fill his body with such poisons?” Wycliffe rolled his eyes. The last of the Warlocks sounded like a Democrat. “The wise men of my world say that drink is the poison of a foolish man, but this world’s cigarettes, it would seem, are by far a deadlier poison.”

Wycliffe nodded. “I fail to see the point. Don’t tell me you went to all this effort to give me a lecture on health.”

Marugon chuckled. “What is in a cigarette? Herbs grown on your world, true? But in my cigarettes, I have added an herb from my world, one called the Warlocks’ rose. It is a slow poison, similar to nicotine. But properly prepared, it can become a mighty magical catalyst.” Wycliffe felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Of course, for it to be effective, the victim must consume the Warlocks’ rose of his own free will.” He grinned down at Colebrook. “You, my young friend, have consumed the Warlocks’ rose of your own free will. It will act as a catalyst of transformation within you.”

Wycliffe blinked. “Transformation?” The prickling on the back of his neck got worse.

Marugon nodded. “Now, my friend, you will see a mighty spell of the black magic.” He raised his hands and began to chant in a ringing voice. A chill swept up Wycliffe’s limbs. A cold wind blew through the warehouse, and Goth laughed.

Colebrook’s mouth burst open in a howling scream, and he began to transform.

His skin turned gray and leathery. His eyes burned red and became wider, and his ears grew points. Greasy, matted back hair burst from his naked skin. His muscled limbs thinned and became spindly, and claws sprouted from his lengthening toes and fingers. His tongue thickened, lashing at his twisted black teeth. And his scream changed, turning from the howl of a terrified man to the insane gibbering of a rabid animal.

Wycliffe stared at the spectacle in awe and terror.

Marugon dropped his arms, a rapt expression on his face. Colebrook’s transformation seemed complete.

“What…what did you to him?” said Wycliffe.

Marugon laughed. “A magical transformation.” The thing that had been Colebrook hissed and snapped his jaws. “My spell used the Warlocks’ rose as a catalyst. I have made this man into a changeling of the black magic, utterly bound to my will. A deadly fighter, and one impervious to most weapons.” Marugon’s smile brightened. “Goth-Mar-Dan. Shoot it.”

Goth retrieved his jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol. He leveled the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The shots echoed like thunder through the warehouse, and the bullets slammed into thing that had been Colebrook. It howled and screamed, slime frothing at its jaws. Goth emptied his weapon and lowered it.

Wycliffe crept closer. “Dear God.” The bullets had not left a mark on the changeling. “Marugon. Can…can this spell be cast on anyone who has smoked the cigarettes?”

Marugon nodded.

“Well,” breathed Wycliffe. A mixture of amazement and terror battled for control of his emotions. “Ten thousand people smoked those cigarettes in the last few weeks.” His mind reeled with the possibilities. “And once Stanford Matthews begins full production, millions more…”

Marugon nodded again. “And the poison waits in their blood. They shall make a useful reserve, my friend, if your attempt to win the vice presidency is unsuccessful. And may have a use or two for them, as well.”

Wycliffe blinked. “I can command these things?”

“Of course.” Marugon traced a half-circle with his right hand. The cuffs holding the changeling undid themselves. The creature hissed and gathered its legs beneath itself, as if ready to spring.

Wycliffe tensed. “Marugon, it’s going to…”

“Changeling!” Marugon’s command rang with the Voice. “Come to me! Come!” The changeling crept to Marugon’s side, tongue lolling from its jaw. “Hold!” The creature went still. “Senator Wycliffe. Command the creature.”

Wycliffe rubbed sweat from his forehead and gathered the Voice to him. “Changeling!” The monster hissed and turned to face Wycliffe. “Stand!” The changeling stood, hatred and pain gleaming in its red eyes. “Kneel!” The thing hissed and fell to its knees.

“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 things 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.”

“Goddamn,” mumbled Katrina.

“The Gracchan Party remains the frontrunner in the presidential race,” said the radio. “If Jones wins the election, he would be the first third party president since the formation of the two-party system. In the past two weeks, fourteen men and seven women have announced their candidacy for the House of Representatives as Gracchans. More are expected…”

“Turn that off,” said Simon.

“You sure don’t like this Wycliffe guy,” said Ally.

Simon snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, you could definitely say that. We don’t like him.”

“Why not?” said Ally.

Katrina and Simon shared a look. They seemed to do that a lot, lately.

“He’s a crook,” said Simon at last.

Ally frowned. “So all those stories about him are true?”

Simon snorted. “We just don’t think he’d make a very good president.”

“Vice president,” said Ally.

Katrina sighed. “He’d become president, trust me. And he’d make a terrible one.”

“Wow,” said Lithon, leaning forward. “You must be right.”

“Oh? How come?” said Katrina.

“You and Dad never agree on anything like that,” said Lithon.

Simon rolled his eyes. “We do too agree on some things.”

“Yeah,” said Lithon, returning his attention to his magazine, “that this guy would make a bad president.”

Simon glanced at Katrina. “From the mouths of babes.”

Lithon made an aggravated sound. “Why does everyone always say that when I say something?”

Ally laughed. “Because you’re usually right, that’s why.”

“Ah. Here we are,” said Simon. The conference center’s parking lot loomed ahead. “What do you know? They’ve got adequate parking. In Chicago! Indeed a rarity.” Simon pulled into a parking spot and turned off the engine. Ally looked out the window. There might indeed be adequate parking, but they still had a long walk to the conference center. Ally wished she hadn’t worn high heels. “Everyone out. Lithon, better take that umbrella.”

Ally got out. A mosquito buzzed past her ear. She reached up and squished it, wishing she had worn a dress with sleeves, or that she had stayed home with Mary. This honors dinner did not mean very much to her. Yet it was important to her parents, especially Simon. And Bill would be here. They had stayed in touch over Facebook, but she had not seen him since the night of his party.

Simon set off across the parking lot, Lithon following.

Katrina touched Ally’s arm. “You okay?”

“Yes,” said Ally. She shrugged. “I…was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Don’t think too much,” said Katrina. “You seem to brood a lot lately.” They started towards the conference center, following Simon and Lithon.

“You sound like Mary,” said Ally.

“Sometimes she’s right,” said Katrina.

Ally scowled. “What should I do then? Stop thinking?” She did a mocking giggle and tossed her head. “Dye my hair blond?”

Katrina rolled her eyes. “No. We worry about you, Simon and me. You’re a special kid, Ally. You seem to sit and think a lot lately. I know I’ve preached against parties and booze and boys for as long as you can remember, but maybe you do need to get out more.”

“Europe,” said Ally. “That’s about as far out as you can get.”

They walked in silence for a moment.

“You want to talk about it?” said Katrina.

Ally shook her head. “No.” She did not want to discuss the dreams with anyone.

“Sure?” said Katrina.

“Yeah,” said Ally. “I can’t talk about it, because I don’t know what it is.”

“Okay,” said Katrina. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Ally laughed. “I promise.” They caught up with Simon and Lithon and walked into the conference center. A long blue-carpeted hallway stretched the length of the building, potted plants standing in lighted alcoves. The dull rumble of conversation filled the building. They walked through a pair of double doors and into a huge hall filled with hundreds of round dining tables.

“Must be something like three thousand people here,” said Simon. “I think your school’s over this way.”

“All the honor students from the entire school district’s graduating class,” said Ally. “I see Dr. Burton.” She grimaced. She also saw Mr. Paulsen. The judge had refused to post bail for Nathan Jameson, but Paulsen offered to pay it anyway, and had even testified in Nathan’s defense at the trial, calling Mary a promiscuous slut.

“Wonder how they found the money to pay for all of this,” said Simon, pushing his way through the crowd. “I know they didn’t do this last year.”

Ally shrugged. “I guess they had some rich donor.”

“Ah! Ally Wester!” Dr. Burton rose, resplendent in a black tuxedo. Paulsen glanced Ally’s way, scowled, and looked away again. “Welcome.” He shook Katrina and Simon’s hand and turned to Ally. “Miss Wester. I hear you’ve had an interesting summer so far.”

Ally looked away. “It’s…not the sort of interesting I would have chosen.”

Dr. Burton grunted. “I can understand. I found myself in a similar situation some years ago.” He looked her in the eye. “You showed remarkable bravery, doing what you did.”

Ally didn’t look up from the carpet. “Thank you.”

Dr. Burton turned to Simon. “You have a talented daughter. Watch her. I expect her to do great things. Ah…your table’s over this way, across from the Ryans.”

Ally grinned. She saw Mr. Ryan and his wife sitting at one of the tables, both wearing dark suits, both talking into iPhones. Bill sat besides his father, fiddling with his fork. He looked very bored.

Ally walked over and dropped into the chair besides him. “Pay attention.”

Bill grunted. “I am paying attention…” He blinked, looked at Ally, and did a double take. “Ally!”

“None other,” said Ally. Katrina and Simon and Lithon took their seats at the next table. “How have you been?”

Bill grinned ear to ear. “Ally. Wow. You look…like…like…” He thought for a moment. “Wow.”

“Bill,” said Ally. “Stop staring.”

Bill shook his head. “Right. Sorry. It’s just…I haven’t seen you since the night of…oh, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Ally.

Bill fidgeted. “How’s…how’s Mary? Is she okay?”

“She’s getting better,” said Ally. The crowd began to sit down at the tables. “She has good days, and she has bad days. But less bad days than she used to.”

“That’s good,” said Bill. He took off his glasses and began wiping them down with a napkin. “It’s been an interesting few weeks for me. My mother keeps trying to teach me to do laundry.” He stuck his glasses back on with a sheepish grin. “I keep shrinking stuff.”

“Well, Miss Wester,” said Mr. Ryan, tucking his iPhone into his suit jacket. “A pleasure to see you again. I hope tonight is not quite as…memorable as William Junior’s graduation party.

“Me too.”

“Ally!” Simon started at her over a glass of water. “You going to join us, or are you going to spend the whole night talking to your boyfriend?”

Ally glared. “Dad!” Katrina elbowed him in the ribs. Ally turned to Bill. “I have to go. We can talk some more after this…well, after whatever is happening is over.”

Bill nodded. “Cool. It’s…um…I think it’s a dinner a then a speech. By some bigwig.”

Ally got to her feet. “Probably whoever paid for all this.” Bill’s eyes jerked down her legs before they returned to her face, and his flush deepened.

Bill laughed. “Yeah.”

Ally sat down besides Lithon, who had already consumed half the bread basket. She saw Bill sneak another glance at her before his father started talking.  For a moment she entertained going back to his table. He would ask her out, if she prodded him in the right direction. And then…

No. That wouldn’t happen. She was certain Bill would go to MIT and she would not.

One of her premonitions.

“Sorry,” said Simon, snatching a pack of crackers before Lithon could eat them.

“What?” Ally blinked. “Oh. Right. Hope Mom didn’t give you too much of a bruise.”

Simon winced. “No comment.”

A microphone squealed. “Ladies and gentlemen!” A stage with a podium stood at the far end of the hall, a florid-faced man in a gray suit talking into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please, we’re about ready to start.”

“Look at that,” whispered Lithon around a mouthful of bread. A group of cameramen had set up near the podium, their equipment emblazoned with the logos of various local TV networks. “I might get to be on TV.”

“Welcome to the first Chicago Public High Schools Honors dinner,” said the man with microphone. He mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. “I hope this can become can become a tradition, thanks to our donor. But first, let’s have a round of applause for our honors graduates.” The crowd applauded. “We’ve got quite a dinner planned. But first, we’ll have a brief speech by our donor.” Lithon groaned. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct honor to introduce a respected member of our community, a successful businessman, and the Gracchan Party nominee for the office of vice president.” Simon lurched and almost fell off his chair. Katrina stared at the podium, her eyes like flint. “Senator Thomas Wycliffe!”

The applause redoubled, and many people stood. A short, stout man with slicked-back dark hair and thick glasses strode out onto the stage. Ally recognized Senator Thomas Wycliffe from TV. He seemed much less impressive in person than he did on TV. He looked like a computer software engineer, or perhaps a math teacher.

“Goddamn it,” said Katrina. “Simon. We have to leave. Now.” The hall fell silent as Wycliffe mounted the podium.

“I know.” Simon’s face had gone pasty. “But he’ll see us, Katrina. Everyone’s sitting. We’ll be the only people leaving.” People began to glance at them.

“What’s going on?” said Ally. “Why do we have…”

“Quiet,” said Katrina, her voice sharper than Ally could ever remember hearing.

“Thank you for that most generous welcome,” said Wycliffe, smiling. His calm, pleasant voice was a marked contrast to his appearance. Ally had never heard anything quite like it “As glad as I am to be here tonight, it is with the greatest reluctance. You philosophy students out there can wrap your minds around that paradox.” Ally chuckled, as did several hundred other people. “But it’s really quite simple. I did indeed donate the money for tonight’s festivities. But I had wanted it kept quiet. Scholarship and education are so important, especially in these troubled times. And as some of you may have heard, I’m running for a rather minor political office.” More chuckles. “But I digress. Political campaigns can become…oh, how to put this…a little raucous, and I didn’t want this dragged in. And now you unfortunate people find yourself suffering through one my speeches.” Laughter rang out.

“That bastard’s gotten to be a good speaker, I’ll give him that,” said Katrina. “Simon. We have to leave.”

“When he’s finished,” said Simon. “Everyone will get up for the buffet lines. We can slip out then.”

“Would you please tell me why…” said Ally.

Katrina glared. “Just trust us, please, Ally. We shouldn’t be here.”

“I hope to award several scholarships tonight,” said Wycliffe. Something about his words, his voice, captured her attention. “Some of you may remember the tragedy of a few months past. Miss Anne Louis, a dedicated journalist, disappeared after conducting an interview with me, part of an article that went to win a posthumous Pulitzer Prize. The police have given up any hope of finding her, sadly. But her memory will live on. Tonight I announce the endowment of the Anne Louis Scholarship for future journalism majors…”

“Bastard,” said Katrina. “I’ll bet he killed her.”

Ally looked away from the Senator and frowned. “I don’t…”

Pain stabbed through her mind. She shivered and almost fell off her seat. Suddenly Wycliffe’s words felt like echoing thunderclaps, booming through her mind. Sharp pain stabbed between her temples with every word he spoke, pulsing with the rhythm of his speech.

“Ally?” said Katrina, leaning forward.

Ally gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling. The pain hammered through her mind in pulses. She gritted her teeth and concentrated, trying to shut out the pain. Coldness gripped her, and icy sweat beaded on her neck and slithered down her back.

“Ally!” Katrina’s voice rose in alarm.

The coldness lashed at her in waves, matching the pain from Wycliffe’s speech. Suddenly a hot white fire seemed to rise from the depths of her mind, the way it had when she had fought Nathan. The fire lashed through her mind, banished the pain, and turned the coldness into warmth. Ally opened her eyes and gasped.

“Ally!” hissed Katrina, grabbing her arm. “Are you okay?”

“I…I think so.” She felt drenched in sweat.

“What happened?”

Ally shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked at Wycliffe and frowned. His voice was nasal and grating. All the charm, all the charisma, had vanished from his speech. How could she have ever found his words pleasant?

Simon had gone even paler. “Katrina. Remember what Conmager said? Marugon had taught him. Maybe…maybe he’s using it right now.”

“Jesus,” said Katrina. “Jesus Christ. Maybe he is. We have to get out of here now. Right now.” She sounded almost hysterical. “I’ll even pretend to be sick…”

“So, to conclude, I can smell the food,” said Wycliffe, grinning, “Let us eat!” The crowd burst into applause. Dr. Burton stood, clapping, as did Paulsen. Even the Ryans stood, Bill’s face rapt with awe. Fright grew in Ally’s heart. She had never seen that expression on Bill’s face before. Soon Ally and her family were the only people still sitting.

“Simon, go,” said Katrina. They rose and made their way to the door. But everyone else was heading for the buffet lines, and they could make no progress through the tight-packed crowds. Simon looked back and forth, sweat beading on his brow. Katrina’s lips pressed into a thin angry line. With a start, Ally realized her parents were terrified.

Why were they so afraid of Wycliffe?

“Damn it, Simon, we’re not going to get out of here like this,” hissed Katrina. “I'll pull the fire alarm or something…”

“Someone would get trampled to death,” said Simon.

“Senator!” Senator Wycliffe stood not ten feet away, shaking hands. Paulsen pushed through the crowd. “Senator Wycliffe, sir, it’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Katrina froze. “Oh, damn.”

Wycliffe shook Paulsen’s hand. “Pleased to meet you…”

“I saw your speech, sir, the one you gave back in January,” said Paulsen, gazing at the Senator with a rapt expression. “I went out and joined the Gracchan Party right away…”

Wycliffe listened to him with a fixed smile. His eyes brushed over Ally and then Simon, and he started to turn away.

Then his eyes widened and he turned back around.

“Simon,” said Katrina. “He’s…”

“Well, well. Simon Wester,” said Wycliffe, walking towards them. Paulsen sputtered on for a few more sentences and then fell silent. Wycliffe grinned ear to ear. “After all these years. How have you been?”

Simon smiled and shook Wycliffe’s hand. “Fairly good. I’m glad I got out of politics when I did. It looks like you’ve been busy.”

Wycliffe laughed. “That I have, Dr. Wester, that I have. Are you sure you don’t want to come back and work for me? I still could use a good speechwriter.”

