Date: 2012-06-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: I AM BECOME DEATH, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS ALLY WESTER struggles with her newfound powers in the white magic. But her power has drawn notice, and dark creatures desire to claim her for their own. ARRAN BELPHON has vowed to protect Ally Wester. And it will take everything he has to defend her - his strength, his heart, and even his life itself may be the price. MARUGON is the last of the Warlocks, the greatest wielder of black magic ever to walk under the sun. Now, at last, he possesses what he has long sought, and his true work can begin. And the TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS shall burn...
Publisher: Smashwords Edition

THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS

Jonathan Moeller

Book description

I AM BECOME DEATH, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS

ALLY WESTER struggles with her newfound powers in the white magic. But her power has drawn notice, and dark creatures desire to claim her for their own.

ARRAN BELPHON has vowed to protect Ally Wester. And it will take everything he has to defend her - his strength, his heart, and even his life itself may be the price.

MARUGON is the last of the Warlocks, the greatest wielder of black magic ever to walk under the sun. Now, at last, he possesses what he has long sought, and his true work can begin.

And the TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS shall burn...

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 - Aftermath

Anno Domini 2012

“I don’t believe this,” said Senator (and Vice President-Elect) Thomas Wycliffe, staring at the TV. “I simply do not believe this.”

He paced in his office. President-Elect William Jones, Dr. Krastiny, and Vasily Kurkov sat in his guest chairs, watching the TV. Kurkov looked bored, Krastiny looked grim, and Jones had developed a nervous twitch. Wycliffe couldn’t blame him. He picked up the remote control and flipped to another channel.

A solemn-faced newscaster stared into the camera. “The city of Chicago remains on high alert tonight after a wave of armed violence unlike anything in the city’s history. Reports are mixed, but it appears a terrorist cell has gone on an armed rampage. At least thirty Chicago police officers have been killed, and reports of additional casualties are still coming in.” The newscaster paused for a moment and ruffled through his notes. “Looting has broken out in some districts, and the mayor has called for units of the National Guard to maintain order. Police are urging all citizens to remain calm and stay indoors…”

“Damn him,” said Wycliffe. He flipped the channel.

A pastor in a white robe with red vestments appeared on the screen. “Repent, for the end is at hand! The angels of darkness have been seen over our city. Armageddon is upon us. I urge all members of the flock…”

“Bullshit.” Wycliffe flipped the channel again.

The police chief stood at a podium, dozens of microphones pointed at his face. The word “LIVE” flashed over and over again at the bottom of the screen. “Forty-five officers have fallen in the line of duty, and nineteen more have been injured. We will not let this tragedy go unpunished. We will find these terrorists…”

Wycliffe bellowed and threw the remote away. “I cannot believe this. How could Marugon be so damned stupid?” He kicked the remote across the carpet in frustration. “And the day after Election Day, too. How could he have been so stupid?”

Report after report had flashed over the TV and the Internet. A house had been burned down in some sort of home invasion attack. Someone had destroyed a half-dozen police cruisers and killed a dozen officers. A running gun battle had been fought in the city, with credible sightings of Wycliffe's black vans. A group of black vans had annihilated a police blockade in the suburbs. The police believed a pair of rival terrorist organizations had run amok in Chicago.

At least Wycliffe had destroyed all proof that his company owned those black vans.

Even stranger reports had shown up on Twitter and Facebook. One man claimed to have seen a horde of gray-skinned Martians rampaging through his backyard. Others had seen winged monsters flying over the city, armored in black steel, complete with shaky videos from smartphone cameras. A TV reporter had interviewed a hysterical old woman who claimed to have seen Lucifer and his minions flying over Chicago, with eyes of fire and a black scimitars in their hands.

“God damn him,” said Wycliffe, pacing. “How could he have done this? Has he utterly lost his wits? And he didn’t even win!”

Kurkov grunted and lit a cigarette. “How do you know that?”

“The winged demons have been coming in all night,” said Wycliffe. He punched the power button on the TV, and the screen went dark. “Their armor is shredded. They bear wounds from bullet and spear and sword. Whatever happened out there, I think Marugon lost.” Wycliffe dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. “This is a disaster, an absolute disaster.”

“An understatement, I should say,” said Krastiny.

Wycliffe spat a stream of curses. “That idiot. That damned fool! The day after Election Day, of all days. They’re already calling it post-Election Day violence, like this is my fault. This sort of violence, in my own home city!” Wycliffe shook his head. “And the bomb. Marugon wants his precious nuclear bomb so damned badly. Chicago’s going to become a military camp in the next few weeks. They’re going to turn up every stone, look under every rock. There’ll probably even be a nation-wide manhunt for these ‘terrorists’. How are we going to get a nuclear bomb into the city then?”

Kurkov blew out a cloud of smoke. “It will be difficult, yes. Perhaps even impossible.” He smiled. “The fee will go up, most certainly.”

“This is your fault, Thomas,” said Jones, his voice quivering. “You did this to Chicago. You let those monsters…”

“Shut up!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling with command. Jones’s jaw clamped shut. “Go to your rooms and stay there until I call for you. I don’t have the patience to deal with your idiocy right now.” For a moment he considered shooting Jones and dumping his body in the street. Perhaps Wycliffe could use Marugon’s rampage to political advantage.

No, not yet. He did not need any more complications just now.

Jones rose and departed with a stiff-legged step.

The intercom buzzed, and Wycliffe slapped the button. “This had better be damn important.”

“Sir.” It was the gate guard. “Lord Marugon has returned.”

Wycliffe sighed. “Tell him to go to warehouse 13A. I’ll meet him…”

“He’s already gone there, sir,” said the guard.