Simon licked his lips. “It doesn’t look like it. Your speeches all seem to go over very well.”

Wycliffe smiled. “They really do, don’t they? But I’ve had to write most of them myself. Though I certainly could use a speechwriter to share the load.”

Simon shook his head. “Sorry. I have too many duties at the University of Constantina. I can’t just drop everything and go out on campaign.”

“I understand,” said Wycliffe. “Responsibility does creep up on a man as he grows older.” He craned his neck. “Ah! Mrs. Wester. There you are. How have you been?”

Katrina nodded, her face a mask. “Senator. All right.”

Wycliffe spread his hands. “Things have not been the same without you. Truly competent database administrators are hard to find.” He looked over Ally and Lithon and frowned. “Dr. Wester. You have children? You and the former Ms. Coldridge were so determined to remain career people.”

Simon laughed. “No man can see is own fate. I…um…bet you didn’t think you would be running for vice president someday when you started out in politics.”

Wycliffe grinned. “Actually, I had a very precise career plan. But that hardly matters. Do introduce me.”

Simon stammered for a minute. “Ah…this is my daughter, Ally.”

Wycliffe smiled. “A lovely young lady, indeed.” Ally tried to smile back but didn’t quite manage it. Something about his voice grated on her ears. “And the boy?”

“This is…” Katrina glared at him. “This is…Luke.” Lithon gave him a weird look. “Luke Wester.”

An odd look came over Wycliffe’s face, as if he had forgotten something he knew to be important. More sweat rolled down Simon’s forehead. “A son. How old is he, might I ask?”

Simon nodded. “He’s fifteen.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Fifteen?” The odd look didn’t leave his face. “But you’ve been married…”

“Ten years,” said Katrina. She gave him a tight smile. “My cousin’s son. We adopted him after she died. It worked out for the best.”

Tiny lines appeared in Wycliffe’s brow. “I see. And so Miss Wester was…”

“Also adopted,” said Katrina, “about a year after Luke. It was a hard time for her.” Her eyes narrowed. “We don’t like to talk about it, especially in public.”

Wycliffe spread his hands. “My apologies.” The puzzled expression faded from his face. “Pardon the curiosity of an old friend.” He frowned. “But there’s something I can’t quite remember…ah, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it will come to me in time.” Someone called out his name. “Oh. You’ll excuse me, I hope. I promised to give a few quick interviews. A pleasure seeing you again, Dr. Wester, and your family.” He smiled. “I’ll keep you in mind for a few jobs, in case you ever leave the University of Constantina.”

“Thank you,” said Simon. Wycliffe smiled and turned to greet a small throng of shouting reporters.

“Go,” said Katrina. Simon pushed and elbowed his way through the crowd, Katrina at his side, Ally and Lithon following. After much shoving, angry glares, and muttered apologies, they managed to reach the parking lot. The muggy night air fell over Ally like a thick blanket.

“Goddamn it, Simon,” said Katrina. “He saw us. Worse, he saw Lithon.”

“My name’s not Luke!” said Lithon, frowning. “Why did you say my name was Luke?”

“What was this all about?” said Ally. “You used to work for him. Why wouldn’t you…”

“Kids!” said Katrina, her voice rising to a shout. A man in a dark suit stood against the wall some distance away, gazing at the night sky. He turned at Katrina’s yell, and she offered him an irritated smile. “I’m sorry, okay? We can’t talk about it right now. Let’s just say…Wycliffe’s a bad man. Really rotten. Your Dad and I used to work for him, and we found out about some of this stuff.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone about this?” said Ally. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

The man in the suit stared at her.

“Yeah,” said Lithon. “If he’s a crook, he should go to jail.”

Katrina grimaced and leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Because Wycliffe doesn’t know we know. And if he knew, he’d kill us. And you, too.”

“Oh my God,” said Ally.

“That’s why we never told anyone,” said Katrina. “Wycliffe would know. And he’d kill us before the police could do anything. That’s why we can’t tell you everything. At least not yet. And you have to promise, you have to swear, to never tell anyone about this. Ever.”

“She’s right,” said Simon.

“I’m as serious as I’ve ever been in my life,” said Katrina.

“I promise,” whispered Lithon. He pantomimed locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key.

“I promise,” said Ally. The man in the suit began walking towards them at a slow pace, still staring at her. He was tall, with silver-streaked dark hair and deep, dark black eyes.

Something about his steady gaze unsettled her.

“Jeez,” said Lithon. “It’s getting cold.”

“Yeah,” said Ally, rubbing her arms. She wished she had worn something heavier.

“Let’s go home,” said Katrina.

“I’m hungry,” said Lithon.

“We can stop for burgers on the way,” said Katrina. They all stared at her. “What? It’s been a rough night. I don’t want to do any cooking.”

They started towards the car. Ally shot a glance over her shoulder. The man in the dark suit was following them at a distance, his eyes fixed on her. It had to be at least eighty degrees out, yet the air felt so cold. A terrible sense of danger began to chew at her.

She had seen the man in the suit somewhere before, she was sure of it, but she could not remember where.

Simon started the engine and threw it into drive. Ally stared out the window, still watching the man in the dark suit. A look of mixed surprise and rage came over his face. He lifted his hand and began to say something, his lips moving. Simon tapped the gas and pulled out into traffic, but before he did, Ally locked eyes with the dark man for an instant.

A shock of absolute terror shot down her spine. She wanted to throw open the door and run screaming. Ally felt the dark man’s eyes on the car until they turned the corner.

“Ally?” said Lithon. “You okay?”

Ally folded her arms and huddled into herself. “I don’t know.”

###

Wycliffe back to his limo, smiling. The night had gone rather well. A pity there hadn’t been more time to talk to Dr. Wester – the man was quite intelligent. But all in all, the evening would generate excellent publicity. Wycliffe had worried Marugon would disrupt things, but the Warlock had remained quiet, even muffling the aura of icy power that surrounded him. He had seemed content to remain by himself …

Wycliffe looked around the vast empty parking lot. Where was Marugon? He strode to the limo and tapped the window.

Fletcher stuck his head out. “Sir?”

“Have you seen Mr. Marugon?” said Wycliffe.

Fletcher frowned, the lines in his face deepening. “No. Not since we arrived.”

Wycliffe sighed. “Where …”

“Senator Wycliffe!”

Wycliffe almost jumped out his skin. Marugon strode out the darkness, his face a hard mask. The Warlock looked angrier than Wycliffe had even seen him, and his aura of dark power roiled like a storm.

“Lord Marugon,” said Wycliffe, “you scared me half…”

“Who is she?” said Marugon. His hands shook with rage.

“Who?” said Wycliffe, trying to battle the fear that had sprung loose in his mind. He had never seen Marugon this enraged. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“A girl. A young woman,” said Marugon, his voice a snarl. “Fair skinned, with red hair. Somewhat shorter than yourself. She wore a blue dress in the fashion of your world, with the arms and the lower legs left bare.”

Wycliffe shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. I must have spoken to a thousand people tonight. Interested in her as a paramour?”

Marugon’s gaze fell on him with almost physical force. “I care not for her body. Her aura, her…essence…it sparked about her like white flame. I have never seen such power locked away within a mortal. She has the potential to become mighty, greater than even Alastarius at his height. Or myself.”

Wycliffe gaped. “You mean this girl has the potential to learn the white magic?”

Marugon growled. “Potential? It is already in her, waiting for release. I do not understand. How is this even possible? No one on this world has the white or black magic, save for us. And I taught you.” He stared into the night. “She must have come from my world. Damnation. But how? I slew all the Wizards, I hunted them down and I killed every last one of them.” He seemed to sag, weariness coming over his face. “Why now? I am so close.”

“Close to what?” said Wycliffe.

Marugon’s iron mask returned. “It matters not. You are occupied with other concerns. I shall find this girl, whoever she is. But you. My time may run short. You will bring the nuclear bomb to me, and you will do it as soon as possible.” Shadows had gathered in his eyes, transforming them into gates into an endless void.

Wycliffe swallowed. “I’ll call Kurkov as soon as we get back.”

Chapter 17 - Interrogation

Year of the Councils 972

Distant thunder boomed.

Arran stopped and squinted at the horizon. Sandy dirt and dried grasses gritted beneath his boots, and clouds broiled in the western sky. Insects buzzed and droned over the dry plains of Antarese’s southern marches. Arran rubbed his hand over his dry lips and continued northwest, his eyes on the clouds. Flashes of brilliant light lit the sky, followed by low rumbles.

He smelled rain. He had neither seen nor smelled any rain for a very long time.

The sky grew darker. Arran kept going, puffs of brown dust rising up around his heels. The clouds raced overhead, and the thunder grew louder. Something warm and wet struck his cheek. He lifted his face to the sky just as the heavens opened. Sheets of rain fell, and Arran spread his arms and let the rain soak into his dusty clothes and his dry skin. It felt good. He pulled his waterskin from his belt and drank his fill, something he had never been able to do in the Desert of Scorpions.

He had returned to the High Kingdoms.

Or what remained of them.

Finding water was now the least of his problems.

The rain soon passed, the storm sweeping south across the Antardrim plains. The stars began to come out in the darkening sky.

“Antardrim storm,” muttered Arran, trudging on. “That’s how the riders of Antarese got their name. The squalls.” He made himself stop talking. Since Siduri’s death, he had developed the bad habit of talking to himself. Without the survival knowledge Siduri had taught him during their journey, he would have perished a hundred times in the Desert.

How many times had she saved his life?

Night fell. Arran looked around for a place to camp. He saw nothing likely.

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” he whispered.

He could walk for a few more miles before he rested.

###

Arran continued his journey across Antarese. The plains lay empty and quiet, so different from the days when Antardrim riders had thundered across the earth. Arran took a twenty mile loop to avoid the Emerald Field and the charred ruins of Antarese.

He could not have borne the sight.

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” he said over and over again as he traveled through the high grasses, sometimes walking, sometimes jogging. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He could not rest much. He spent most of his time walking ever farther to the north and the west.

And the Tower of Endless Worlds drew ever closer.

###

Twelve days after leaving the Desert of Scorpions, he entered the rolling hills and woods of Carlisan.

The countryside had fallen into waste and neglect. Most of the kingdom’s peasants had been slain or enslaved in Marugon’s conquest, and few had survived. Those Arran encountered fled inside at his approach, barred the doors to their ragged huts, and did not reemerge until he had passed. He could not blame them. Bands of Marugon’s soldiers ranged through the High Kingdoms, stealing and killing at will. The winged demons hunted for food and mates in the dark of the night. Women and children disappeared and were never seen again.

With his victory complete, Lord Marugon seemed content to let his conquests slide into chaos and barbarism.

The old rage rekindled in Arran’s heart. He almost became the Ghost of Carlisan once more, hunting Marugon’s soldiers and monsters. But he did not. He had done so once before and failed. He could not prevail, and the old despair lay that way. And Siduri’s last words played in his mind, driving him towards the Tower and Earth.

He passed the gleaming marble ruins of Carlisan itself one day, still white despite the explosions and the carnage of the city’s fall. The ruins had become a stronghold for Marugon’s men, the city’s population reduced to slave labor in the surrounding fields. Arran slipped unseen through the soldiers and their slaves alike. He did not want to return to Carlisan, to the streets where his brother Luthar’s bones lay. He passed the road where Princess Anna had died, her body torn to shreds by the bullets.

He remembered how her brother Lithon had fallen from her arms. Arran had saved him, snatching the child from the air while the Knights had been slaughtered all around him…

He walked on through the entire day and most of the night until the ruins vanished behind him.

Carlisan held too many memories for him.

The next day he saw a group of about twenty soldiers marching north. Arran waited until they stopped to camp, and then slipped in to listen to their conversation. They had received orders from Prince Styr-Mar-Dan, King Goth-Mar-Dan’s brother, to march to Ramshackle, a ragged town of Marugon’s soldiers that had arisen in the Border Woods of Narramore.

A man named Kaemarz had been put in command of the town.

That caught Arran’s attention. Kaemarz had once been a notorious bandit of Carlisan’s Ruin Hills. When Marugon had returned with guns and fire, Kaemarz and his band had joined the Warlock. In reward Kaemarz had become Marugon’s caravan master, in charge of the shipments of guns and weapons that had come through the Tower of Endless Worlds from Earth.

Arran debated with himself, and then made up his mind.

He knew how to reach the Tower of Endless Worlds. Yet he had never seen the Tower, and did not know the way to Earth itself.

The soldiers broke camp and continued their march north. Arran trailed unseen behind them.

Kaemarz knew things Arran needed to know.

###

A haze of smoke hung over the clearing, mingling with the smells of blood and sweat and human waste.

Arran crouched behind a fallen log and stared at the filthy little town in the clearing. Ramshackle lived up to its name. Years ago, twenty of Marugon’s soldiers had slaughtered five hundred Carlisene footmen, six Knights, and a Wizard in this clearing. Since then a combination barracks, trading post, tavern, and brothel had grown up on the site, all surrounded by a palisade. Now Marugon’s soldiers often stopped at Ramshackle to resupply and rest on their journeys to and from the ancient stronghold of the Warlocks at Castamar in the Wastes.

Arran remained still, flexing his muscles to keep them from stiffening. The troop of twenty soldiers marched into Ramshackle, dispersing into the taverns and brothels. He waited as darkness crept over the earth and bonfires blazed to life within the town. When the sun had vanished Arran rose, slid out of his cloak, and removed both his Sacred Blade and Luthar’s. He wrapped both swords in his cloak, tied it into a bundle, and slung it over his shoulder. The Sacred Blades would reveal his identity, since none of Marugon’s soldiers dared to carry them.

He strode towards the town, moving without sound. With his worn clothes, his guns, and the bundle over his shoulder, Arran looked like one of Marugon’s soldiers. A sleepy gunman with a Kalashnikov stood guard at the palisade’s gate. He jerked, swore, and leveled his weapon as Arran approached.

“Halt!” he said. “The password.” His finger tightened over the trigger. “Password!”

“Conquest,” said Arran. He’d heard the officer of the twenty soldiers speak it. “Let me pass. I have urgent messages for Master Kaemarz.”

The gunman laughed. “Master Kaemarz? That arse-licking toad isn’t fit to wash my boots, let alone be a master. ‘Master’ Kaemarz never gets urgent messages.”

Arran tapped the bundle over his shoulder. “Nevertheless, I have urgent messages for him.”

The soldier’s hard eyes narrowed. “Do you, now? All our couriers have horses. If you’re a courier, where’s your horse?”

Arran glared back. “My horse broke a leg. I’ve had to walk half the distance to this stinking hole.”

The gunman laughed. “Pity. Well, I’ll make you a deal. A bit of copper, and I’ll let you in. Some silver would be better. Or maybe you’d let me look through that package on your back, aye?”

“No,” said Arran. “You’ll let me in now.”

The gunman sneered and hefted his weapon. “You’d best run along, unless you’re willing to pay.” His sneer twisted into a smirk. “Who’d question another corpse in the morning, aye?”

“Prince Styr-Mar-Dan would,” said Arran.

The gunman blinked. “Who?”

“Prince Styr-Mar-Dan,” said Arran. “Master of the winged ones since King Goth-Mar-Dan departed for Earth. The Prince would be most displeased if his messages to Master Kaemarz did not arrive.”

The soldier went bone white. He pushed the gate open and stepped aside, sputtering apologies. Arran strode past without sparing him another glance.

Torchlight cast laughing shadows over Ramshackle’s narrow streets, and mud and filth squished beneath Arran’s boots. Wild laughter, singing, and screams rose from the taverns and the brothels. Arran smelled a strange mixture of gunpowder, blood, and smoke in the air.

A squat building of dried mud and rough-cut logs sat in the center of town. A gunman sat sleeping on a nearby stool, failing to guard a door hidden behind a curtain. Arran stepped to the curtain and listened. He heard someone moving around inside, footsteps thumping against floorboards.

Arran pushed aside the curtain and slipped aside.

The only light came from a lantern hanging from the ceiling. Boxes of bullets and grenades stood stacked alongside one wall, alongside sacks of gunpowder. A plank table stood in the center of the room, its surface covered by maps and papers. A man in a ragged black uniform stood over the table, leaning on a crutch, his back to Arran. His raspy breathing scraped against Arran’s ears.

“I said I was not to be bothered,” said the man, his voice raspy. “Go to the brothel and drink yourself into a stupor with the other rabble.”

“Master Kaemarz,” said Arran, stepping forward.

The man laughed and turned. His face was a patchwork of scars, his eyes concealed behind greasy locks of brown-gray hair. A Glock hung in a holster at his belt. “Master Kaemarz?” He spat. “No one calls me master, though I am in command of this miserable sty. What in hell do you wish of me?”

“I have been sent with a message,” said Arran.

Kaemarz growled and glanced at his maps. “You’re a courier, then? Bah. I have no use for couriers. Whoever sent you, I cannot answer his demands. My men are vermin, and I have no extra supplies.”

Arran folded his arms. “I was sent by Prince Styr-Mar-Dan.”

Kaemarz flinched, his crutch rapping against the floor. “Styr-Mar-Dan? The prince of the winged ones?”

“The same. Do you know of any others?” said Arran.

Kaemarz hissed. “Don’t get cocky with me, young fool. I know the demon prince. What does he want of me?”