“Fine. I’ll meet him there, then.” Wycliffe turned to Kurkov and Krastiny. “Come with me.”

He stalked through the dark office building, fuming. How could Marugon have been so foolish? The incident with the abandoned warehouse ten years ago had been bad enough. But this was beyond the pale. Dozens of policemen had been killed. Hundreds of people had seen the winged demons and God knew what else. The state and federal investigative agencies would turn Chicago upside down. And if they found the truth, if they caught any inkling of Wycliffe’s connection to the rampage, then his political career was finished.

Wycliffe stormed across the complex, opened 13A’s door, and hurried inside. He gaped at the scene that greeted him. Dozens of winged demons stood around the warehouse floor, their armor damaged, wounds marking their bodies. Changelings skittered amongst the demons and the crates, mewling to themselves.

“Dear God,” said Krastiny. “What could have hurt the devils like that?”

“The bullets were enchanted, imbued with the white magic.”

Wycliffe turned. Marugon stood nearby, Goth at his side.

“I had not anticipated that.” Marugon’s face was haunted, his black eyes distant and narrowed. “That renegade who escaped your stronghold, who blew himself up in the warehouse. I thought he had perished.” He snarled. “Lithon Scepteris survived, so why not this rogue wielder of white magic? He must have enchanted the bullets. And a Knight. It was not Liam Mastere. But some other Knight who escaped my notice. They fought against the winged demons and the changelings.”

Wycliffe sighed. “At least tell me you succeeded. Tell me that Lithon and Ally Wester are dead.”

Marugon’s breath hissed through his teeth. “They are not.”

“What?” said Wycliffe. “You’re telling me you turned the city upside down, killed God knows how many people, and yet you didn’t kill those two children?”

“The girl cast a spell of the white magic,” said Marugon, his voice quiet. “I know not how, but she did it. A mighty spell, one worthy of Alastarius himself. The spell drove off the winged ones and the changelings, and the girl and her protectors escaped before I could reach them.”

“God damn it!” Wycliffe began to pace. “Do you even realize the mess you’ve made?”

“Enlighten me,” said Marugon.

“This has been an absolute disaster. People have seen the guns, the grenades, but worse, they’ve seen the winged demons. You’ve killed dozens of police officers. This isn’t going to go away. They think ‘terrorists’ went on a rampage, and they’re going to tear apart the city looking for these terrorists.” Wycliffe waved a finger. “They might find this place. They might even find the truth.”

“It matters not,” said Marugon. “Stifle the investigation once you come into office.”

“I can’t do that!” said Wycliffe. “Some people are already calling this the ‘Post-Election Day Massacre’. My enemies will try to link this to me. They need any edge against me.”

“As I told you, it matters not,” said Marugon.

Wycliffe growled. “And it will make it harder to find your precious bomb. Chicago’s going to be like a military camp for months. How do you think we shall smuggle a nuclear bomb into the city then?”

“It will be expensive,” said Kurkov.

“I care not,” said Marugon. “Your presidential aspirations are irrelevant in the face of the greater threat.”

Wycliffe sputtered. “Greater threat? How can you say that? What threat are a boy and a girl with a few spells? How can…”

“Be silent,” said Marugon, his voice hissing with anger. “You do not understand. Alastarius Prophesied that Lithon Scepteris would undo me. He Prophesied that Lithon would bring Alastarius back. Perhaps the girl is Alastarius’s successor.” He stalked towards Wycliffe, face taught with anger, and a bit of fear wormed its way into Wycliffe’s rage. “But they shall try to undo me, I have no doubt of it. And do you realize what that means? Do you think that you will survive when they come for me?” Wycliffe had no answer for that. “Therefore we must act first. I shall use the Voice to lay compulsion of searching on the changelings. Then I shall release them, all of them. They shall scour the United States until they find Ally and Lithon Wester.”

“Tonight?” said Wycliffe. “All of them? You can’t be serious.”

“I shall not be undone now!” Marugon pointed at Kurkov. “You. Ensure that the bomb arrives as soon as possible. Do whatever you must, bribe whoever you must, kill whoever you must. You shall be recompensed, and all costs shall be repaid. Am I understood?”

Kurkov managed to nod. “It shall be done.”

“We only have three hundred changelings or so at our disposal,” said Marugon. “More are needed for the search. Therefore the winged demons shall resume kidnapping those who have smoked the cigarettes.”

Wycliffe licked his lips. “You’ve already kidnapped most of the eligible candidates, those who have no families.”

“It matters not,” said Marugon. “If we run out of appropriate subjects, then we shall abduct people from the street, force them to smoke the cigarettes, and then transform them.”

“You can’t be serious!” said Wycliffe. “I refuse to go along with this. In fact, I shall not permit it. You’ve already threatened my position with your escapades, and I will not allow you to harm it further.”

A dead silence fell over the warehouse.

Dozens of red-glowing eyes turned Wycliffe’s way, and he swallowed. There were fifty winged demons and three hundred changelings in the warehouse. And if Marugon ordered them to attack, ordered every last one of them to kill him, what would happen them?

Wycliffe wouldn't make it three steps before they tore him to shreds

Marugon stalked towards him. “You will not permit it?” His voice was quiet, but Wycliffe felt the Warlock’s black magic rising in response to his rage. “You think to command me?” He glared down at Wycliffe. “Do not overestimate your value, little man. You are to me as Senator Jones is to you. I need you not. Question me further and I shall kill you. Or I will use the Voice to break your mind, as you have done to Senator Jones. I have far greater things to do than safeguard your petty ambitions. Am I understood?”