“A simple request and nothing more,” said Arran. “The route to Earth through the Tower of Endless Worlds. Prince Styr-Mar-Dan wants it.”

“Why?” said Kaemarz.

Arran blinked. “He wishes to send a message to his brother on Earth.”

Kaemarz’s tongue ran over his yellow teeth. “Indeed? The prince may send a message via our caravans. One leaves in another month, I believe,” his scowl deepened, “though such matters are no longer my province.”

“He wants to send the message himself,” said Arran.

Kaemarz squinted. “It has always been customary to send messages with the caravans. Even Lord Marugon sent messages this way, during his visits to the other world.”

Arran shrugged. “Do you think I am fool enough to question a prince of the winged ones? He wants the map to Earth. I was sent to get it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Kaemarz. He coughed and turned back to the table. “You know, they despise each other.”

“Who?” said Arran, feigning impatience.

“Styr-Mar-Dan and Goth-Mar-Dan,” said Kaemarz. “Prince and King of the winged ones. Goth-Mar-Dan killed all his other brothers. Only Styr-Mar-Dan survived. He was smart,” Kaemarz tapped the side of his head with a dirty finger, “and he survived by submitting himself to Goth-Mar-Dan.”

Arran’s unease grew. Kaemarz suspected something. “What do I care for their history? It means nothing to me.”

“Indeed not,” said Kaemarz. He coughed, his free hand dropping to his side. “What does it mean? Styr-Mar-Dan hates his brother. He would have no reason to send a message.” Kaemarz coughed again, his head bowing. “I think you’re not a courier. I think you’re a fraud.”

“You call me a…”

Kaemarz whirled, drawing his Glock so fast Arran barely had time to follow the movement. Arran flung himself to the side as Kaemarz fired. The shots rang like thunder in the room, blasting splinters from the wall. Arran drove his fist into Kaemarz’s wrist, sending the gun flying. Kaemarz growled in pain and stumbled against the table.

“Mercy,” gasped Kaemarz, raising his free hand. His other clutched his crutch in a death grip. “Mercy on an old man, I beg you.”

Arran stepped forward. “Tell me…”

Something clicked. The bottom half of the crutch fell away, revealing a gleaming blade. Kaemarz swung the weapon with a yell. Arran tried to spin away, and the blade sheared through his improvised bundle. The Sacred Blades tumbled free with a clatter. Kaemarz thrust, but Arran jumped back, drew one of his pistols, and leveled it at Kaemarz’s face.

“Drop the blade,” said Arran.

Kaemarz sneered. “You wouldn’t dare. The shots would draw the others.”

“Not likely. You shot three holes in that wall. No one came. And even if someone comes,” Arran hefted the gun, “it doesn’t matter. Your brains will still be splattered all over the walls.”

Kaemarz thought it over. He cast aside the crutch-blade with a curse. “Renegade. Damn you. What is it you wish? Gold? I have very little. Ammunition? Weapons?” He gestured at the heap against the wall. “Take all you wish. It means naught to me.”

“I don’t want either,” said Arran. “I told you before what I want. The route through the Tower of Endless Worlds to Earth.”

Kaemarz squinted at him. “You’re a fool. Or mad. The Tower is a place of perils that crush men’s minds.” His eyes fell on the Sacred Blades lying on the floor. Breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “You. It has to be you. You’re him, aren’t you? Damnation! You’re supposed to be dead!”

“What are you babbling about?” said Arran.

“The Ghost of Carlisan.” Arran flinched at the name, and Kaemarz cackled. “Yes, yes. The young Knight who took up Lord Marugon’s guns? You would not believe the bounty his Lordship put on your elusive head.” His face twisted with fear and fury. “But you’re supposed to be dead! Two of Goth-Mar-Dan’s sons were sent to bring back your head.”

Arran made himself smile. “Baal-Mar-Dan and Khan-Mar-Dan?” Kaemarz jerked. “I killed them both.” He tapped his Sacred Blade with his boot. “With this very blade.” He went to one knee, keeping his gun level, and drew his Sacred Blade from its scabbard. The weapon flashed a deep crimson in the lantern light, the color of Siduri’s spilled blood. He pointed the sword at Kaemarz. “Do you know what this is?”

Kaemarz’s face twisted. “A Sacred Blade of the Knight of the Order.” He smirked. “I saw hundreds of them, when my men shot down the Knights like armored dogs.”

Arran’s finger twitched over the trigger. Kaemarz got the message and stopped talking. “By the white magic woven into the sword, I will know if you speak falsely.” That was a lie, but Arran doubted Kaemarz knew that. “Now you will tell me how to traverse the Tower and reach Earth.”

Kaemarz licked his lips. “And if I do, you’ll let me live?”

Arran nodded. “Provided you abstain from treachery.”

“Very well.” Kaemarz’s lips stretched in a hideous grin. “The Tower lies on the other side of the world, in the midst of the Crimson Plain…”

“I know the way to the Tower,” said Arran. “You will tell me the way through it.”

Kaemarz laughed. “Ah. I see. So, you have never seen the Tower, have you?” Arran didn’t answer. “You must never have seen it. Otherwise you would not be so eager to seek it out, Ghost of Carlisan.” His face tightened with memory. “You’ve never seen the ghouls that hunt the Crimson Plain at night. Or the worse things, the things that sometime come out of the Tower? No, no, you’ve never seen those, have you?” He leaned forward, his lined face a mask in the dim light. “And you’ve never see the Tower itself. So vast and black. The arches and the black windows and the statues of the monsters.” He uttered a wheezing laugh. “And it’s crumbling, you know. Falling. The Tower is falling. There are black holes in the walls…”

“Old man,” said Arran, “I don’t have much time. And neither will you, unless you tell me what I want to know.”

Kaemarz spat. “Then throw yourself into the darkness, Ghost, and may it consume you. Here then is the path through the Tower, mark well my words. There is a vast gate in the base of the Tower. You must enter through it.” His eyes grew distant with the recollection. “You will find yourself in a vast chamber, shaped like a cylinder. A giant statue of a nude woman stands in the center.” He traced circles in the air with a finger. “There are balconies, thousands of them, ringing the chamber, stretching as high as the eye can see. Twelve passages lead from each balcony. There must be countless thousands. Endless worlds.”

“Which one do I take?” said Arran.

“The seventh one, clockwise.” Kaemarz’s lip curled. “His Lordship’s sigil has been burned into the stone before the passage.”

“A clawed hand clutching a burning eye.”

“Yes. That is it.” Kaemarz rubbed his throat with a gnarled hand. “You will walk down a passage of red granite for a long time. Its walls are carved with images of strange nine-eyed devils. It ends in a chamber of gray stone. There stands a fountain of poisoned water. Three passages lead off. The leftmost has Lord Marugon’s sigil.”

“So I shall take that one.”

“Oh, no.” Kaemarz chuckled. “That was once the way to the other world. But no longer. The passages beyond have collapsed.” He laughed again. “Do you know what’s behind the walls of the Tower? Nothing. Nothing at all. Blackness. But you can feel the emptiness watching you. It’s alive, I think, the darkness behind the Tower.”

Arran tapped his sword’s point against Kaemarz’s chest. “I did not come here for the ramblings of a corrupt old man. Which passage from the room of the fountain?”

Kaemarz’s bloodshot eyes glittered. “The rightmost. It opens into a vast corridor, bigger than the ruined temples in Carlisan. It leads to the largest chamber I have seen in the Tower, at least a mile wide. A great silver seal, nearly a quarter mile across, is set in its floor.”

The hair on the back of Arran’s neck stood up. “A seal?” The Ildramyn had shown him a chamber with a vast seal.

“Yes, a seal,” said Kaemarz. “Carved with what blasphemies I know not. Walk straight across. From there you will enter another great chamber. This one is filled with tombs and sarcophagi of stone, all carved with faces and names.” He shuddered. “And ghosts, gray specters and skeletons cloaked in mist. On the far wall is another doorway with his Lordship’s seal. It branches into seven further corridors. Take the center one. From there you will reach a chamber with five sealed doors of stone. These doors open to Earth, the other world.” He cackled. “If you live long enough to reach them. The Tower’s perils are many. There are monsters loose within the Tower. Sometimes they claim men. Other times I saw men slip and fall into the holes in the floor. They screamed for a very long time. And sometimes, men vanished for no reason at all.”

“I care not,” said Arran.

Kaemarz spat again. “So, tell me, Ghost of Carlisan? Have I led you false? Have I deceived you?”

Arran lowered his Sacred Blade, but kept the gun fixed on the old man’s face. “No.” He hoped not, at least. “You said five doors open to Earth. Which door is safest to take?”

Kaemarz’s eyes gleamed. “The center.” His lips twitched. “Marked with his Lordship’s sigil.”

Arran was almost certain Kaemarz had lied. “Very well.”

Kaemarz smiled. “Now you’ll leave me in peace, I pray?”

“I shall,” said Arran. He reversed his Sacred Blade and jammed it into its scabbard, keeping his gun leveled. “And I trust you’ll not seek me out?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Kaemarz.

Arran smiled. “Good. Let me help you keep your word.” He slipped one of his remaining grenades from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the pile of ammunition and gunpowder sacks.

Kaemarz’s greasy face went white. “You idiot! You’ll…”

“You’ll want to run,” said Arran, lowering his gun towards his holster.

Kaemarz whirled, his hand dipping to the top of his boot. He straightened, a tiny revolver gleaming in his hand. “You bastard! I’ll get the bounty for your head…”

But Arran had only feigned holstering his weapon. His arm snapped up, and he squeezed the trigger. His shots slammed into Kaemarz’s chest. The former bandit chief howled and fell across the table, blood splattering across his maps.

Arran turned and ran, kicking aside the curtain at the door. The gunman on the stool grunted, eyes widening as he groped for his weapon. Arran lashed out with the butt of his pistol. The gunman fell with a cry, and Arran ran as fast as he could, his boots churning up mud.

The building exploded.

A huge ball of white-orange fire shot into the black sky, flaming chunks of wood raining in all directions. The ground shook, and the shock of the blast knocked Arran from his feet. He cursed and threw an arm over his face. Something twisted and metallic landed next to his head with a sizzle. It was the remnants of Kaemarz’s sword-crutch.

Arran scrambled to his feet and looked around. Chunks of wreckage had caught in Ramshackle’s roofs, setting the thatch ablaze. Doors exploded open, drunken and half-dressed soldiers stumbling out into the night.

Arran ran for the stables near the gate. A trio of horses stood in the pen, nickering in fear. Arran vaulted the fence, yanked his Sacred Blade free, and slashed the ties on the nearest horse. The beast reared and tried to bolt. Arran clamped a hand on its face, calmed it down, and jumped into the saddle. He snapped the reins, jumped the fence, and galloped for Ramshackle’s gate. Soldiers ran back and forth through the streets, yelling in panic. Some saw the Sacred Blade in his hand and fell back in fear, screaming about the Ghost of Carlisan.

Arran reached the gate. It stood open, the guard gaping at the raging fire consuming the town. Then he saw Arran and cursed, raising his weapon, but not before Arran swung his sword in a crimson blur. The guard’s face exploded into bloody ruin. The horse trampled the corpse and galloped free of Ramshackle.

Arran cursed. He should have shot the guard. No one fought with swords any longer. The soldiers would recognize the wound, once they gathered their wits. He reined up once he reached the edge of the woods and risked a glance over his shoulder.

Ramshackle was ablaze. It would take them some time to organize any pursuit.

Arran turned the horse and rode like hell.

Chapter 18 - The Assassin

Anno Domini 2012

Senator Jones quivered like gelatin, his eyes fixed on Goth.

Wycliffe reached into the limousine’s mini-fridge. “You could use a drink.”

Jones kept staring at Goth, his fingers twitching, sweat beading on his face. Goth stared back, his face impassive beneath the black sunglasses and black beard.

“William,” said Wycliffe. “You look sick. Make sure you drink something before we arrive. And for God’s sake, smile.”

Goth’s lips split in a hideous grin, the tips of his yellowed fangs visible, and his sunglasses flickered with red light.

Senator Jones shrieked and jerked back into his seat, his hands clawing at the door.

“Sit still!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling. Jones went rigid, and Wycliffe glared at Goth. “Control yourself.”

Goth chuckled.

“Very funny,” said Wycliffe. “How well do you think this appearance will go if the future president of the United States soils himself?”

Goth said nothing.

Wycliffe sighed. “Try to restrain yourself. These solid citizens of Middle America have never seen the likes of you before.” He dropped his voice. “And make certain things go as I wish.”

Goth made a tiny nod.

“And you, Senator!” said Wycliffe, fusing the Voice into his speech. “You do not look good at all! Have some wine to steady your nerves. But not too much. And clean yourself up. You look like you have the flu.” Jones pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “And smile! You’re a presidential candidate, damn it.”

Senator Jones shuddered once and smiled. It did not reach his eyes, but that didn’t matter. Wycliffe had never seen a politician that smiled with his eyes.

“Senator!” The privacy window dropped, and Fletcher peered back. “Senator, we’re almost here.”

“Ah.” Wycliffe straightened his tie. “Good.” He retrieved his new smartphone and dialed. “Markham?”

“Yes, sir,” came Markham’s voice.

“Is everything ready?” said Wycliffe. “All the reporters in place?”

“Ah…yes," said Markham. Wycliffe heard the hubbub of busy conversation in the background. "The TV cameras are there. Friendly print reporters and bloggers are in place, as are the Gracchan Party spectators.”

Wycliffe grinned. “Our disinterested passers-by. Always useful.”

“You’ll be on local channel six,” said Markham. “The national networks will pick it up for the six o’clock and ten o’clock news. We’re not going to get front-page in the newspapers tomorrow…these sorts of appearances have become too common, I’m afraid. But we will get in the first five. And all our friendly blogs will run the speech on the top of their sites, of course.”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “We might want to cut back just a bit, ride out the summer with fewer appearances and pick up the pace in late August or early September. We wouldn’t want to saturate the electorate.”

“Agreed,” said Markham.

The limousine pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned factory. People packed the parking lot, many of them waving signs and Gracchan Party placards. “Markham? Just one more thing. Where the hell am I?”

Markham laughed. “Cashwell, Indiana.”

Wycliffe looked out the window at the rotting industrial cityscape and repressed a sneer. “God. All these little Indiana industrial hellholes look the same after a while.”

“They do at that,” said Markham. “I just thank God I’m from Wisconsin.”

Wycliffe withheld comment.

The limousine shuddered to a halt. “Well, we’re here,” said Wycliffe. “Wish us luck.”

“Good luck, Senator. I’ll be watching.” Markham hung up.

Wycliffe leveled a finger at Jones and charged his words with the Voice. “Do exactly as I have instructed you. Is that understood?”

Senator Jones managed to sputter out a yes. Goth’s sunglasses met Wycliffe’s eyes and inclined in a slight nod.

“Fletcher! Wait for us here,” said Wycliffe. He took a deep breath, put on his Senator’s smile, and pushed open the limousine door.

The crowd roared, and the summer air struck Wycliffe like a slap. Close to three thousand people filled the parking lot. He had hoped for more, but this would do. This gambit would either make or break his polls until the heavy campaigning season began in the fall.

Wycliffe and Senator Jones moved up a cleared aisle, shaking hands, a pair of slouching thugs in black leather jackets and sunglasses trailing them. A stage with a podium and a row of seats had been set up near the abandoned factory’s front doors. The town’s mayor and town council waited, beaming. Wycliffe and Jones climbed up to the platform and shook hands with the town’s luminaries. He caught a glimpse of Goth walking around to one of the other cars in the motorcade. Senator Jones took a seat, as did the other people on the platform. Wycliffe walked to the podium and made a show of shuffling his notes.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Wycliffe let his eyes scan the crowd. Most of them were men in jeans and T-shirts. “You’ll forgive, I hope, my speaking in place of my esteemed colleague Senator Jones. But Senator Jones thinks I am a better speaker. I am not, I assure you, but if I’ve learned anything in politics, it’s to grin and say ‘yes sir’ when the boss gives an order.” The crowd laughed. “And you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I say that I wish I did not have to make a speech here at all.” The crowd stared at him with stony faces.

It was almost too perfect. The factory behind him had shut down when its corporate board of directors had decided to maximize profits by transferring production to China. Now an example and a magnificent opportunity had just been dropped into Wycliffe’s lap.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen, six months ago I would have had no need to come to the fair community of Cashwell, Indiana,” said Wycliffe, risking a quick glance down at his notes. “Six months ago the Orchestra Manufacturing Company was still in the business of producing,” he shot another glance at his notes, “producing screws, nuts, bolts, nails and other small parts.” He leveled a finger at the crowd. “The experts may say the economy has gone high-tech. They may say computers are the way of the future. Well I say that without nuts and screws, those precious computers would fall apart in the laps of those so-called experts!”

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.”

“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 give 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?”

“In the dark days of Marugon’s return,” said Targath. “He hoped to cut through the Old Mire to reach Castle Bastion before Marugon. He lost his way, and I guided him from the swamp.” He shook his head. “It was a fool’s quest. And it sounds as if this Prophecy about Lithon was a fool’s quest as well.”

Arran shrugged. “Perhaps. But if anyone could have accomplished it, Sir Liam would have found the way. And Marugon heard the Prophecy as well. Would he have thought to seek Lithon on Earth?”