Wycliffe swallowed. “All right.” For the first time in years, he regretted bargaining with Marugon. But he could ride this out. He could survive. Time was on his side.

Once Marugon had his bomb, he would be gone forever.

Chapter 2 - Safe House

Anno Domini 2012

Arran watched the flickering images in the television’s glass panel.

“And here’s Channel 9 Action News, with the early bird report!” said the TV. Colorful graphics flashed across the screen, and the picture switched to a television reporter, standing in a Chicago street with a microphone in hand.

“A week has passed since the violent attacks that rocked Chicago,” said the reporter, a slender blond woman in a gray suit. Most reporters, Arran had noted, were slender blond women in gray suits. “Yet police remained baffled as to the identity of the terrorists.”

“Fools,” muttered Arran. “Search Senator Wycliffe’s stronghold. Then you will find your villains.”

“The FBI has been unable to trace the ownership of the destroyed black vans found throughout the city. Many witnesses reported seeing an additional gray van. Police are still searching for this vehicle, but have yet to find anything.” Knowing Conmager, they never would. The reporter assumed a solemn look. “Furthermore, despite the hundreds of eyewitness reports of strange winged creatures flying over the city, no evidence of such creatures has been found.” Given how the winged demons could masquerade as men, this did not surprise Arran. “A joint funeral service is scheduled this weekend for all the police officers killed in last week’s violence. In addition, the funeral service for Dr. Simon Wester and Katrina Wester is scheduled for Sunday. No word yet on the Westers’ children,” a family picture flashed across the screen, “who remain missing. Vice President-Elect Wycliffe gave the following statement today.”

Wycliffe appeared on the screen, clutching the podium. “I mourn with those families who have lost loved ones, and I vow to bring the perpetrators of these deeds to justice…”

“Then shoot yourself in the head,” said Arran, “betrayer and deceiver.” He picked up the remote, stared at it for a moment, and hit the power button. Wycliffe’s image winked out. Arran only wished he could kill the real Wycliffe so easily. The news programs either disgusted or amused him. None of them had come even close to the truth.

Arran stood and walked to the living room’s windows. He saw a broad sweep of snowy fields stretching to a forest in the distance, wooded hills rising against the sky. A dilapidated red barn stood some distance away, surrounded by rusted farm machinery. Arran supposed the farmhouse and its barn looked like any other farm in Wisconsin, or the thousands of other farms scattered around the region of the United States called the Midwest.

In truth, the farm was Conmager’s lair. The barn stored a vast arsenal of guns and enchanted bullets, and a safe in the basement of the rambling old house held tens of thousands of dollars. And Conmager had laid wards around the farmhouse, spells that would turn aside the eyes of Marugon’s minions. Arran hoped Conmager’s spells worked.

Then again, Conmager had once been a highwayman. He would know how to prepare a secure hiding place.

Arran opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The air smelled cleaner here than in the city, free of the smoke of cars and machines. A light flurry of snow fell, the white flakes almost invisible against the gray sky. The winter in Wisconsin reminded him of the winters of Rindl. Arran had spent a winter in Rindl, years ago, preying on Marugon’s soldiers. He remembered hiding beneath the trees, the ground cold, watching red blood soak through the white snow…

Arran shivered and pushed aside the memories.

He stepped back into the living room and closed the door. The smell of frying bacon brushed his nostrils, and he strode through the living room, past the dining room and the steep stairs that led to the bedrooms, and into the kitchen. Mary Lucas stood at the stove, working over pans of sizzling food.

She shot him a glance. “You’re up early.”

Arran sat at the table, watching the trees through the window. “I do not sleep well.”

Mary grunted and began to pour pancake batter onto a griddle. “Where’s Conmager?”

“He left for town about an hour ago,” said Arran. “He wanted to purchase some food and expected some packages at the courier’s office.”

Mary sighed. “Enough guns and bombs to blast this place to dust, probably.”

“No doubt,” said Arran.

Mary used tongs to lift the bacon from the pan and put it on a rack. “Do you always carry that around?”

“What?” Arran touched his Sacred Blade’s hilt. “This?”

“That and the gun,” said Mary. She pointed at his belt with her spatula. His Sacred Blade rested on his left hip, a Glock pistol on his right. He had tucked the ammo clips he had dipped in Siduri’s blood next to his gun.

“Peril can come on us at any time,” said Arran. “It is best to be prepared.”

“Yeah,” said Mary. “A week ago I would have said you were nuts. But I know better now.” She cooked in silence for a moment. “Are Ally and Lithon up yet?”

“No,” said Arran. “They sleep yet.”

“They sleep a lot, you mean.” Mary flipped the pancakes.

“It is best,” said Arran. He thought of the despair that had overtaken him after the fall of Antarese. “Some wounds only heal with time and rest. And most wounds leave scars.”

“I guess.” Mary poured more pancake batter onto the griddle. “I’m worried about them. Not so much about Lithon. He's dealing with it better, I think. But Ally’s…Ally’s in pieces. And there’s that thing with the magic. I don’t even know who she is anymore. She’s my best friend and I don’t even know her.”

“She didn’t know herself,” said Arran. “She still doesn’t. How could you be expected to know her if she did not know herself?”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” said Mary. “She saved my life, you know. Did she ever tell you about it?” Arran shook his head. “My old boyfriend. Nathan Jameson. I was a stupid kid. He was bad, but I was too stupid to see it. He would’ve killed me, but Ally saved me. Almost killed him, too.” She looked at Arran. “And you saved her life. She needs you.”

“Luck and fortune saved her life,” said Arran. “Another minute later, another second, and she would have perished.”