“No. I suppose not.” Targath gestured with his free hand. The other men faded into the swamp, leaving the old tribesman alone with Arran. “He was always audacious, never practical.” Arran raised an eyebrow. “I fought with him in the wars against the Black Council, when you were but a boy.”

“A squire,” said Arran, “I was a squire then.”

“One and the same,” said Targath. “He was always daring. Yet such was his ability and courage that he always won. If anyone could accomplish this fool’s quest, it was Sir Liam. If he did not perish on the Crimson Plain. Or amongst the perils of the Tower. Or by the horrors that must fill Earth. And now you, too, embark on your own fool’s quest.”

Arran shrugged. “I have no other choice. I tried to fight the soldiers and failed.”

“Marugon has won,” said Targath. “The High Kingdoms are rubble. Yet Marugon seems to have little interest in what he has conquered! His empire crumbles, from what we have seen. The winged devils and bands of soldiers are carving out little kingdoms of their own.” His eyes glinted. “You could join us. We can always use another skilled fighter. And there is more to the world than just the High Kingdoms and the Old Mire. Your fight is lost. Why not travel to some distant realm, find a good woman, and marry?”

Arran blinked. “A good woman.” Siduri flashed through his mind. “I could not.” Siduri had loved him, he saw that now. Yet he could not have loved her back. Guilt tugged at him. Suppose they had not gone to the cavern of the Ildramyn? Suppose they had struck out together for unknown lands? Might she still be alive?

But Khan-Mar-Dan would have found them, sooner or later.

Arran shook his head. “I cannot turn back. I may be damned, as Sir Liam thought. But if I turn back, then I know I am damned for all time, for I will have betrayed them all. My brother Luthar,” he touched the Sacred Blade slung over his shoulder, “Sir Liam, Siduri…”

Targath shook his head. “You Knights are madmen.”

Arran laughed. “We are at that.”

“Come,” said Targath. “I shall show you the way to Castle Bastion.”

“I can find my own way out of this stinking swamp,” said Arran. “And I’m not going to Castle Bastion.”

Targath raised bushy eyebrows. “My tribe and I live in this stinking swamp. I can show you the fastest way through. And you’ll want to go to Castle Bastion.”

“Why?” said Arran.

Targath made some sort of sign to ward off evil. “There are ghosts there.”

Arran frowned. “What?”

“Ghosts,” said Targath. “Some of the young men hunt to the west, searching for game. At night they see pale ghosts in the ruins of the castle, calling to them. One brave young man followed them, and the ghosts vanished as he approached. So I went to see them for myself.” A shiver went through his rugged face. “I saw the ghosts…a woman, a young man, and an old man wrapped in a ragged cloak. I dared not come any closer, and have not dared approach Castle Bastion since.”

Arran shuddered. “I want naught to do with spirits.” He had seen wraiths and specters during his journey with Sir Liam, haunting the ruins of the Forgotten Vales. Only the magic of their Sacred Blades had kept the wraiths away.

“A wise choice,” said Targath. “But I do not think these spirits are wicked. I think they are waiting.”

Arran frowned. “Waiting? For who?”

“For you,” said Targath.

Arran laughed. “Me? I have only been to Castle Bastion once before, and that was fifteen years past. I was but a boy. Why would they wait for me?”

“Because you are a man haunted by many ghosts,” said Targath. “Ghosts of memory. And they are not waiting for us. We of the tribes are not native to this land. You are a Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade, a man of the High Kingdoms, and the first Knight to travel through these lands since Sir Liam. I think they are waiting for you.”

“Perhaps it is a trap,” said Arran, “some trick of Marugon’s black magic.”

“I doubt that,” said Targath. “The winged devils avoid the ruins.” He smiled. “Spirits are perilous, true, but I think you should visit the ruins. You are on a fool’s quest, just as Sir Liam before you. What have you to lose?”

Arran looked at the ground. “Perhaps you’re right.”

###

“Here.” Targath pointed. The last traces of the swamp ended, rising up into rocky, wooded hills. “This is the edge of the Old Mire. An old road leads to Castle Bastion. It is almost overgrown now, but it is still passable.”

Arran turned and gripped Targath’s hand. “Thank you.” The old man had provided him with supplies. “I shall repay your generosity, if ever I am able.”

Targath sighed. “I do not think we shall meet again. I said as much to Sir Liam when we parted.”

“Perhaps.” Arran grinned. “But listen. Watch for me. If I survive, and if I return, I’ll come back one day, and we’ll share a drink, you hear?”

Targath laughed. “A fine idea! I shall watch for you, but I shall watch in vain, I think. I wish you good fortune, Arran Belphon, for you will need all the luck you can muster.” He faded into the swamp.

Arran set off for the road. He hoped to reach the ruins of Castle Bastion before nightfall.

###

Dark clouds heavy with the promise of rain masked the sky as Arran made his way through the hills. The thought did not trouble Arran. After his time in the Desert of Scorpions, he had come to appreciate damp weather. The wind picked up, forlorn moans coming from the trees. No wonder Targath’s tribe thought the ruins haunted.

At last Arran came to the crest of a hill and swept his gaze over a desolate valley.

“Gods,” he muttered. “It is a ruin.”

Castle Bastion sat atop a broad hill, its outer walls heaps of rubble, its inner walls marred with huge breaches. Craters pockmarked its surviving towers. It looked less like a castle and more a rubble heap. Arran remembered Castle Bastion as a mighty fortress, surrounded by productive and content peasants. Now it was nothing more than a crumbling wreck.

“Like the rest of the High Kingdoms,” said Arran. Still, perhaps he could take shelter for the night in the ruins.

He scaled the castle’s hill, climbed over the wreckage of the gate, and glanced around the courtyard. Stones, bits of rusted armor, and bleached bones lay scattered about. The doors to the keep lay in a broken heap across the steps, and half the stone arch had collapsed. Arran picked his way across the courtyard, scrambled up the rubble-strewn steps, and entered the keep.

Shafts of dusty light illuminated the corridor, and bones covered the floor. Bits of rags still clung to some. Arran knelt and picked up a strip of rag. It crumbled into dust, but it had been white linen at one time.

“The Wizards,” he said. Bullets lay everywhere among the bones, no doubt the bullets that had slain the Wizards. Arran considered leaving. There was nothing for him here but dust and bones. And if restless spirits did wander the ruins after dark, Arran doubted they would be friendly.

Yet he pressed on, taking care to keep from crushing bones beneath his heels.

He entered a large inner courtyard. A huge pile of broken rock in the center of the courtyard drew his eye. It looked like a cairn. He walked towards it and felt his Sacred Blade warm. He blinked in alarm and drew the sword. No light shone from the crimson blade, which means there was no black magic here. Yet the sword had responded to some power in the cairn.

Arran circled the pile. He felt something, some low buzz of power that made the hair on his arms stand up. A piece of brilliant white marble stood at the foot of the cairn, words carved onto its surface. Arran knelt and brushed the dust from the stone.

“Here lies Alastarius, Master of the White Council,” read Arran. “A great man, yet one who died in vain, for the world is lost and all is destroyed.”

Arran stared at the inscription for a long time. Wind whistled through the courtyard, blowing up swirls of dust.

Arran stood. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He looked at the cairn.

It seems he had found Alastarius without even reaching Earth. Arran stood with his head lowered in thought, Siduri’s last words playing through his mind. Had they been the last words of a woman half-mad from pain, or something more? Alastarius had Prophesied his own return. He had said Lithon would bring him back. And Lithon was on Earth, assuming he had Sir Liam had survived the dangers of the Tower.

Arran kicked the cairn. “Damn you.” A chunk of stone fell free with a thump. “Damn you and your Prophecies. Sir Liam was willing to follow them to the death, and now so am I.” There was nothing else he could do. “I hope I do find you on Earth. Then I can curse you to your face. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

The shadows had grown long in the courtyard. Arran changed his mind about sheltering for the night in the ruins. Castle Bastion was a tomb. He had no desire to spend any more time in this place of ghosts and forgotten memories. The trees would serve as adequate shelter.

He climbed out of the other side of the ruins and set off for the forest.

###

Arran blinked awake.

Someone else was here.

Thick fingers of mist wound their way among the trunks, brushing him with cool, damp air. He lay still, his eyes roving through the darkness. He felt unseen eyes watching him. A strange sense of another presence filled him, yet for some reason he did not feel alarmed. The presence felt somehow familiar.

A white glow lit the mists. Arran stood up and reached for his weapons. The sense of familiarity grew. He stood and drew his Sacred Blade.

He saw a shape moving through the mists. Arran’s eyes widened. “Siduri!”

For just a moment he glimpsed Siduri in the white glow. She looked just as he remembered her, strong, full of confidence, a mocking glint in her eyes. She beckoned to him and then vanished into the mist. Arran stumbled down the hill after her, trying not to trip and fall on his sword. The Sacred Blade jerked in his hand, a thrum of power going through the steel. Tiny pinpricks of white light flared in the blade. For some reason he thought the light came from the blood soaked into the metal, rather than the weapon itself.

Siduri appeared in the swirling mist fifty feet away, white light glimmering around her. The sword jerked towards her, trembling in Arran’s grasp. She smiled and beckoned to him before vanishing once more.

“I’m a fool,” muttered Arran. “This has to be a dream.”

Yet he pressed on.

Siduri disappeared and reappeared, leading him on through the mists. The ruined walls of Castle Bastion came into sight once more, tendrils of mist crawling through the breaches. Siduri stood near the smashed gate, holding out her hand. Arran half-ran, half-stumbled up the path and over the rubble.

“This is maddening,” he muttered. He saw Siduri near the breach that led into the courtyard with Alastarius’s cairn, beckoning to him. Arran grimaced, got a better grip on his Sacred Blade, and followed her.

He walked into the courtyard. A faint white glow shone from the cairn, leaking out from the gaps between the stones. The white light coalesced, and Siduri stepped from the cairn. She wore the brown of the Scorpions and carried her black spear, yet some of the white light seemed to shine from within her.

Arran stared at her. “Siduri.”

Her lips tugged in a smile. “Arran Belphon of Carlisan.”

Arran shook his head. “This has to be a dream. You’re dead. I saw you die.”

Siduri laughed. “It is good that your eyes are not failing you.”

Arran blinked. “Just my mind, it seems.”

“Your mind is not failing you,” said Siduri. “I did die in the desert. And I am here.” She drifted towards him, gliding over the stones.

Arran’s jaw worked. “I am sorry. It is my fault you died. It is my fault Khan-Mar-Dan killed you…”

Siduri laughed. “Foolish man. Khan-Mar-Dan killed me. Not you.”

Arran shook his head. “He followed me. He would not have found you if not for me. You…you would not have died if it were not for me.”

Siduri’s green eyes seemed to glimmer with their own inner light. He remembered her standing over him as he lay crippled and dying in her clan’s Hold, the white magic flaring in her eyes as she worked a spell over him. “Yet I regret it not. I knew the hour of my death. My destiny was fulfilled. Alastarius’s charge to me was fulfilled.”

Arran scowled. “Alastarius.”

The white light shimmered. “It was duty that made me wait. Yet it was for love of you that I followed you into the desert, that I took you to the Ildramyn.”

“I know,” whispered Arran. “You saved me. You…sacrificed yourself for me.”

Siduri smiled. “I regret it not. And I have come back one more time, for love of you. You must let it go. My death was not your responsibility.”

“It…” Arran blinked something wet from his eyes.

“It was not your fault,” said Siduri. “And if you cannot set aside the guilt, then I lay this charge on you…”

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” said Arran. He pointed. “I found Alastarius here, in the courtyard of Castle Bastion. Dead.”

“It is by the power of his tomb that I have been summoned here,” said Siduri. “His body lies here. Yet his spirit does not, nor does his power. Your destiny lies before you, Arran Belphon of Carlisan, and your fate is in your hands. Find Alastarius on Earth. There you will find your answers. There you will find what you seek.”

Arran nodded. “I will go to Earth.”

“You dipped your sword in my blood,” said Siduri. She gestured. “And some bullets and a grenade.”

“I did,” said Arran. He had seen the power her blood had infused into his Sacred Blade He had hoped it would do the same to the bullets and the grenade.

If it did, any winged demons he fought would face quite a surprise.

“The power I wielded lingers in the blood,” said Siduri. “The power of the white magic. Remember me when you look on your sword blade.”

“I shall,” said Arran. “Always.”

Siduri smiled. “I know. One other waits for you here, Arran Belphon. Another whose death weighs heavily on you. You must speak to him.”

“Who?” said Arran. He had seen so many men die.

Siduri shimmered. “I can speak no more. It is time for me to depart. Farewell, my love, until we meet again. For we shall in time.” She leaned forward and kissed him. For just an instant he felt her lips, warm and soft, against his, and then her spirit vanished into the white mist.

The soft glow coming from Alastarius’s cairn brightened. The wind picked up, whipping the mist into swirling tatters. Arran had the sense of something approaching from a vast distance. A form swathed in a cloak of gray mist stepped from the cairn. The gray mist faded away, revealing an armored figure shining with a pale white light, clad in the full plate armor of a Knight of the Sacred Blade. Arran had not seen such armor for ten years.

The sight struck him like a thunderbolt.

He fell to one knee, unable to take his eyes from the figure. “It…no…this cannot be.”

The armored man smiled. “Yet I am here.”

“Luthar,” said Arran, shaking.

“I am,” said Arran’s dead brother. Luthar looked much as Arran remembered him, strong and handsome and confident, his moustache and hair oiled and gleaming like brushed gold. An empty scabbard hung from his belt.

“Luthar,” whispered Arran, tears streaming down his face. “How can this be? What is happening? Will all the ghosts that weigh on my mind rise up to haunt me?”

“Some of Master Alastarius’s power yet lingers in this cairn,” said Luthar. “That power and your need was enough to call me here.”

“Luthar,” said Arran. “I am sorry.”

“Why do you beg my forgiveness?” said Luthar.

“I could not save you,” said Arran. “I could not protect you.”

Luthar laughed. “It was I who always protected you, little brother. Do you not remember? When we were boys, the boar hunt in the Border Woods?”

Arran smiled, salty tears brushing his lips. “I do remember. The boar would have gored me. But you were there. You killed it. Father…was so proud.” He shook his head. “It seems a thousand years ago.”

Pain crossed Luthar’s face. “Brother. You have endured so much since then.”

“It…has been hard.” Arran looked at the ground. “I wish you were here, more than anything.”

“But I am dead, brother,” whispered Luthar. “Mourn not too much for my death.” He banged his breastplate with an armored fist. “For I died as a Knight of the Sacred Blade, in defense of Carlisan. I died as I lived, as a Knight, and I could not have asked for more.”

“I tried to save you,” said Arran, looking at his brother’s face. “But I could not. I…I killed the bastard who shot you, I cut him down.” It seemed so long ago. “I don’t even remember what the man looked like. But I killed him.”

“It was my death that made you as you are now,” said Luthar.

Arran snarled. “I made myself as I am now!” He gripped the handles of his guns. “I took up the hell-forged guns of Earth, I damned myself! You had naught to do with it.”

“You did not damn yourself, Arran,” said Luthar. “The guns are weapons, nothing more, nothing less. They are no different from a sword, a spear, a crossbow, a knife, or a thousand other weapons.”

“Sir Liam said…”

“You did what Liam Mastere could not,” said Luthar. “You took up the guns and fought Marugon’s soldiers on their own terms. He could not.”

“To what avail?” said Arran. “I failed. The High Kingdoms are ash.” The memories of the Battle of the Emerald Field burned through him.

“You did everything anyone could have asked of you and more,” said Luthar. “You became a warrior unlike any other, master of both Sacred Blade and bullet. The Divine is not finished with you, Arran. You have not reached your destiny yet. Does that not bring you comfort?”

“Hardly,” said Arran. “Sir Liam Mastere. Does he yet live?” He would be past seventy if he had survived the Tower. “Did he reach Earth?”

“I know not,” said Luthar.

Arran sighed, and his eyes focused on Luthar’s belt. “Your scabbard. It is empty.”

“My Sacred Blade is no longer mine,” said Luthar.

“But I have it.” Arran reached over his shoulder and drew Luthar’s Sacred Blade. “It fell besides you, in the Royal Square of Carlisan. I could not save you. But I did not leave your sword behind for Marugon’s thugs.”

“The sword.” Luthar drifted closer. “It is why I have come.”

“To take it with you?”

“No.” A faint smile touched Luthar’s lips. “No man can take anything with him to the next world. Though a Wizard might. As you will soon learn. But I have come for the sword.”

Arran presented the hilt to Luthar, his hands grasping the flat of the blade. “It is yours.”

“It was mine,” said Luthar. “I have no use for it now. But you will.” He touched the blade just above the hilt. The sword vibrated, and a surge of heat went through the blade and into Arran. The Sacred Blade shone with white light, throwing its brilliance over the courtyard. The light pulsed and sank into the sword, and a thumb-sized blue gem appeared where Luthar had touched the blade, embedded into the steel.

“It is done,” said Luthar.

“What is done?” said Arran. He swung the Sacred Blade in a slow loop. The sword’s balance seemed unchanged, despite the added weight of the gem.

“The white magic of the Sacred Blade,” said Luthar. “I have left part of myself within. Call upon the magic and it will help you, but only once.” Luthar’s face grew grave. “Time has less meaning for me than it once did. Some of the future is known to me, though it is forbidden for me to tell you all.”

“What will happen?” said Arran.

“You will face a terrible challenge,” said Luthar. “Your hope and what you most love will be stolen from you by a creature of terrible evil. You must overcome it, or all shall be lost. Arran. Call upon the sword’s magic in your last despair, for it will give you aid.”

“I…I…thank you,” said Arran. “Can…can you not stay?”

“I cannot,” said Luthar. “It is not given to me.” He laid a glowing hand on Arran’s shoulder. “Farewell, little brother.”

A wave of exhaustion swept through Arran. He tried to protest, tried to stay awake, but crumpled to the courtyard floor as sleep overcame him.

###

Arran blinked and saw sunlight.

He groaned and sat up, his muscles aching from sleeping on hard stone. Castle Bastion’s ruined inner courtyard rose around him. Arran stood and stretched, grimacing at the stiffness in his legs. Spending the night in the forest might have been a better idea…

He froze, his eyes locked on Alastarius’s cairn, and remembered what had happened.

“A dream,” he muttered. “It couldn’t have been anything but a dream. The dead don’t come back.” He turned to gather up his weapons and froze. Luthar’s Sacred Blade lay unsheathed on the stones.

A blue gem glimmered in the blade.

Arran knelt, picked up the sword, and carefully sheathed it. “Gods above.” He remembered Luthar’s warning and shivered. “My hope and what I most love?” He had little hope.

And everyone he had ever loved had died or vanished.

Though Arran did feel lighter, as if a burden had been taken from him. It cheered him to know that neither Siduri nor Luthar blamed him. They had forgiven him for their deaths.

Perhaps he could forgive himself, in time.

Arran took one last look at the cairn. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He turned and marched to the northwest, towards the deep forests of Rindl, and beyond them, to the Tower of Endless Worlds.

Chapter 20 - The Hunters

Anno Domini 2012

Wycliffe tapped his smartphone, pacing back and forth before the open truck door to 13A. “So let’s go over this one more time. What are you supposed to do?”

Senator Jones’s voice came over the phone’s speakers, sounding tired and frightened. “Go to Washington. Two dinners. A speech on the Lincoln Memorial steps. Then back to Springfield, where you will contact me with further instructions.”

“Very good,” said Wycliffe. He looked through the truck door and into the night and saw red brake lights flash in the distance. “You understand everything?” He pumped a bit of the Voice into his words. The smartphone warmed beneath his fingers. “Tell me if there is anything you do not understand.”

“No.” Senator Jones coughed. “No…I understand.”

Wycliffe frowned and let the Voice take a tone of command. “You sound ill.” He needed Jones alive, at least until Inauguration Day. “Once you have completed business in Springfield, return to my facilities at Chicago. We will have a trustworthy doctor to do a physical on you.”

“All right,” said Senator Jones.

“And put some pep into your step, man!” The phone heated up under the strain of the Voice. “You’re going to be President, for God’s sake! President of the United States. Just keep thinking about that.” He hung up and winced at the phone’s heat. At least the Voice hadn’t burned the thing out. He had gone through four smartphones in the last month alone.

A white delivery truck pulled up to the dock. Wycliffe tucked his smartphone into his jacket and waited. The truck’s door opened, and Goth stepped into the warehouse, wrapped in his black leather jacket.

“Goth,” said Wycliffe. “Do you find one?”

Goth turned and opened the truck’s back door with a rattle. Someone lay huddled in the corner.

“Who did you get?” said Wycliffe.

Goth grunted and dragged the form into the warehouse. “A young male.” Wycliffe glanced down. A man in his late teens lay on the floor, wrists and ankles bound. He wore ripped jeans and a sports jersey, and his eyes darted back and forth.

“Big fellow,” said Wycliffe. He coughed. “And he stinks. That smells like marijuana, if I’m not mistaken.”

Goth shrugged. “He had several of Lord Marugon’s cigarettes in his residence.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Good. What’s his name?”

Goth growled. “I know not. His address was on the list you provided.”

“He’d better have smoked one of the cigarettes,” said Wycliffe. “I trust there were no witnesses?”

Goth glared.

Wycliffe chuckled. “I thought not.” He pointed. “Take out the gag.”

Goth reached down and tore the gag free.

The young man opened his mouth and started screaming. “Stop that,” said Wycliffe, the Voice thrumming. The young man’s screams trailed off into whimpers. “Tell me your name.”

The young man stared up at him, shaking. “Nathan. Nathan Jameson.” He licked his lips. “Listen, if…if this is about the payment on the weed, I’ll get the money, I can get it…”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “You think this is about drug money?” Jameson managed a feeble nod. “Hardly. Tell me. Do you remember taking free cigarettes some months ago?”

Jameson blinked. “What?”

“Free cigarettes. A few months ago.” Wycliffe stared at his face. “From a man a few years older than yourself, skinny, with…”

Jameson blinked. “Oh, him. I remember him. He was a dick. Yeah, I took some of his cigarettes. Good smokes. But he was a dick.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Indeed. Have you seen him since?”

Jameson shook his head. “No.”

“Damn.” Kyle Allard’s disappearance had caused Wycliffe no end of worry. His apartment had apparently suffered a gas leak of some kind. But the police had found no body. The mystery still gnawed at Wycliffe from time to time. Had Allard faked his death? Or had he died in an accident? Or had someone killed him, and if so, who? Were there enemies that Wycliffe had yet to encounter? He pushed aside his worry. “Damn. If I ever find that little…”

“Dude,” said Jameson. “Was that all you wanted to know? I could have told you over the phone.”

“Goth,” said Wycliffe. “Put the fear into him.”

Goth growled. Two other slouching thugs stepped out from behind the stacked crates.

Jameson gaped. “What the hell is this shit? I told you…”

Goth removed his sunglasses. Jameson gaped, blinked twice, and then started screaming. The two slouching thugs grabbed Jameson and dragged him across the warehouse, towards the closed door to the Tower of Endless Worlds. A pair of chains with steel manacles hung from the wall near the door. The slouching thugs slammed Jameson against the wall and locked the manacles. Goth stepped forward and raised a hand, those blood-blackened iron claws sliding from his fingertips. Jameson shrieked and kicked. Goth ignored the blows and slashed his claws in sharp cuts, peeling away Jameson’s clothing.

“Good,” said Wycliffe. He closed his eyes, summoning the black magic in his will the way Marugon had taught him. “All right. Let us begin.”

“What are you doing to me?” said Jameson, his voice a wail.

Wycliffe shrugged. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. The free cigarettes you smoked contained a magical catalyst from another world. The catalyst remains in your body. I shall use a spell to trigger the catalyst and transform you into a creature of black magic.”

Jameson stared at him for a moment. “You’re joking.”

“No,” said Wycliffe.

“This…this is a joke, right?” Jameson shivered. “Oh my God. This…this is a joke. No…a TV show. This is a TV show. Someone’s going to jump out from behind a crate with a camera…”

Wycliffe smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

He lifted his hands, traced a pattern in the air, and began to chant.

The black magic stormed through his mind in a flood of black ice. He fought against the icy tide, his will hardening, and focused his mind on Jameson. A cold wind blew through the warehouse. Wycliffe steeled himself, yelling the chant through the strain in his mind. The black magic built up and up behind the dam of his will, and then burst free all at once.

Jameson’s mouth yawned in a tremendous scream. “Oh my God…”

He changed.

His body shrank and twisted, sinewy muscle cording his limbs. His skin thickened and became gray and greasy. His ears acquired points, and his eyes turned into burning coals. Claws sprouted from his toes and fingers, and his screams became something more feral.

Nathan Jameson had become one of Marugon’s changelings.

Wycliffe lowered his arms with a shudder. “It worked.” He laughed, his voice high and wild. “It worked. Oh, God, it worked.” He laughed again and wiped sweat from his forehead. It had been exhilarating. “Amazing.” The changeling snarled and snapped at its bonds. “Goth. Let it go.”

Goth pressed a button on the wall. The manacles released, and the changeling dropped to the floor with a yelp. It skittered to its feet, claws tapping against the concrete, and hissed at Wycliffe.

Wycliffe gathered the Voice. “Come.” The thing that had been Nathan Jameson froze. “Come. I command it. Come to me!” The changeling shuddered, whimpered, and crawled to Wycliffe. “Kneel!” It moaned and settled on its knees. Wycliffe let out a shuddering breath. “Goth. Shoot it.”

Goth growled. “Why? The bullets will not touch it.”

“Do it anyway,” said Wycliffe.

Goth growled again, drew his handgun, and squeezed off two shots. The echoes sounded deafening in the warehouse. The changeling jerked and reeled, but did not fall from its knees. The bullets had left no mark on its leathery skin.

“Amazing,” said Wycliffe. “Absolutely amazing.” Goth looked unimpressed. “Goth. You still have the list?” Goth nodded. “Use it. I want you to start bringing in more people that smoked Marugon’s cigarettes.”

Goth shifted. “All of them? There are over three thousand.”

Wycliffe snorted. “No, not all of them. Perhaps two or three a week, to begin. Try to pick loners,” he gestured at the new-minted changeling, “or scum no one will miss. Marugon is right. These creatures will make a useful reserve, should things go awry.” Or if Marugon’s sanity seemed to bend further. Or if Goth tired of carrying out Wycliffe’ errands.

A deep rumble came from Goth’s throat. “Did you not warn me of the importance of keeping matters quiet? Will not three disappearances a week be noticed?”

Wycliffe smiled. “Perhaps.” He knew it was dangerous. But he did not care. The feeling of power, of command, as he had created the changeling had been exhilarating. “You and your kin have already caused enough disappearances. Who will notice a few more, hmm?” Wycliffe laughed. “Besides, I can campaign against the crime wave I created. Delightfully ironic, don’t you think?”

Goth said nothing.

Wycliffe coughed. “Well.” He summoned the Voice and turned to the kneeling changeling. “Go!” He pointed to a row of metal doors on the far wall. “Go to the second door, let yourself in, shut the door behind you, and wait.” He had ordered a row of the meat freezers converted into small, cramped cells. Due to the black magic of their transformation, the changelings required virtually no food, and Wycliffe planned to hide up to a hundred in the freezers for weeks at a time. They would sit there in the dark, still as twisted statues, awaiting his command. “Go!”

The creature that had been Nathan Jameson whimpered, turned, and crawled towards the door, claws dragging against the concrete.

###

“So I understand this tobacco company of yours is going to full production?” said Krastiny. He grunted and moved his bishop.

Wycliffe blinked. “The tobacco company? Oh. Stanford Matthews Tobacco. The board plans to start production in January of the coming year. The cigarettes will go on sale in March of 2013, I believe.” He moved a pawn and waited, the faint hum of the recreation room’s air circulator thrumming in his ears.

“Excellent. I may make an investment myself,” said Krastiny. He slid his rook and captured Wycliffe’s pawn.

Wycliffe snorted and studied the board. “Why would a Russian physician want to invest in an American tobacco company? How many times have I heard you lecture Vasily about his smoking?” He moved his remaining knight, hoping to lure out Krastiny’s queen.

Krastiny chuckled. “I like to spread my money around, Senator. That way the insolvency of one company or the failure of one bank will not cripple my finances.” He moved his queen. “I knew poverty for much of my life. I would prefer not to taste it again.”

“Agreed.” Wycliffe grinned and moved one of his surviving pawns. He would lose his knight, but he would bag Krastiny’s queen.

Krastiny moved his bishop. “Checkmate.”

Wycliffe gaped. “Checkmate? That is not checkmate.” He squinted at the board. “Damn. Damn! It is checkmate. How did you slip that by me?”

Krastiny leaned back, his ghastly green suit rustling. “Now, now. A true player loses with grace.”

“Sorry.” Wycliffe shook Krastiny’s bony hand. “Good game.”

“Another?”

Wycliffe nodded. “I have time yet.”

Krastiny set up the board, his hands moving with quick grace. “You ought to relax more.”

Wycliffe snorted. “Losing to you is hardly relaxing.”

“Nevertheless.” Krastiny finished setting up the pieces. “As a physician, I must advise you against overexertion. White or black?”

“Black. I prefer the black.” Wycliffe smiled at the private joke.

Krastiny rolled his eyes. “Amusing.” He moved one of his center pawns in a classic opening move. “And in the interests of your long-term health, I must advise you to obtain new bodyguards. I heard only three inches separated your head from an assassin’s bullet a few days past.”

Wycliffe moved a knight. “Closer to six.”

“Still close,” said Krastiny. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I do not think you should trust your bodyguards as much as you do. They are provided by Marugon, yes?” Wycliffe nodded. “I am probably correct is assuming they are not entirely…human? Yes, I know I am.” He moved a bishop.

Wycliffe scowled. “Marugon has always been true to his word.” He slid a pawn forward.

“Marugon has always needed you before,” said Krastiny, moving a knight to counter Wycliffe’s pawn. “Now he has conquered his world, as you have said. His enemies are destroyed. He no longer needs guns. He no longer needs bombs. He no longer needs you.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Correction. Marugon needs me yet. He still wants that nuclear weapon.”

“Yes,” said Krastiny. “And once he has it, what do you think he will do? Your bodyguards’ first loyalty lies to Marugon.”

“No. The bodyguards’ first loyalties are to themselves.” Wycliffe knew they only followed Marugon out of fear, fear of the Warlock’s mighty black magic.

“I do not doubt that,” said Krastiny. “Let me explain. I was in the KGB. I worked with many depraved men. Schzeran and Bronsky, they are hard men, yes, but they are like kittens compared to some of my colleagues in the old days. So I understand men, even the most wicked of them. But these…partners of yours, Marugon and the bodyguards and those little devil-imps…they are not human. At least not entirely. They cannot be trusted. I do not frighten easily, but your Lord Marugon terrifies me. And he has gotten…strange.”

“Stranger, you mean.” Wycliffe stared at the maze of pipes on the ceiling. “He has grown…erratic. He paces for hours on end, muttering to himself. And he has gotten more powerful.”

“What do you mean?” said Krastiny. The chessboard sat forgotten on the table between them.

“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 stone. 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.

He ducked back outside, his gun raised and ready. What had happened to the gunmen? Had Marugon or Styr-Mar-Dan ordered this camp abandoned? Arran had seen signs of neglect throughout the High Kingdoms. Perhaps Marugon had only wanted revenge, not conquest…

A strange, low rumbling tugged at his ears.

It sounded like nothing he had ever heard before.

It came from the path leading down into the Vales. The sound was coming closer. Arran cursed, looked around, and ducked behind the crates. As the sound drew closer it sounded more like a droning whine mixed with angry rumbles.

A strange green vehicle with black wheels rolled into the camp, windows of glass gleaming on its sides. It looked somewhat like the four-wheeled carriages the high nobility of Carlisan had once used. But this carriage had no horses. Arran watched as the vehicle rolled into the center of the camp, the strange noise coming from its front half. The vehicle lurched to a stop, and the grumbling noise faded away. A door on the side of the carriage opened, and a ragged young man in the black uniform of Marugon’s soldiers climbed out, a pistol at his hip. He looked around and walked to one of the tents.

Arran hard at the strange vehicle. Could it move under its own power? How fast could it go?

An idea began to form in his mind.

Arran stepped into the open and leveled his gun at the tent.

The soldier soon reappeared, munching on a piece of jerky. He coughed when he saw Arran, bits of half-chewed meat spewing from his lips, and scrambled for his weapon.

“Hold!” yelled Arran.

The soldier started to draw his weapon.

Arran fired. The bullet ricocheted off the ground, spraying rock chips across the soldier’s boots. “I said hold, damn you!”

The soldier nodded, still clutching the half-chewed piece of jerky. “What…what do you want of me?”

“Take off your gun belt and drop it to the ground,” said Arran. The soldier obeyed. “Step away from it.” The soldier raised his hands and took a step back.

“Listen,” said the soldier, his voice a terrified croak. “If you’re a deserter, I care not. Things have gone to hell since Antarese fell. I…I was thinking of deserting myself. If you let me go, if you don’t kill me, I will keep my silence.”

“I’m not a deserter,” said Arran. “You’ll answer some questions for me, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Not…a deserter?” The soldier’s eyes focused on the Sacred Blade hanging from Arran’s belt. “Then who…oh, gods save me. That’s a Knight’s sword. You’re a Knight.” Arran nodded. “But…but you can’t be a Knight, we killed, we killed all the Knights…”

Arran grunted. “Stop babbling. I want some questions answered.”

The soldier nodded, lank hair falling over his face. “Very well. Just…just don’t shoot. What do you wish to know?”

“How many of you are here?” said Arran.

“I am alone,” said the soldier. Arran raised an eyebrow. “I speak truly! There were four of us. But Belvaerz and his brother found a gold coin outside one of the ruined cities. They went treasure-hunting in the ruins and never returned. Damned wraiths got them, I deem. And a ghoul on the Crimson Plain got Martaen.” He shuddered and went paler beneath his beard stubble. “I suppose he’s joined their number now.”

Arran tried not to think of it. Suppose Sir Liam and Lithon had met a similar fate? “What is your purpose here? What are your orders?”

“We’re…I’m to watch for caravans from the Rindl Mountains and ones coming from the Crimson Plain. We’re to guide them through the Vales, showing the safe paths.” He spat. “But there are no safe paths in this land. The gods forsook this country a long time ago, I think.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” said Arran, remembering his own journey through the Forgotten Vales. He jerked his head at the green carriage. “And that. What is that?”