Mary shook her head. “But she remembers you jumping in with that burning sword and cutting the winged demon to pieces. I remember it. Hell, I see it every time I close my eyes. And if I remember it, Ally definitely remembers it. She needs you.”

“Her parents are dead, yes,” said Arran. Mary looked away. “But she still has Lithon. And she still has you.”

Mary shook her head. “But we can’t protect her. You can.”

Arran stared out the window. “Find Alastarius on Earth. I do not think you can understand. I crossed half a world, traveled through the Tower, saw terrible things,” some of the things he had seen in the Tower still troubled his sleep, “all to find Alastarius. And then I met you and Ally. And I was really looking for her all along, Alastarius’s successor.” Arran met Mary’s gaze. “Ally Wester has become the mission of my life. I will die before I let any harm befall her.”

Mary turned off the stove. “You might have to die, if it’s her destiny or fate or whatever to fight Marugon and those monsters.”

“I know,” said Arran, “but all men die. We can only hope to die well.”

Mary snorted. “What a happy thought. I don’t know about you, Mr. Belphon, but I don’t want to die for a good long while yet.” She handed him a plate with pancakes and bacon. “Now shut up and eat.”

Arran gave her a little salute. “As you command.”

Mary made a disgusted sound. “Wise ass.” She served herself some food and sat down. They ate in silence for a moment. “Um…how is it?”

“Delicious,” said Arran around a mouthful of pancake. “Superb. Food worthy of the gods themselves.”

“You’re kidding me.” Yet Mary looked pleased.

“I’ve lived on dried meat and roots,” said Arran. He pointed his fork at the plate. “I much prefer this.” Something moved outside the window, and Arran turned, his hand dropping to his sword. A gray car made its war up the snowy driveway. “Conmager’s back.”

“Well, good,” said Mary. “He can eat his breakfast before it gets cold. Besides, it’s freezing out there. He’d probably appreciate warm food.”

“No doubt,” said Arran. He took another bite.

The door opened and Conmager stamped into the kitchen, brushing snow from his parka. He pulled back his hood, kicked off his boots, and hung up his coat. “Cold as the Wastes out there.”

Mary stared at him. “You shaved.”

“Perceptive, my dear,” said Conmager. He had indeed shaved, trimming his wild beard to a neat gray and brown goatee. His hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore faded jeans, a polo shirt, and a gray sports jacket.

“You look like a reformed hippie,” said Mary.

Arran gestured with his fork. “No, he looks like…how did it go? A predatory merchant of secondhand automobiles?”

Conmager snickered and moved towards the table with a heavy limp. “You mean a used car salesman.” His leg had gotten worse in the cold weather. “And if you think so, all the good.” He dropped into an empty chair with a sigh, leaning his cane against the wall.

“Why’s that?” said Mary. She rose, put bacon and pancakes onto a plate, and handed it to Conmager.

“Ah, thank you.” He took the plate and began to devour his food. “Descriptions of a wild-bearded, wild-eyed man are appearing in the news reports. Believed to be an anarchistic terrorist of some sort.”

Mary’s eyes got wide. “We're on the news?”

“Oh, yes.” Conmager poured more syrup over his pancakes. “You, Ally, and Lithon are believed to have been abducted by the wild-eyed terrorist and his accomplice, a ‘tall dark man’ armed to the teeth and with a fondness for swords.”

Mary snorted. “If that doesn’t describe Mr. Belphon, then I don’t know what does.”

Arran sighed and finished his bacon. “I wish I had remained unseen.”

“I as well,” said Conmager. “I wish many things had gone differently that night.”

“Yeah, you’re not the only one,” said Mary. She sat down and returned to her food.

They ate in silence for a few moments.

“So they think you abducted us?” said Mary.

“They do,” said Conmager. “There are at least a hundred theories about what happened that night, ranging from erroneous to downright ludicrous.”

Arran scowled. “And has any blame fallen on Senator Wycliffe?”

“None,” said Conmager, stabbing a pancake with his fork. “No one has noticed that the majority of the guns used in the battle came from Wycliffe’s complex. No one has realized the Westers’ connection to Wycliffe.” He chewed, eyes glaring. “But I’m not surprised. Wycliffe is too powerful, too well connected. And if anyone does question him, he need only rely on the black magic to…dissuade them.”

Mary swallowed. “Do you think they’ll find us?”

Conmager shook his head. “Unlikely. Chicago’s police are in disarray. Besides, once we left Illinois, it became a case for the FBI. I know how they work. They’ll not find us. And even if they do, I have other safe houses prepared, far from here.”

Arran leaned back in the chair. “The authorities of this world are fools. They are complacent. We can avoid them with ease. But what of the winged demons and the changelings? Marugon will surely send them for us, once he learns that we did not perish. We cannot fight them,” he thought of Ally’s powers, “at least not yet.”

“The wards,” said Conmager, waving his hand at the window, “the wards I have laid around the farm. They shall turn aside a creature of the black magic, leaving it confused and forgetful.” He smiled. “They shall wander away and forget they were ever here.”

“But suppose it does not work,” said Arran. “The winged demons are strong in will, and can sometimes resist a spell.”

Conmager shrugged. “Then I suppose we shall have to flee again. But the wards will give us sufficient warning, at least. We can flee with plenty of time to spare.”

Arran grunted. “I hope everything goes as you foresee…this time, at least.”

Someone came down the stairs, and they fell silent. Arran turned in his chair as Lithon walked into the kitchen, his hair tousled, his bare feet slapping against the tiles. He looked pale and worn.

“Your Majesty,” said Conmager.

Lithon scowled and got a glass of water. “Stop calling me that, I told you.”

“Yes, your…er…Lithon,” said Conmager.

“Your Lithon?” said Mary. She snickered. “That’s an improvement. You sleep well, Lithon?”

“Not really,” said Lithon, his voice listless. “It’s cold upstairs. I hate Wisconsin in the winter.”

Mary wrapped her arms around herself. “You’re not the only one.”

Lithon stared at the counter, blinking. “Hey!” He smiled for the first time in a week. “Mary! You made breakfast!”

“I’ve made breakfast every morning,” said Mary. “You usually sleep too late. I tried to save you some, but those two,” she jerked her thumb at Arran and Conmager, “eat it all.”

“I most certainly do not,” said Conmager. “Allard eats it when he comes in from the morning watch.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Allard is an idiot.”

Conmager shrugged. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Lithon ignored them and shoveled food onto his plate.

“Is Ally awake yet?” said Arran.

“No,” said Lithon, chewing. “I don’t think she slept well. I heard her crying, through the vent. I think she stayed up all night and fell asleep later.” He chewed and swallowed. “This is really good.”

Mary smiled. “Thanks.”

“We never used to have breakfasts like this,” said Lithon, spearing some bacon with his fork. “My mom…she…my mom…” He stared at his plate, blinking. A muscle in his temple trembled.

“Oh.” Mary looked at the dingy tiles on the floor. “I’m sorry. I made you lose your appetite. I…”

“I’m still hungry,” said Lithon, covering his plate. “I’m just sad, okay? Can’t I be hungry and sad at the same time?”

Arran snorted. “I speak from experience when I say that it's entirely possible.” He shook his head and stood. “I’d best go take the watch before Allard freezes himself to death.” He pulled on a heavy black coat, gloves, and wrapped a scarf around his face. His old cloak, tattered and worn, lay by the door. He put it on and pulled the hood over his head.

Mary shuddered. “You look as if you’re going to go kill someone.”

“Good,” said Arran, voice muffled beneath the scarf. He reached into one of the cabinets, retrieved his Kalashnikov and Luthar’s Sacred Blade, and slung them over his shoulder. “I believe that is the point.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Conmager, seizing his cane and clawing to his feet.

Mary gave him a look. “You just got in. You didn’t even finish your breakfast.”

“His Majesty…I mean, Lithon can eat the rest.” Lithon seized Conmager’s plate without missing a beat, and Conmager shrugged into his coat. “And I need to speak with Sir Arran.”

The steps creaked, and Arran turned. Ally shuffled into the kitchen, red hair hanging limp over her face. She wore sweatpants and an old T-shirt, the same clothes she had worn for the last three days. She slumped into the chair Conmager had vacated and stared out the window, eyes glassy.

Arran wanted to comfort her, but he had no idea how.

“Sir Arran,” said Conmager. “This way.”

Arran followed Conmager onto the back porch. The sky had gotten darker, and thick snowflakes swirled through the air. Arran pulled his cloak tighter, his boots clumping against the floorboards.

“Damn this snow,” said Conmager. “I’ll have to plow the driveway again.”

“That seems to be the least of our problems,” said Arran.

“You’re right.” Conmager stopped out of earshot of the farmhouse. “You’ll be prowling around the woods, I assume?”

Arran nodded. “The better to stop any foes before they reach us.” He adjusted his Kalashnikov's strap. “Allard seems to think huddling by a space heater in the barn makes for adequate guard duty.”

Conmager chuckled. “Allard is not an evil man.”

“I know.”

“He has his limitations, but his heart is in the right place.” Conmager brushed the snowflakes from his coat. “And we still have my wards.”

“We should depart, head farther from Chicago,” said Arran.

Conmager frowned. “Why?”

“We are still too close,” said Arran.

“We’re five hundred miles away,” said Conmager.

“I still think it is too close,” said Arran. “How did you obtain this place, anyway?”

Conmager chuckled. “Dishonest means. How else? Senator Wycliffe has numerous enemies, though few have the courage to oppose him openly. I go to a wealthy Republican businessman, or to a wealthy Democratic liberal, and say I have means to undermine Wycliffe…if they give me money. They give me money, and I disappear. Though I suppose it’s not totally dishonest.” He waved his hand over the snow-cloaked farm. “I am opposing Wycliffe with the money, after all.”

“True,” said Arran. “We ought to leave this place as soon as possible, though.”

Conmager frowned. “Why? It’s perfect for what we need. This is a rural, wooded area. There is nothing but small villages for dozens of miles in all directions. Few even know this place exists. It will take Marugon a long time to find us here.”

“But he will find us,” said Arran. “And sooner than we may think. You have other safe houses, yes? We should not linger here.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Conmager. “That is the nature of battle, is it not? The enemy shatters your plans. But we must stay here for a time. It would be unwise to leave too soon.”

Arran frowned. “Why?”

“Ally and Lithon.” Conmager grimaced and scraped his cane through the snow. “Gods. Three inches already.” He looked at the sky and sighed. “Ally and Lithon need time to come to grips with what they’ve been told, with who they really are, and to mourn for their parents. Their entire lives have been turned upside down and destroyed. They need to rest, to heal. And perhaps more importantly, they need to come to grips with their powers.”

“But you are teaching Ally,” said Arran, scanning the mass of leafless trees. “You are teaching her the white magic. Surely you can teach her elsewhere just as well as you can teach her here.” He frowned as something occured to him. “Their powers? Lithon doesn't have the white magic.”

“Remember?” said Conmager. “Lithon saw the spirit of Alastarius first, before any of us did. He spoke to it. It was only after Ally cast that spell,” his eyes grew glassy, “that we could see his spirit. It was her power that drew him here, and only after she used her power could we see the spirit. But Lithon saw him first.”