The soldier blinked. “That? Oh. That’s my jeep.”

Arran frowned. “A…jeep, you said? What is a jeep?”

The soldier coughed. “Um…well…I’m not entirely sure.”

Arran scowled. “Then describe it to me.”

“Lord Marugon's caravans brought some over from Earth. It’s…like a carriage, you know, the kind those oh-so-proud lords used to ride about.” The soldier scratched his chin. “But it doesn’t have horses.”

“How does it move, then?” said Arran.

The soldier pointed. “There some sort of machinery in the front compartment. It moves the jeep.” He spat and made a sign to ward off evil. “But I think demons live in the machine and move the jeep. You have to feed them the burning water, else the jeep doesn’t move.”

“Burning water?”

The soldier pointed at a row of large metal cans. “Burning water. It came from the other world, too. It looks like water, but it is poisonous. It gives off fumes that cloud the mind, and burns like the fires of hell if it touches flame.”

“That’s oil,” said Arran.

“I still think it’s burning water,” said the soldier.

“I see,” said Arran. “This jeep. How fast can it travel?”

“With great speed,” said the soldier. “Many times faster than the fastest horse.”

Arran nodded. “How long can it travel this fast?”

The soldier thought for a minute. “Oh…perhaps half the day. Until the tank with the burning water runs out. The demons get very thirsty when they travel that fast, I suppose.”

“Have you often traveled across the Vales in this jeep?” said Arran, trying to mask his growing excitement.

“Twice a month. Orders,” said the soldier. “I drive to the pass through the Broken Mountains, watch for caravans for a few days, then drive back to this camp. The jeep can’t make it through the pass, so I don’t go to the Crimson Plain or the Tower.” He shivered. “Not that I would want to go there.”

“How long does it take to reach the pass?”

The soldier shrugged. “About half a day. Sometimes a little more or less.”

Arran gaped. “Half a day?” It had taken him and Sir Liam two and a half weeks to cross the Forgotten Vales. “By all the gods. Half a day.” He locked gazes with the soldier. “Very well. What is your name?”

“Tarrager.”

“We shall make a deal. I need to reach the pass through the Broken Mountains. You will take me there in the jeep.”

Tarrager frowned. “Why would a Knight want to go there?”

“It’s not your concern,” said Arran.

Tarrager’s eyes widened. “You’re going to the Tower, aren’t you? Gods. You don’t want to go there. Or to Earth. They’re both bad places.”

Arran shifted his grip on his gun. “You’ve been through the Tower? You’ve been to Earth?”

“Once,” said Tarrager, “when that old bastard Kaemarz still ran the caravans. Gods…the Tower. I still have nightmares about it. I don’t ever want to go back there. And the Plain’s just as bad. The ghouls always got somebody, no matter how many guards we put out.”

“You’ve been to Earth,” said Arran. He’d forgotten to ask Kaemarz about the other world. “What’s it like?”

Tarrager frowned. “I was only there once. It’s a big room. Strange lights on the ceiling. And big wooden boxes everywhere.” He shivered. “I saw Lord Marugon there. And his apprentice.”

“Marugon has an apprentice?” said Arran.

Tarrager flinched. “I think so. A fat man in funny clothes, with strange lenses of glass over his eyes. And the winged devils were there. Dozens of them.”

Marugon had taken the winged ones to Earth? “I’ve passed through worse dangers just to get here. You will take me to the pass in your jeep.”

Tarrager drew himself up. “What’s in it for me?”

Arran laughed and hefted his gun. “I don’t shoot you.”

Tarrager sputtered. “But…but if you kill me, then who will drive the jeep?”

Arran shrugged. “I can walk. I’ve crossed the Forgotten Vales on foot before.”

Tarrager nodded. “All right.”

Arran gestured with the gun. “Gather food supplies and put them in the jeep. Also ensure that we have enough of this burning water to reach the pass, and enough for you to return.”

Tarrager got to work, loading food rations into the jeep’s back seat. He then grabbed one of the metal cans and poured it into a hole in the jeep’s side. The liquid within did look a great deal like water, though it put off a bad smell. Tarrager finished filling up the jeep with the burning water, and then loaded another can into the backseat.

“Ready,” said Tarrager.

Arran nodded and reached for a handle on the front door.

“Um,” said Tarrager. “That’s the driver’s seat. I need to sit there.”

“Very well.” Arran walked to the jeep’s other side and climbed inside, keeping the gun leveled. A strange variety of machines and levers surrounded the driver’s seat, dominated by a large black wheel. Strange smells tugged at his nostrils, a mixture of leather and metal and thick oil.

Tarrager dug in a pocket and produced a shiny little key. He stuck the key into a slot and turned it. The jeep lurched, and a dull roar rose from the front compartment. Tarrager adjusted a lever and pressed a pedal on the floor, and the jeep shuddered into motion, pulling down the narrow path through the foothills and into the Vales.

Arran blinked. He had never moved this fast in his life.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Tarrager.

Arran gestured with his gun. “You try anything, anything at all, and I’ll shoot you.”

Tarrager opened his mouth, closed it, and kept driving.

###

“We’re almost there,” said Tarrager, hands clenched around the black wheel. “Then you’ll let me go?”

Arran nodded, but kept the gun pointed at Tarrager’s head. He looked out the window and watched the Forgotten Vales pass in a blur. The wheels bounced and rocked over the ancient road.

“Once we reach the pass,” said Arran. “How far is it to the Tower?”

“Due west for two-score miles,” said Tarrager. “A few less, perhaps.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “You needn’t worry about getting lost. The Tower…you can see the Tower from anywhere on the Crimson Plain.”

Arran shook his head. “Gods.” He pointed at a pile of ruins visible through mists. “When last I journeyed in this land, it took us two weeks to travel from the Mountains of Rindl to that ruin. And this machine has covered the same distance in a third of a day.” He shook his head, still amazed. “I have seen many wonders and horrors since Marugon returned from Earth. But nothing like this. Nothing.”

Tarrager grinned. “It is great magic.”

Arran saw the jagged peaks of the Broken Mountains in the distance. “It is. Tell me. You were thinking of deserting?”

Tarrager nodded. “I am. I think they forgot about me. No one remembers I’m here. And it’s all falling to pieces. Lord Marugon conquered the High Kingdoms…but it’s as if he’s forgotten about them, now that he’s won.”

Arran frowned. “Why did you join Marugon?”

Tarrager blinked, fresh sweat beading on his forehead. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. My father died when I was a boy, and I had to fend for myself. I joined Kaemarz’s band in the Ruin Hills for a time, but he was a madman, so I fled. Then I heard Lord Marugon was recruiting, so I went to hear him speak. He said we would have everything we ever wanted if we just took up the guns and joined him. It was…I’d never heard anything like it before.”

“The Warlocks have great powers of beguiling voice,” said Arran.

“I’d always hated the Knights and the Wizards and the high lords,” said Tarrager. “But now I’m sick of it all. I want to run to one of the Lesser Kingdoms, find myself a lass with wide hips and a strong back, and start a farm with her.”

Arran snorted. “Someone told me to do much the same, once. It is a good plan.” He gestured with the gun. “Throw these things aside before it is too late for you. They only destroy. I shall die by them one day, most likely. Throw them aside before they devour you as well.”

Tarrager swallowed. “You’re probably right.” They drove in silence for a while, the terrain growing rockier and rougher. The jeep bounced along the ancient road and climbed higher. The Broken Mountains stood out like the blade of a shattered sword against the gray sky.

Tarrager slowed the jeep and adjusted a lever, and the vehicle shuddered to a halt. “Here. The jeep can go no farther.”

“I know this place,” said Arran, his voice soft. He gestured with the gun. “Shut off the machinery and get out.” Tarrager obliged, following Arran as he climbed out of the jeep.

Arran remembered this place. Rembiar and his men had ambushed Arran and Sir Liam here. Lithon would have killed them if Arran had not taken up the guns. Bones lay strewn amongst the boulders, and a rusted machine gun lay beside a grinning skull. The bones of Rembiar and his men still rested here, after all these years. He wondered if Rembiar’s accursed spirit had become one of the Vales’ wraiths.

“You…you know where these bones came from?” said Tarrager, staring at a rusted gun.

“I killed them.”

“Oh.”

Arran turned away from the bones. “My supplies. A week’s worth.” He held out a hand. Tarrager hurried to the jeep, retrieved several packages of rations, and handed them to Arran. He tucked them into his pack.

“I’ve taken you to the pass.” Tarrager waved a hand at the dark, narrow pass winding its way into the Broken Mountains. “I have kept my word. And you’ll keep yours? You’ll…you’ll let me go?”

“I shall.” Arran flipped the gun back into its holster. “Unless you betray me.”

Tarrager snorted. “Gods. I’m not that foolish.” He stepped back towards the jeep. “I’ll do as you said. I’ll desert. And I wish you luck, whoever you are.”

Arran smiled. “The Ghost of Carlisan, you can call me.”

Tarrager gaped. “The Ghost? You’re the Ghost? Gods above! Do you know the size of the bounty on your head?”

“No.” Arran grinned. “And don’t even think about trying to collect.”

Tarrager shook his head, lank hair flopping over his face. “Gods no. I want to live.” He laughed. “To think I drove the Ghost of Carlisan to the Broken Mountains. What a tale to tell my grandchildren. If I live that long. I’m getting the hell out of the High Kingdoms as fast as I can.”

Arran started up the path to the pass. “That is wise. Do not leave until I am out of sight.”

“I won’t. Good luck!” called Tarrager.

Arran turned. “And to you as well.” He continued his climb. His heart raced in his chest. It had been years since had last seen this pass. After all this time, perhaps he would finally learn the fate of Sir Liam and Lithon. Arran steeled himself and kept climbing.

He heard a roar and turned. He saw the green jeep speeding away across the Vales, back towards the Mountains of Rindl. Arran turned back to the pass. Fear churned within him.

“Find Alastarius on Earth.”

He kept climbing.

###

The pass widened.

Arran walked on, his boots scraping against the dusty stone. A definite chill hung in the air, despite the summer season. The pass turned twice more and then widened into rocky hills.

Arran climbed upon a flat boulder and beheld the Crimson Plain.

The gray waste stretched unending in all directions. The land was bleak, parched, nothing more than blasted stone and dry dust. Steel gray clouds covered the sky, letting only feeble light fall upon the Plain.

For a moment he glimpsed something like a massive black mountain just over the horizon.

The Tower?

“It doesn’t look very crimson,” muttered Arran. Something like distant thunder boomed over the Plain, and a few seconds later a green light flashed over the horizon.

Lightning? No, if it had been lightning, he would have seen the flash first and then heard the thunder.

If it had been thunder.

Arran started down the slope and reached the Plain itself a few hours later. The bleak Plain lay empty and quiet, and no wind stirred the chill air or the lifeless dust. Something about this land made the hair on the back of Arran neck stand up. The very earth beneath his boots felt wrong, as if something dark and foul poisoned the soil and stone. The Ildramyn’s ruined castle had felt much the same way. Arran kept eyes on the rocky land before him, watching for enemies. He had heard whispered tales of the Crimson Plain all his life, stories filled with fear and legends. He remembered the fear that had come over Kaemarz’s scarred face at the mention of the Tower.

Arran supposed he understood. He stepped around a boulder and lifted his eyes…

For a moment he stood, rooted with shock.

A strange, awful sensation flooded through him, a mixture of awe and dread and wonder.

“My gods,” he muttered. “My gods.”

The Tower of Endless Worlds stood before him.

It rose like a mountain of black marble against the sky, yet it was far larger than any mountain he had ever seen. Its peak lay hidden in the swirling gray clouds. Countless windows and turrets and arches and windows studded its sides. Legions of statues of hideous, strange beasts adorned the arches and turrets. Flying buttresses sprouted from the Tower’s flanks, reaching down to touch the earth like the legs of a colossal spider.

Arran had never seen anything like it.

Fear and wonder battled in him. How could Sir Liam have found the courage to enter its gates? How could even Lord Marugon have summoned the nerve to enter the Tower?

Arran closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “Find Alastarius on Earth. Find Alastarius on Earth.” He took one step forward, then another, and soon had resumed his pace. He had to keep going…

Dull thunder shook the Plain. Arran drew his Sacred Blade and a Glock, his eyes darting over the rocks and the dust. After a moment, he lowered his weapons and stared.

The sound was coming from the Tower.

The Tower trembled. Arcs of green lighting shot up and down the Tower, leaping from statue to statue. One of the flying buttresses tottered, and then fell, crumbling as it plummeted to the earth. It struck the Plain with a tremendous roar, the ground shuddering. Arran saw thousands of black dots littering the Plain at the Tower’s base.

Debris from the Tower.

“The Tower’s falling?” said Arran. Kaemarz had hinted that the Tower was falling. He had said that some passages within had collapsed. Was it even safe to enter?

Arran shook off his fear. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He sheathed his weapons and kept walking.

The dim light grew even dimmer as night approached. Arran began looking around for a campsite, and spotted a ring of eroded boulders that might serve.

He settled against one of the boulders, drew his Sacred Blade, laid it across his lap, and wrapped his hand around the hilt. Everyone he had spoken with claimed ghouls haunted the Plain at night. With luck, the sword’s power would awaken him if any creatures approached. But he was still on the edge of the Plain. Perhaps the creatures hunted closer to the Tower.

Arran fell asleep.

###

Thunder crashed against Arran’s ears.

His jumped to his feet, his Sacred Blade coming to a guard position. The ground trembled beneath his boots. His eyes darted back and forth, but he saw only the Crimson Plain, gray and bleak as ever.

Another rumble rang out, and Arran turned just as another buttress slid free from the Tower. It struck the earth with a tremendous crash, shattering into thousands of black boulders. Green lighting shot up and down the Tower’s structure. For a moment the entire Tower trembled, and Arran wondered if it would collapse.

The green lighting sparked once more and vanished, and trembled stopped. The Tower became still and silent once more, filling the horizon with its dark shadow. Arran slid his Sacred Blade back into its scabbard. He thought for a moment, shrugged, and emptied one of his guns. He reloaded it with one of the ammunition cartridges he had dipped in Siduri’s blood into the weapon.

He doubted regular bullets would harm whatever beasts haunted the Plain, or the Tower itself.

And if the Tower was indeed in danger of falling, then perhaps those beasts would be driven onto the Plain…

Arran resumed his journey. The Tower drew closer and closer, until it seemed to swallow the sky in its mass. A huge ornate archway became visible at the Tower’s base. Arran thought he could reach it before nightfall, and the prospect filled him with relief. He did not want to get caught outside the Tower after dark.

Soon enormous chunks of broken black marble blocked Arran’s path, and he picked his way around them. The nine-eyed head of a shattered gargoyle sat atop the stone torso of a six-breasted demon. Broken boulders of black marble stretched as far as Arran could see. Suppose the Tower collapsed on top of him?

The day grew darker as the Tower drew closer, and Arran broke into a light jog. The Tower dominated the sky, and its gateway stood not a half mile from him. Arran increased his pace. He would make it before dark…

An agonized wail rose into the night.

Arran whirled, yanking his Sacred Blade from its scabbard. He saw nothing but the dark shapes of broken stone from the Tower. He turned and kept jogging, keeping a ready grip on his sword’s hilt.

Another wail rang over the Plain. Arran caught a glimpse of a misshapen shadow darting behind a piece of shattered buttress. Four more ghastly shapes loped besides it. Arran sprinted for the Tower, and wore wails tore into the gloom. Arran cursed and ran, his boots tearing at the ground. He heard movement behind him, claws scraping against stone.

He had not come this far only to perish within sight of the Tower!

The gateway into the Tower yawned before him, twin statues of hideous winged creatures standing on either side. Arran raced up the steps, his boots slapping against the black granite. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw sea of misshapen forms chasing him. Arran dashed through the gateway and entered the Tower. A vast, vaulted corridor of dark stone stretched into the distance, lit by a pale emerald glow.

Arran could run no further. He drew his pistol with his free hand, spun, and waited for the ghouls of the Plain to charge him.

Chapter 22 - The Caretaker of the Dead

Between the Worlds

Arran tightened his grip on his weapons, gritted his teeth, and waited for the ghouls.

Nothing came.

Sweat dripped down his face.

The ghastly wails still rose from the Plain, but softer, more distant. Arran walked to the edge of the stairs. The Crimson Plain lay cloaked in darkness, and he could just make out the misshapen forms vanishing into the gloom, their wails fading away.

He returned his sword and his gun to his belt. Why had the ghouls not pursued him into the Tower? In this stone hall, they could have surrounded and overwhelmed him. He turned and gazed into the green-lit corridor. “They’re afraid of the Tower,” he muttered.

He couldn’t blame them.

Arran started forward. His eyes wandered over the walls and vaulted ceiling. Bas-reliefs marked the stone, showing strange scenes of other lands and other worlds.

Though in some places the bas-reliefs had been destroyed by cracks running through the walls.

The hall opened into a vast cylindrical chamber. A statue of a nude woman, thirty feet high, stood in the center. Eleven other passageways, each as large as the one behind him, led away from the chamber. Countless balconies with intricate balustrades ringed the walls, and twelve corridors led away from each of them.

The balconies faded from sight far, far above. Did each of those passageways lead to a different world? Arran scanned the floor, recalling Kaemarz’s directions to his mind. “The seventh passage, clockwise.” He spotted a dark smudge of the floor and hurried over. Lord Marugon’s sigil, a clawed hand clutching a flaming eye, had been burned onto the floor.

Arran peered down the passageway. It was built of red granite, with more bas-reliefs marking the walls, along with writing in a strange language. It stretched away as far as the eye could follow.

No mortal could have built this place, and all of Arran’s instincts screamed for him to leave the Tower.

He drew his Sacred Blade partway from its scabbard and looked at the blood marking the steel. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He had no other choice. There was nothing left for him in the High Kingdoms. He could not go back.

And even if he did go back, the ghouls of the Plain would likely catch him.

He rammed his sword back into the scabbard and started forward. “Find Alastarius on Earth, but gods, Siduri, I hope you’re right.”

###

A gaping hole yawned in the red granite wall.

Arran stared at it, fingering the hilt of his Sacred Blade. The hole stretched a good fifteen feet across, chunks of rubble strewn across the floor below.

And through it he could see…he could see…

Nothing.

Utter blackness and nothing more lay beyond the hole.

Arran couldn’t understand it. There should be something behind the wall, anything other than that awful nothingness. Arran only hoped Kaemarz’s directions hadn’t become outdated, that the passages to Earth hadn’t collapsed.

He could wander this maze for ten thousand years and never find another path to Earth.

A large piece of wall had fallen some distance from the hole. Arran sat on it, dropped his pack between his knees, and pulled out a piece of dried meat. He may as well eat and drink and refresh his strength before he continued. He would sleep after he had gotten far away from that hole…

Arran frowned. Something was wrong. He sat for a long moment before it came to him.

He wasn’t hungry.

He had spent the day and most the night walking, first across the Plain and then through the corridors of the Tower. He should be famished, but he was not. Nor was he thirsty. Arran dropped the jerky into his pack. How long had it been since he had entered the Tower? An hour? A day? A month? He could not have said. Perhaps time did not work as it should within the Tower.

But if he did not need to eat while traversing the Tower, then he would have more supplies when he reached Earth.

Arran stood, and his boot struck a loose piece of stone. It spun away, flew over the edge of the hole, and vanished into the blackness. He swore, drew his weapons, and felt ridiculous.

Did he expect a monster to come crawling out of the hole?

Yet he kept his sword and his gun leveled at darkness.

Arran shook his head and turned away.

A cold breeze touched his neck. It was coming from the hole.

“Dark holes in the wall. The Tower is crumbling,” said Arran. Hadn’t Kaemarz said something like that? The breeze got colder, and Arran decided he didn’t want to know what lay within that darkness. He turned and ran, bas-reliefs and statues of leering goblins flashing past him, and did not stop running until he had put the hole far behind him.

###

The vaulted corridor of red granite ended, opening into a domed chamber strange gray stone. A fountain stood beneath the dome, its bubbling waters clear and clean. Bones of all sorts, human, animal, and unrecognizable, lay strewn around the fountain.

Arran frowned. Despite his lack of thirst, the water looked tempting. But Kaemarz had warned him of a poisoned fountain in the Tower’s depths. And he had seen a poisoned spring, years ago, in Carlisan’s Ruin Hills. The bones of dead animals had lain in a ring around the waters.

Arran scooped up a skull, an ugly thing with five eyeholes and two rows of teeth. He flung the skull into the fountain. There was a sizzle, and steam rose from the sparkling waters as the skull started to dissolve.

“I think I’ll abstain,” said Arran.

He walked past the fountain. Three doorways stood in the wall behind the fountain, each leading in a different direction. Marugon’s sigil had been burned into the floor before the leftmost, but Kaemarz had warned him against that passage. Arran took a few steps forward and peered down the passageway.

The corridor ended in utter blackness about fifty feet away. The walls, floors, and ceiling all terminated in jagged edges. Beyond them lay utter blackness. A faint icy breeze rose from the darkness. Arran swallowed and stepped back into the domed chamber.

Little wonder Kaemarz had warned him against it, and told him to take the rightmost passage.

Arran strode to the rightmost passage. It opened into a vast corridor with a ribbed ceiling, many times larger than even the greatest temple ever raised in Carlisan. Pillars arched from the ceiling and touched the floor, each as thick as a great tree. Intricate scenes, grim bas-reliefs, ornate sculptures and strange writings covered every inch of the columns and ceilings. He started down the massive corridor, feeling like a gnat trespassing in the hall of a giant. Doubt chewed at him with every step. How had Sir Liam ever found his way through this maze? Following Marugon’s sigil would have led him to the void. But that had been years ago. Perhaps the corridor had been intact when Sir Liam had reached the Tower.

Or Sir Liam might not have even reached the Tower. The ghouls of the Plain might have taken him. Arran closed his eyes and shoved aside his doubts. He could not brood like this. He kept going.

###

Arran glanced at one of the titanic bas-reliefs on the wall. One scene showed squid-like beasts strangling screaming men and women in their tentacles. Another scene showed…Arran shuddered and looked away.

The silence weighed on him. Arran had spent months in solitude, but never in such unending, tomblike silence. Sometimes he talked to himself to break the quiet, but his voice seemed small and feeble in such a large space. More and more his worried thoughts turned to Sir Liam and Lithon. Had they reached Earth? Or did they wander the Tower still? Or had something claimed the old man and the child?

That had been almost ten years ago. Lithon would be thirteen, maybe even fourteen, now. Assuming he had survived the perils of the Tower…

He heard a distant murmuring.

Arran shook his head. “Gods. I’m hearing voices. I am going mad.” He took three more steps and then froze.

He was sure those voices were not in his head.

Dark specks moved far in the distance, drawing closer. The murmuring resolved into the click of boots and the grumbling of voices. Arran dashed for the wall, flattened himself against a pillar, pulled his cloak tight, and waited.

The voices became clearer. Arran inched forward and dared to glance around the pillar. A troop of at least a hundred black-uniformed soldiers marched through the corridor, herding several hundred donkeys. Guns, boxes of ammunition, grenades, and other weaponry burdened the donkeys.

“Move it, you dogs!” called a gunman at the head of the caravan.  He wore the uniform and ornate cloak of a captain. “Quit straggling! You had more energy in your step when Lord Marugon was with us.”

“Aye, that we did!” answered a scowling young man. He brandished his Kalashnikov. “But his Lordship’s not here, is he? He stayed on that other world.”

Arran whispered a curse. Marugon had gone to Earth? Why?

Had he discovered Sir Liam and Lithon?

“Let’s set a slower pace,” said another soldier.

“Why?” sneered the captain. “It’s not as if you’ll get tired, not in this ungodly place.”

“It’s not natural, I tell you,” said yet another gunman. “It’s not right, that a man should go for days without needing to eat or empty his bowls. Not right, I tell you.”

The captain laughed. “Aye, that it is, but at least your stink isn’t quite so foul.” A chorus of raucous laughs rang out. “Very well. A slower pace. But no straggling! Any man straggles, I’ll give him forty stripes across his back.”

“Why in hell should we bother?” said the scowling soldier. “It’s not as if we’ll starve. We can always catch up.”

The captain sneered and raised his hand, and the column came to a halt. “It’s for your own good. Go wandering off on your own, and you might vanish. Forever. Seen the lieutenant lately?”

“The lieutenant? He’s usually…” The gunman’s scowl turned to a puzzled frown. “No.”

“Wandered off on his own three days past,” said the captain. “Or it might’ve been three weeks, for all I know. But he said he’d catch up with us in an hour, and even in here, an hour’s usually still an hour. And we haven’t seen him since, have we?” Silence answered his proclamation. “I was talking to Lord Marugon on our way to the other world. He gave me the order not to let anyone go wandering about. He said there are monsters loose in the Tower. They stay away from large groups, but they attack men traveling on their own. Ever wonder why so many of us have to herd to the donkeys? In the old days, ten or twenty men could make the trip through this ungodly place. Now you need a hundred or two hundred if anyone is going to survive.”

The scowling gunman did not look impressed. “I didn’t see any monsters when Lord Marugon was with us.”

The captain laughed. “Fool! His Lordship was with us. You really think they’d want to cross him?” The scowling gunman looked sheepish. “Hell, for all I know, the monsters belong to him. Now, enough talk. I’ll permit a slow march, but no straggling!”

The gunmen continued their march along the corridor, boots clacking against the stone floor. Arran waited as the gunmen disappeared down the vast corridor, muttering and grumbling to themselves. When the last echoes had faded, Arran stepped from behind the pillar.

“Monsters in the Tower,” said Arran.

If any creatures hunted the Tower, they would surely come after him. But he was only one man, and the Tower of Endless Worlds was vast. Perhaps he could slip through unnoticed.

He touched the hilt of his Sacred Blade for reassurance, loosened his guns in their holsters, and kept walking.

###

An odd metallic gleam shone in the distance.

Arran could just make out the shape of a metal doorway, far in the distance. His spirits rose and he broke into a run. Just the prospect of finally leaving this unending corridor cheered him.

The doorway stood taller than the greatest tower ever built in Carlisan. Statues of solemn robed figures stood in niches in the walls. Intricate symbols, seeming to crackle with power, had been carved into the doorway’s arch. Beyond the doorway loomed another chamber, far larger than any Arran had yet seen. He passed the doorway and stopped.

“My gods,” said Arran.

The circular chamber lay at least a mile across. The domed ceiling, large enough to hold a lake, vanished into the darkness overhead. A great seal of silvery metal lay in the center of the chamber. Thousands upon thousands of symbols had been carved in its surface, laid out in rings of concentric symbols. A tangible feeling of power rose from the metal.

“I’ve seen this place before,” muttered Arran. The Ildramyn had shown it to him in the vision. “The Chamber of the Great Seal.” Marugon had appeared in the vision. Had the Warlock already come here? No - Marugon had destroyed the Great Seal in the vision, and the chamber looked intact.

“A vision of the future,” Arran said, starting forward. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

He began to cross the chamber. The Ildramyn’s vision of the future played in his head over and over again. Marugon had used that strange box to destroy the Seal. But why? Surely the Seal’s destruction would kill the Warlock as well.

Arran stepped onto the Seal , the metal cold and slippery. A tremendous sensation of power radiated from the metal, and a vast sense of weight touched Arran’s mind. For a moment he was conscious of the Tower’s great bulk, spreading above and below and around him, pressing down on the thrumming metal of the Great Seal.

Perhaps all the weight of the Tower balanced on the Seal.

Arran remembered the vision of the strange box ripping the Seal to shreds, and something clicked in his mind with overwhelming force. “Marugon. He’s making the Tower fall.” The destruction of the Great Seal would destroy the Tower. But why would Marugon want to destroy the Tower of Endless Worlds? His guns and bombs came through the Tower. “Find Alastarius on Earth. He’d better know.”

Arran passed the center of the Seal. The sensation of pressure, of titanic forces balanced overhead, became almost overwhelming. He shuddered and increased his pace, trying not to fall on the slick metal. Soon he reached the other side of the Seal, grateful to have his feet on hard stone again. Another colossal archway stood in the far wall, framed by statues of winged skeletons. Beyond the archway he saw a forest of massive columns.

“What did Kaemarz say?” said Arran, drawing nearer to the doorway. “A chamber filled with…tombs and sarcophagi of stone. And spirits cloaked in gray mist.” Were these the monsters that the soldiers had feared? He drew his Sacred Blade in his right hand and the gun loaded with the cartridge dipped in Siduri’s blood in his left.

Arran passed through the doorway and entered a tremendous hypostyle hall, the arched ceilings shadowed in gloom. Forests of pillars stretched away as far as he could see. Thousands upon thousands of stone sarcophagi lay in rows on the floor. Arran stepped to the nearest and examined it. The sarcophagus was built of blood-red granite, and an effigy had been carved on the lid, an image of a scar-faced man in unusual spiked armor. Arran stepped away from the sarcophagus, his eyes widening as they fell over a pillar. Hundreds of effigies had been carved into the pillar, solemn stone faces gazing down at him. “Gods,” he whispered, his voice shaking. Did each of these effigies cover a tomb? “What is this place?”

He had grown so accustomed to talking to himself that the whispered, echoing reply caught him utterly off guard.

“This is the Chamber of the Tombs, Arran Belphon.”

Arran whirled, his weapons coming up. A giant figure wrapped in ragged gray robes stood behind a sarcophagus. The figure seemed to shimmer and change even as Arran watched it. One moment it was nothing but a column of gray mist. The next it was a giant skeleton, green light flaring in its eye sockets. Then it was the gray-robed form once again.

“What are you?” said Arran. His Sacred Blade did not respond to the creature. Whatever it was, it was not a thing of the black magic.

The figure did not move. “I am the caretaker of this place.”

Its whispery voice brushed Arran’s ears and echoed through his mind.

“This place?” said Arran. “You mean the Tower.”

“No. This chamber.”

“And what is this chamber?” said Arran.

“This is the Chamber of the Dead.”

Arran nodded. “What is the purpose of this place?”

The caretaker lifted a robed arm. “Look about you, Arran Belphon. Each tomb holds the body of a mortal that perished in the Tower. It is my task to gather the bodies of those slain within the Tower and inter them here, lest the children of the void clothe themselves in the flesh of the slain. The Divine gave me this task when the Tower was first reared, and I have labored at it ever since.”

“Do you mean me harm?” said Arran.

“Your actions are meaningless, so long as you do not disturb the dead.” The mist surrounding the caretaker rippled. “Then you shall lie among the dead yourself.”

Arran lowered his Sacred Blade. “How many dead lie here?”

“Countless thousands. Ten thousand times ten thousand. Or a million times a million. The number matters little. It is beyond mortal capacity to understand.”

Arran slid his gun back into its holster. “And you buried them all here? Every mortal that ever died in the Tower?”

“Yes.”

Arran stared into the caretaker’s cowl. “You said my name. How do you know my name?”

“It is given to me to know the name of any mortal that enters the Tower of Endless Worlds,” said the caretaker, flowing into the form of the giant skeleton.

“So you know the names of all the mortals in the Tower?” said Arran.

“Yes.”

“Another question, if you please…”

The caretaker became the robed figure once more. “It is the nature of mortals to ask questions. Their minds can only grasp a tiny portion of the infinite, of the Divine. Thus they always seek to learn more. Many mortals have questioned me, Arran Belphon, and many more shall question me.”

Arran nodded. A small knot of fear grew in his stomach. “So…you know the names of all the dead interred here?”

“Yes.”

The fear grew. “Is it given to you to tell me these names?”

“If you ask,” said the specter.

“Marugon,” said Arran. “Lord Marugon of…”

“I know of whom you speak,” said the caretaker, “though that is not his name. He has passed through the Tower many times. Those who have sworn their souls to him often travel through my Chamber. Sometimes they try to loot the tombs of the dead.” A hint of irritation entered the dry whisper. “Then I send them to join the dead. But that is meaningless to you. The Marr’Ugaoun does not lie among the dead.”

“Another name,” said Arran. “Master Alastarius, also of my world.”

There was a long pause. “I do not know.”

Arran frowned. “You do not know the name?”

“I know of the name,” said the caretaker, shifting to gray mist. For a moment its voice sounded almost puzzled. “I do not know. He may have entered the Tower. He may have not. Perhaps his essence, or perhaps his soul. But I do not know.”

Curiosity and deep dread burned within Arran. He did not want to ask the next name on his mind. “Then…then another.”

“Ask.”

“Liam Mastere,” said Arran, “from my world. A Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade.”

The specter beckoned. “Come with me.”

The words struck Arran like a physical blow.

The caretaker glided through the rows of sarcophagi, trailing tendrils of gray mist. Arran followed, his heart in his throat. They walked for what seemed like hours. Arran saw thousands of effigies, men, women, old and young alike. The specter stopped next to one of the sarcophagi, and Arran looked at the stone effigy on the lid.

It was a perfect likeness of Sir Liam Mastere.

Arran grabbed at the corner of the sarcophagus for support. Waves of grief and pain swept through him. He had known, almost certainly, that Liam Mastere was dead. Yet to see it firsthand…

He closed his eyes for a long moment, fighting back the tears.

“This,” he said at last. “This is his tomb?”

“Yes.”

“How…how did he die? Do you know?”

“The children of the void killed him.”

Arran looked up at the gray shadow. “Who?”

“The children of the void killed him.”

Arran rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Who are the children of the void?”

“They are the children of the void.”

“Helpful.” Arran closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “These children of the void. Where…where did they come from?”

“They come from the outer voids, the dark places between the worlds,” said the caretaker. “They are the least of those that dwell in the darkness between the worlds, beyond the Tower.”

“Beyond the Tower?” said Arran. He remembered the black hole and the corridor into nothingness, the Ildramyn’s vision of dark things attacking Sir Liam boiling through his mind. “The holes in the walls. The soldiers’ monsters.” He stood, his eyes on Sir Liam’s effigy. “Sir Liam’s Sacred Blades. Are they interred with him?”

“The dead and their possessions are laid to rest in the tombs,” said the caretaker.

“I should take his Sacred Blades with me,” said Arran. “They should go back to my world.”

“No.” The caretaker seemed to grow, looming large over him. “Plunder the tombs of the dead and you shall join them.”