“What does that mean?”

“It is the royal blood of Carlisan, the blood of Scepteris,” said Conmager. “Legend holds that an angel lay with the first king of Carlisan, passing the white magic into the blood of his descendants.” He shrugged. “True or not, I don't know, but Lithon will have special abilities as he grows older. Some of them have already manifested. You may have noticed them yourself. He seems faster than a normal boy.” Arran nodded. “He is also stronger and more resilient, both physically and emotionally. He can see spirits and magic energies, and he already has some resistance to magic. Eventually he will prove highly resistant to all but the most powerful spells.”

“Useful,” said Arran, “if he is destined to overthrow Marugon.”

“And Ally,” said Conmager with a sigh. “Her magical strength is tremendous. But I can only teach her a little, in truth. I was never much more than a half-trained apprentice. And her mind is…damaged. The grief weighs heavily upon her, and she seems to have inherited Alastarius’s memories, in addition to his powers.”

“Memories?” said Arran. “How is that possible?”

“I do not know," said Conmager. “I still do not know how Alastarius even passed his powers to her. She still remembers nothing before she woke up on the Crimson Plain and Sir Liam rescued her from the gunmen. How did she even get there? There are thousands of miles between the Crimson Plain and Castle Bastion.”

Arran nodded. “I know. I walked every one of those miles.” Twice, in fact.

Conmager shrugged again. “I can only guess that some of Alastarius’s memories buried themselves in her mind, along with his powers. And she seems to have gotten some of his more unpleasant memories. She remembers his death at the hands of Goth-Mar-Dan. She told me she’s dreamed of that for years.”

“Gods.” Goth-Mar-Dan had ripped out Alastarius’s heart. And Arran knew what it was to relive one's worst days in dreams, over and over again. “How has she endured?”

“She is strong,” said Conmager. “But right now she needs us. She needs you.” Arran stared at him. “She trusts you, Sir Arran. You told her everything, and everything you told her was proven to be true. And you saved her. With our help, true, but it’s you that she remembers.”

Arran stared at the ground, fingering the hilt of his Sacred Blade.

“You might do well to teach Lithon the sword,” said Conmager

Arran tapped his sword’s hilt. “He has the making of a true Knight.”

“Hey!”

Arran turned, his hands twitching towards his weapons. Allard trudged towards them, Uzi cradled in his arms. He wore a ridiculous pair of orange earmuffs. “You going to make me wait out here all morning? I’m freezing!”

Arran clapped him on the shoulder. “You seem to have held up well.” Allard gave him a sour look.

Conmager jerked his head at the house. “Mary made breakfast.”

“Oh, good!” Allard hurried away, boots crunching against the snow. Arran and Conmager shared a look.

“I’d best get started,” said Arran, turning off his Kalashnikov's safety.

Conmager nodded. “I’ll see you this afternoon. And then you should start teaching Lithon the sword.”

Arran started into the woods, his eyes scanning the trees.

###

Ally sat in the chair, staring at the bowl on the coffee table. An odd warmth filled her head, seeming to pump into her veins, soaking into her bones. Conmager said something, and Ally paid him no heed. Her parents’ faces swam before her eyes.

She remembered lying on a cold stone floor, the winged demon towering over her, claws plunging into her chest…

“Ally?”

Ally gave a small shriek and almost fell out of the chair. “What?”

Conmager grunted and rolled his cane between his palms. “You’ve been staring at that bowl for the last fifteen minutes.”

Ally shrugged. “So?”

“You’ve performed the spell twice before,” said Conmager.

Ally scowled. “So what?”

Conmager shrugged. “I could train you, and you could practice. Or you could sit in your room in the dark and brood.”

Ally pushed her dirty hair out her face. She could not remember the last time she had showered. “I think I’m entitled to sit and brood, if I want to.”

Conmager looked unperturbed. “True. But do you really want to?”

She glared at him. Conmager stared back, face calm, and she finally looked away. “Maybe you’re right.”

“You should mourn,” said Conmager. He smiled, his eyes sad. “But the dead are dead, Ally. You are not.”

Ally did not want to think about that. “So what did I do wrong?”

Conmager tapped his cane against the floor. “The white magic is based upon regeneration, not will. You tried to force the bowl to move. That is the use of the will. You need to summon the white magic with your spirit, not drive it with your will”

Ally frowned. “What is the difference?”

Conmager coughed. “If you summon the white magic with your spirit, it will accomplish your desire. Yet the will is about dominance and force. Thus, they are incompatible.”

Ally grumbled. “That is so obtuse.”

Conmager chuckled. “I said much the same to Alastarius, years ago. Yet it is the truth. Perhaps I should put it a different way. The black magic is the magic of entropy, decay, erosion, crumbling. Despair, really. It is the magic of the self and the will. The white magic, on the other hand, is centered in the spirit, not the will. It is the magic of harmony, regeneration, growth, healing. Hope as opposed to despair. A spell of the black magic would compel the bowl to move through sheer force of will. But a spell of the white magic would move the bowl by giving it energy, not forcing it.”

Ally thought about it. “That…makes sense.” A strange memory surged through her. She remembered standing on a rock in the forest, Conmager sitting at her feet. She told him of the will and the spirit…

“What is it?”

Ally shook her head. “Alastarius told you that, didn’t he? Years ago.”

Conmager frowned. “How did you know that?”

Ally ignored his words and tried to focus her mind. She muttered the incantation, her hands shaping the gestures of the spell. The white magic flooded into her mind, filling her blood with warmth. She did not try to force the bowl, but instead poured some of the fire from her blood into it.

The bowl floated off the table, trembling. It rose a few inches and fell back to the wood with a thump.

“Very good,” said Conmager. A momentary flush of pleasure broke through her apathy-clouded mind. “But what did you remember?”

Ally blinked. “What did you mean?”

Conmager waved a finger. “You get that expression when you remember something strange.”

Ally scowled. “Now you sound like Mary.”

Conmager chuckled. “True. What did you remember?”

Ally stared into space. “It…I…was standing on a rock. You were sitting on the ground, listening to me. I was telling you everything you just told me, almost word for word.” A pain tugged at her head. “And I was…a man. It’s bizarre, remembering myself as a man.”

“You seem to have received some of Alastarius's memories, in addition to his powers,” said Conmager.

Ally shivered. “How many of his memories?”

"I don't know,” said Conmager. “How far back can you remember? As yourself, not as Alastarius.”

Ally stared at the floor. “I woke up on a dead plain. The Crimson Plain, I think. Then the soldiers found me. I can remember nothing before that. Nothing.”

Conmager nodded. “So you remember nothing of how Alastarius’s powers came to you?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?” said Conmager.

Ally’s temper flared. “I can’t remember! All right? I can’t remember!”

Conmager watched her. “Perhaps you’re blocking the memories, as you did before.”

“Maybe I want to,” said Ally. “I remembered something and looked what happened. My parents…my parents are dead. God only knows what will happen if I remember more.”

“The remembering may have saved your life,” said Conmager. “The spell you cast, the spell that drove off the winged demons and the changelings. Cast it again.”

Ally frowned. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” said Conmager.

Ally stared out the window. She caught a glimpse of Arran prowling amongst the barren trees. “I can’t, all right? I don’t know why. It…Lithon told me what to do, and the incantation sort of popped into my mind…and I just did it. It seemed like…the right thing to do. I don’t know why I worked, and I don’t know how I did it.” Such a feat of white magic now seemed miles beyond her grasp.

Conmager leaned forward, dark eyes keen. “You knew how to cast the spell because Alastarius knew. Some of his memories passed on to you, we know that. What if his knowledge of the white magic came to you as well?” He tapped his temple. “The knowledge of the spell rested within your mind. You were only blocking it, I think. It was your power, your need, that called the spirit of Alastarius.” He looked thoughtful. “It seemed as if he had more to tell us. I suspect you sent him back.”

Ally stared at him. “Why would I have done that?”

“Because you did not want to hear what he had to say.” Conmager hesitated. “It has been difficult for you, I have no doubt of that…”

“Oh, how perceptive!” She looked back out the window. Arran continued on his patrol, moving with the grace of a stalking cat. She found it both frightening and compelling to watch him.

“But you did not want to remember,” said Conmager, folding his arms. “You still don’t. That is why you have blocked the memories…”

Ally stood and scowled. “I don’t want to talk about this any more. I’m going back to bed.” She stalked past Conmager, stormed up the stairs, and did not look back.

###

“Ally.”

Ally groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets tighter. “Go away.” She did not want to wake up.

Grief and pain filled the waking world.

“Ally!”

She cracked open and eye. “What?”

Lithon stood over her bed. A pale ray of moonlight illuminated his grim face.

She sat up. “What is it?”

He tugged at her shoulder. “You have to come downstairs.”

Her frown widened. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“You know those gray things we saw,” said Lithon, “you know, with red eyes and skinny arms…”

Ally felt a chill. “The changelings.”

“Yes, them,” said Lithon, twitching with impatience. “One’s in the woods. You have to come downstairs. Conmager and Arran are watching it. If it finds us, we have to run.”

“Oh God.” Raw fear bit at Ally’s stomach. “I’m…I’m not even dressed. I can’t run, not again.”

“Then you should hurry up and get dressed. I’ll wait for you in the living room.” Lithon disappeared through the door and shut it behind him.

Ally climbed to her feet, shaking. All her clothes had burned with her parents’ house, but Conmager had purchased new ones. She reached into a battered dresser and pulled on a sweaters, jeans, and boots. Something dark passed over the moon, throwing her room into darkness. For a terrible moment Ally thought it was a winged demon, but it was only a cloud.

Ally shivered and hurried downstairs.

The living room was dark. Arran and Conmager kneeled on the couch, staring out the front windows. Allard stood by the front door, an Uzi ready in his arms. Mary sat in the shadows behind him, another gun resting in her lap. Both Arran and Conmager held Glocks, and even Lithon held a gun.

“What is it?” said Ally, creeping forward.

“Hush!” said Conmager. He gestured at the windows. “Watch.”

Ally knelt besides Arran, her knees sinking into the cushions. He smelled of gun oil and smoke and sweat. She felt safer besides him, though she could not say why.

He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Here.” He pressed a pair of heavy binoculars into her hands. “Lift them slowly. Look at the driveway, where it wends past the large tree.”

Ally nodded and raised the binoculars. A shimmering image of green light danced before her eyes. Arran had given her night-vision binoculars. She turned them, scanning the driveway, and froze.

“Yes,” said Conmager, his voice a low rasp. “You see it.”

A changeling stood a hundred yards away, half-hidden beneath the trees. The creature took a few steps forward and stopped, staring at the house. Ally lowered the binoculars, her heart hammering in her chest, sweat beading on her forehead. “Why is it here?”

“Looking for us, I’d imagine,” said Conmager. “I’m not surprised.” He lifted his cane and muttered something under his breath. “Marugon has imbued it with a spell of seeking. He’s probably done the same for all the changelings. No doubt hundreds of them seek us, driven on by the black magic.”