“Very well.” Arran closed his eyes. “One more name.” He did not want to ask. He knew the answer already, if Liam had failed. “King Lithon Scepteris of Carlisan.”

“He does not lie amongst the dead.”

Arran opened his eyes. “What?”

“Lithon Scepteris does not lie among the dead.”

Arran frowned. “But Sir Liam lies here. Where is Lithon, then?”

“He entered one of the doors to the world called Earth.”

Arran blinked. “Can you tell me the circumstances of Sir Liam’s death?”

“As you wish.” The caretaker shimmered. “Liam Mastere fought the children of the void. There were two others in his company, Lithon and a mortal girl. Liam Mastere commanded them to flee. The mortal girl took Lithon and entered one of the doors to Earth. The children of the void surrounded and slew Liam Mastere. I took him and laid him among the dead.”

“Two others?” said Arran. “But he took Lithon with him to the Tower. There were no others.”

“Another was with him. A mortal girl.”

“What was her name?”

The caretaker hesitated, its form rippling. “I know not.”

Arran frowned. “You know not? I thought you knew the names of all the mortals that set foot in the Tower.”

“That has been given to me. But the girl is different. Unique, perhaps. She may not have a name. Or she may not know her true name. Such things have been known to happen.”

Arran’s mind raced. “Sir Liam must have found her. On the Crimson Plain, maybe, or wandering the Tower. The children of the void attacked. He fought them. The girl made it to Earth with Lithon.” Arran laughed. “He did it! He got Lithon to Earth. By all the gods, he did it.” His laugh broke into a sob. “But he sacrificed himself doing it.” He looked at the effigy. “Damn you. You should have kept me with you. We could have done it together. We could have reached Earth.” He closed his eyes, steadying himself. “You damned fool old man. You did it.” Alastarius had Prophesied that Lithon would bring him back, Sir Liam had gotten Lithon to safety, and Siduri had told Arran to find Alastarius on Earth. Perhaps this fool’s quest had some hope after all. “Thank you, caretaker. You have helped me more than you can know.”

“Your thanks are meaningless.” The caretaker began to drift away. “Beware the corridors of the Tower, mortal. Else you too shall lie among the dead.”

“I have not come this far to fall now,” said Arran.

He wondered how many of occupants of the Chamber of the Dead had said the same thing.

The caretaker made no answer. Arran stared at the effigy of his former teacher and mentor for a long time. Then he set off for the far wall, fresh energy in his stride. After a long walk he came to the doorway Kaemarz had described, seven corridors of crimson granite branching off in all directions. More of the hideous bas-reliefs and strange writing marked the walls. At least these corridors were smaller than the passage leading to the Chamber of the Great Seal.

Arran turned and looked back at the tombs. “Rest well, Sir Liam,” he whispered, “even in this place.”

He started down the center corridor.

Chapter 23 - The Children of the Void

Between the Worlds

A cold wind blew down the corridor.

Arran wrapped his cloak tighter and picked his way over the rubble littering the corridor. Dozens of holes scarred the crimson granite of the walls, ceiling, and even the floor. Some were no bigger than his finger. Others yawned larger than a horse. A cold wind, steady and icy, blew from the multitude of holes. He kept his Sacred Blade ready in his hand.

If these children of the void erupted from the holes in the walls, Arran planned to avenge Sir Liam’s death.

The floor shifted beneath his feet, a crack opening. Arran cursed and sprang forward. A piece of the floor tumbled into the darkness and vanished. The ever-present green glow flared brighter, and sparks of green lightning crackled along the ceiling. Arran stumbled forward, sputtering curses. Suppose the corridor collapsed around him?

Then the tremors eased, and the lightning faded.

Arran wiped sweat from his eyes. At least he did not have much farther to go, assuming Kaemarz had told the truth. The corridor ahead looked less damaged. Arran breathed a sigh of relief. With any luck…

A woman’s voice sighed his name.

Arran spun, drawing a gun with his free hand. His eyes roamed over the corridor. Nothing moved, and he heard nothing but the distant whispering of the cold wind. Arran grumbled another curse and shoved the gun back into its holster. The never-ending silence had gotten to his head…

“Arran Belphon.”

Arran lifted his Sacred Blade. “Caretaker?”

No one answered.

Arran shrugged and continued down the corridor, sword raised in guard. He passed through a domed chamber, the corridor continuing on the other side. Arran saw a huge breach in the corridor’s wall. It started in the ceiling, slashed down the wall, and devoured half the floor.

“Arran Belphon.” The woman’s voice sounded so familiar.

He cursed and drew his gun, turning. He saw nothing.

Then he turned once again, and saw someone standing by the edge of the pit in the floor.

It was a figure draped all in black robes. A cold breeze moaned from the hole, stirring the black robes and Arran’s cloak.

Arran leveled his gun. “Name yourself! Speak.” The hooded figure remained silent. “Speak, or by all the gods, I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”

“Arran Belphon.” Pain laced the female voice, and the figure reached up and drew back the hood.

Arran shuddered, shock blasting through him in an overwhelming wave. “Siduri?”

It was Siduri’s face, gazing at him above the black robe.

“Yes,” she said, her voice tight with pain. Her face was drawn and gray, her green eyes bloodshot. A mass of half-congealed blood ringed her neck and soaked the top of her ragged robes. “So you do remember me.”

“Remember you?” Confusion and doubt warred in his mind. “How could I have forgotten you? Your dying words drove me to the Tower.” He could not take his eyes from the blood covering her neck.

She laughed at him, her voice cold and bitter. “Dying words? What good are they to me, man of Carlisan?” Her lips pulled back into a hideous snarl. “You did this to me.” A line of blood trickled from her lips. “You did this to me, you bound me to this hideous place.”

“No!” said Arran. The awful guilt clutched at his heart. “No! This cannot be happening. You came to me at Castle Bastion, you forgave me, you said it was not my fault you perished…”

An agonized sob slipped Siduri’s lips. “You left me to die. You let that monster kill me.” Her shoulders shook beneath the black robes. “But that is nothing compared to what you have done to me now.”

“What?” said Arran. “What have I done?”

“My spirit is bound to you,” said Siduri, a fever glint in her eyes, “cursed to follow wherever you might go.” She laughed. “Just as I foolishly vowed in life. And you came to the Tower. My spirit followed…and now I am trapped in the dark places between the worlds.”

“No,” said Arran. “That cannot be. You told me you were at peace, that I would not see you again in this life…”

“I was ignorant,” said Siduri, bloody tears falling from her eyes. “I did not understand. My spirit followed you to the Tower…and the dark places trapped me. The children of the void now own me.” A mingled mad laugh and whimper of pain slipped her lips. “They torment me. What Khan-Mar-Dan did to me…that is nothing compared to what the children of the void and their princes do to me. Nothing!” Her shriek echoed through the corridor. “I saved you, I healed you, I followed you, I loved you, and this is to be my fate? To writhe and scream in the darkness for all time?”

“No,” said Arran. “This cannot be. I cannot allow this. I have to help you. I…”

Great relief came over Siduri’s face. “Arran. I knew you would not abandon me. Thank you.”

“What must I do?” said Arran. “How can I free you?”

Yet something within him doubted that Siduri was really here.

Siduri pointed at the blackness beyond the hole. “Enter the darkness. There you will find the children of the void who have captured my spirit. Slay them with your burning sword, and I shall be free.” The green of her eyes matched the Tower’s dim glow.

Arran stared into the darkness, and the darkness stared back at him. “You mean I have to go there? Through the breach?”

“You must,” said Siduri, her voice pleading. “You cannot leave them to me, Arran. I cannot bear the torment. I did not leave you to die in the desert. Do not leave my spirit to die an endless death in the darkness.”

“I will not leave you,” said Arran. Yet still he could not make himself believe that this was really Siduri. “But the darkness…it…are you certain?”

Siduri turned away from him. “Then you betray me.”

“No!” said Arran.

“You leave me to suffer in the void,” she said, her voice pained. “You were the only man I ever loved, and you leave me to this fate…”

Arran frowned. “What did you say?”

“I suffer the torments of the damned, and you bicker with words? What sort of fiend are you?”

“No,” said Arran. Clarity flooded his mind, driving back the shadows of doubt and guilt. “You’re lying. Your husband. Jabir. You told me you loved him, when you both were young. After you came back from Carlisan, after Alastarius taught you the white magic…”

“Alastarius!” said Siduri, her voice a hiss of rage. “That deceiver, that trickster! It is his fault this has happened to me. He…”

“No.” Arran remembered the Ildramyn’s vision, the creature had appeared to Sir Liam and masqueraded as Queen Annemarie. “No. You’re lying. You had the highest respect for Alastarius. And you are not really Siduri at all.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her face caught between astonishment and rage. “Arran.” She stepped towards him. “Just come with me. I can show you wonderful things. We can be together forever.” She reached for him, her lips parted.

Arran growled and raised his crimson sword.

The Sacred Blade began to glow.

Siduri hissed and drew back from the blade.

“What are you?” said Arran.

The thing masquerading as Siduri hissed. “You filth. You vermin.” Her voice deepened, acquiring a whispery rasp. “You are nothing but a feeble spirit trapped in a shell of rotting flesh.” She stared at the floor, shaking. “And to save you and your kind the Divine betrayed us. For you we were locked into the eternal darkness, the voids without light.” Her voice became an enraged snarl.

Arran swallowed. “You’re one of those things that killed Sir Liam. You are a child of the void.”

She laughed, still looking at the floor. “But not for much longer, mortal. It ends. The seals shatter. Soon, they will break! And then we shall be free after so long. We shall reclaim everything that was taken from us.” She looked up, and her eyes had become black pits into the void. Shadowy wings spread from her back, and claws of shadow sprouted from her fingertips, darkness lining her form. “And we shall begin with you!”

The creature flung itself at Arran with a howl of rage. Arran sidestepped, whirled, and brought his Sacred Blade flashing down. The weapon burst into to brilliant white flames, power pulsing up his arm. His blow slashed through the creature’s body in a white flash. It wailed and collapsed to the floor, its form dissolving into black smoke.

“Gods,” muttered Arran.

The cold breeze grew to an icy wind. Angry whispers murmured through the corridor.

Another creature leapt from the breach in the wall. Arran took a step back, his sword coming up to a guard position. The thing looked like a human man wreathed in shadows, long claws of icy darkness trailing from its fingers. The creature hissed and lunged at Arran. He spun, his sword trailing white flames, and the Sacred Blade sheared the creature in half. It howled and collapsed into black smoke. Two more jumped from the hole, and Arran dispatched them with a thrust and a spinning slash.

The muttering whispers grew louder.

Arran risked a glance back at the domed chamber and cursed. Hundreds of the shadow-creatures filled the chamber, spilling out from the damaged corridor in a dark wave. Yet another creature sprang from the nearby black hole, moving in a shadowy blur. Arran destroyed it, spun on his heel, and ran. According to the directions Kaemarz had given him, the doors to Earth lay not far ahead.

He could make it.

He had to make it.

A section of wall exploded, revealing more of the infinite darkness. Arran cursed and threw his arm over his face as bits of rock slapped against his arm and chest. A trio of the shadow creatures leapt at him. Arran roared and met their attack, his Sacred Blade whirling and spinning. The creatures wailed and dissolved into black smoke.

More rubble fell from the fresh hole, and a huge dark arm, thick as a tree trunk, reached through. Its long claws cut grooves in the stone floor, its fingers twitching like the legs of a giant spider. Arran gaped for a moment, shock and horror overriding his mind. Then his combat-honed reflexes took over and he stabbed. His Sacred Blade sank into the hideous arm’s wrist, and a spasm of pain went up its length. Arran jerked the weapon back and hammered it down in a two-handed chop. The blade sheared through the wrist in a flash of white flame. The hand fell to the earth and vanished into black smoke. A ghastly whispered wail cut into Arran’s ears, and the mutilated arm disappeared back into the darkness.

Arran looked over his shoulder. The horde of shadow creatures had almost reached him. He sprinted with all the strength he could muster. The floor trembled, sparks of green lightning crackling over the ceiling. The chorus of maddened whispers gnawed at his mind.

He took another five steps and skidded to a halt.

Another horde of the shadow creatures charged him from the front, streaming out of the holes in the walls and ceiling. Arran tried to think of something, but before he could react, the creatures at his heels caught up to him. They spread in a ring around him, hissing and whispering, staying out of his Sacred Blade’s reach.

Arran swallowed. The children of the void had surrounded him, just as they had done to Sir Liam. One of the creatures lunged at him, and Arran speared it on his sword point. The creature wailed and shuddered into nothingness.

“Come, then,” said Arran, trying to think of a plan. “Which of you devils is next?” He had not come through ten years of battle to perish so close to the doors of Earth! His Sacred Blade burned in his hand, its fires fueled by Siduri’s blood…

Siduri’s blood…

His hand closed around the grenade at his belt, the grenade he had dipped in her blood.

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” he whispered.

He yanked the pin from the grenade and flung it into the mass of the shadow creatures. In the same motion he drew the gun he had loaded with one of the ammunition cartridges dipped in Siduri’s blood. The creatures hissed at him as the grenade hit the floor, their whispery laughter echoing in the cold air.

Their laughter stopped as the grenade exploded.

Shards of white fire sprayed in all directions, ripping through dozens of the fiends like a scythe through weeds. A chorus of whispered screams rose up. Arran did not wait for the glare to fade but charged forward, roaring Sir Liam’s name and Siduri’s name, sword in his right hand and gun in his left. He fired as he charged, sword slashing. The gun thrummed with power, and the bullets left the muzzle enveloped in balls of white fire. They ripped through the children of the void, disintegrating four or five each before exploding against the walls. The creatures reeled in shock, wailing and whispering. Arran tore through them, his sword arm working, the gun roaring in his hand. He cut down two creatures, shot another, and broke free.

The corridor ahead lay empty.

He charged forward, reckless in his speed. The chorus of whispers rose to an enraged crescendo, and the children of the void pursued him in a ragged mass. He fired back at them, gun spitting balls of white fire. The bullets shredded the front rank of the creatures, and then the gun clicked empty. Arran cursed and shoved it back into its holster.

He dashed into a huge vaulted gallery. Five doors of rune-carved black stone stood in the far wall. Marugon’s sigil had been burned into the stone of the center door. Arran raced towards it, yet his mind screamed a warning. Kaemarz had told him to take that door. Yet it likely opened into whatever stronghold Marugon had established on Earth. Kaemarz’s directions had led him true so far.

But the man would have tried to betray him sooner or later.

“Not that door,” Arran gasped.

He changed direction and ran for the far-left door. His hesitation had cost him time, and the children of the void flooded the gallery, whispering for his blood. Arran slammed full-speed into the door.

It moved an inch.

Arran cursed and shoved at the door, putting all his strength and weight into it. The door moved with agonizing slowness. “Open, damn you, open, open…”

The door swung open with the growl of stone on stone. A brilliant shaft of white light shot out. He caught a glimpse of a grassy clearing and a line of trees in the distance.

Arran overbalanced and tumbled through the door.

A chorus of whispered howls rose up behind him. Cold claws tugged at his cloak.

The door slammed shut behind him.

THE END

Thank you for reading A KNIGHT OF THE SACRED BLADE. Turn the page for a preview of the next book in series, A Wizard of the White Council. For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Bonus Excerpt from A WIZARD OF THE WHITE COUNCIL

Anno Domini 2012

Ally Wester awoke in her dorm room with a scream.

A dream. A nightmare, one she had dreamed before. A man with swords of fire faced down things of shadow in a corridor of stone as Ally ran for her life, her brother Lithon clutched in her arms. Usually the dream ended when the shadow-things ripped apart the man with the burning swords and charged in pursuit of Ally, hissing her name, whispering for her blood…

But this time, something different happened.

The dark man drew a crimson sword that burned with white flame, and he charged through the shadow-things, cutting them down with every step. He fell through a door of stone, vanishing as the shadow-things shrieked their fury. And then…and then…

The memories of the dream faded from her mind.

She looked around her dorm room. It was deserted, save for her possessions. Her roommate of two days was gone, no doubt getting drunk or stoned or both. She heard the distant noise of music and parties, but the room was otherwise silent.

Ally lay back down and tried to get some sleep.

Images of a burning sword flickered through her mind as sleep took her.

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Angel Sword and Other Stories

About the author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here.

Table of Contents

Book description

Other books by the author

Chapter 1 - The Battle of the Emerald Plain

Chapter 2 - First Day

Chapter 3 - The Desert of Scorpions

Chapter 4 - Premonitions

Chapter 5 - The Speech

Chapter 6 - Scorpions' Hold

Chapter 7 - A Business Arrangement

Chapter 8 - Exile

Chapter 9 - Memories

Chapter 10 - The Hour Of My Death

Chapter 11 - I Don't Know What I Did

Chapter 12 - The Ildramyn

Chapter 13 - The Weapon

Chapter 14 - A Doorway

Chapter 15 - Changelings

Chapter 16 - A Chance Meeting

Chapter 17 - Interrogation

Chapter 18 - The Assassin

Chapter 19 - The Ghosts of Castle Bastion

Chapter 20 - The Hunters

Chapter 21 - Return to the Tower

Chapter 22 - The Caretaker of the Dead

Chapter 23 - The Children of the Void

Bonus Excerpt from A WIZARD OF THE WHITE COUNCIL

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About the author