“Hundreds?” said Ally. “My God. We’ve got to run before the rest of them find us.”

“There’s no need to fear, not yet,” said Arran, voice low. His dark eyes glinted with the moonlight reflecting off the snow. “We can kill this one, if it comes for us, and have plenty of time to escape.”

Conmager snorted. “There may be no need to flee. The wards may turn it back, destroy any memory that it ever found this place.”

“Then let us hope they work,” said Arran.

They sat in silence for a long moment, Ally’s heart thundering like a drum. Even without the night-vision binoculars, she saw the changeling across the moon-lit snow, a dark blotch beneath a barren tree. She could almost feel its red eyes on the house, staring into her.

“This is my fault,” muttered Allard. “My fault. I handed out the cigarettes, I let them…”

“Shut up,” said Conmager. He tensed, propped his pistol against the back of the couch, and took aim. “It’s not working. Sir Arran. Can you manage a shot through the head at this distance?”

“I should,” said Arran, closing one eye and sighting down his Glock’s barrel, “unless there is a branch or some other obstruction that I cannot see.”

“All five of us should shoot,” said Allard, “one of us is bound to hit the poor bastard.”

“Very well,” said Conmager. His hands tensed around his gun. “On the count of three.” Ally braced herself for the gunshots. “One, two…”

“Wait.” Arran lowered his pistol. “It’s moving.”

“No.” Conmager grinned. “It’s leaving.”

Ally watched as the changeling staggered away. It moved with a drunken, looping walk, its head lolling back and forth. It vanished down the snowy driveway and did not return.

“It worked.” Conmager slid his gun back into its holster. “The wards turned it back. It will regain its senses in a few hours. By then it will have wandered miles away. And it will have no memory of this place.” He shrugged into his coat and picked up his cane. “I’ll go back on watch.” He disappeared out the front door.

“God. That scared me half to death.” Mary stood and handed her gun to Allard. “I’m going to go cook something.”

Allard snickered. “That’s what you always do when something bad happens. You go and cook something.”

Mary snorted. “You have a problem with that?”

Allard grinned. “It keeps me fed, doesn’t it?” They moved towards the kitchen, still talking. Lithon hurried after them.

Ally slipped away from them. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait.” Arran moved towards her, a dark shadow in the dim room. “You have not eaten all day. Mary told me. You should eat something before you go to bed.”

Ally scowled. “I’m not hungry.”

Arran stepped closer. “You must keep up your strength. We need you.”

Ally shook her head. “No, you don’t. Alastarius’s Prophecy was about Lithon, remember? He’s the one that’s supposed to overthrow Marugon.”

“But the Prophecy said Lithon would bring Alastarius back…”

“And he has, hasn’t he?” said Ally, thinking of Alastarius’s shade. “And he’s still the one who will overthrow Marugon, Alastarius or no Alastarius. It’s…it’s…” She stared at Arran, and suddenly she had one of her premonitions, her insights. Of course, those premonitions must have come from the white magic locked inside her skull. “Conmager needs Lithon, not me. But you need me.”

Arran blinked. “I do not believe that is true. Lithon will need…”

“You need me,” said Ally. Arran fell silent. “Find Alastarius on Earth. That’s what Siduri told you, wasn’t it? Find Alastarius. Find me, his heir, on Earth. You had no other choice, save to kill yourself. The guilt and the despair drove you across your world, through the Tower, and here to Earth. And now you’ve found me, as close to Alastarius as you will ever get. You need me. Without me, you have no purpose.”

Arran looked away. “You cannot understand.” A muscle in his jaw trembled. “It…”

“I understand just fine,” said Ally. “I saw my parents die, remember?”

Arran glared at her. “As did I. Marugon’s soldiers overran my family’s estate. My mother perished in the fighting. My father was slain in the battle outside Carlisan’s walls.” His voice was as cold and dead as the ice outside. “I saw my brother die, only a few feet away, and I could do nothing to save him. And Carlisan was destroyed. The High Kingdoms were destroyed. You saw your parents die. I saw everything destroyed.”

“Everything you ever loved,” whispered Ally. Even in her own pain, she still flinched to see the raw agony in Arran’s eyes.

“I thought to find Alastarius on Earth, to demand answers from him,” said Arran. “He would tell me about his damned Prophecy. And then I met you, this beautiful young woman who knew so much of my world.” He shook his head. “And I was really looking for you all along. Find Alastarius on Earth. No. Find Ally Wester on Earth. And I did.” He stepped closer, looking down at her. “You are right. You have become all that I have left. Lithon is my King, but you are my purpose.” He put his hard strong hands on her shoulders. “I cannot let any harm come to you. I cannot.” His grim face cracked for a moment, showing such pain that Ally wanted to comfort him. “I will protect you to my last breath.”

“I…” Ally swallowed. Tears welled up in her eyes. She wanted somebody to protect her. She wanted to fall against him and weep into his shoulder. “I…good night, Arran.”

She turned and hurried up the stairs, feeling Arran’s eyes on her back.

Chapter 3 - Hate and Black Magic

Anno Domini 2012

Arran knocked the snow from his boots and his cloak. A low wind whistled past him, sinking a chill deep into his clothes and bones. He pushed open the kitchen door and stepped inside, weapons thumping against legs. Some leftover food sat on the counter, and Arran ate a piece of cold bacon as he slid out of his cloak and coat. He heard laughter coming from the living room.

Allard lay sprawled on the couch, a sandwich in hand, watching the TV. Its glass screen showed something called a “sitcom”. It reminded Arran of the shows of traveling buffoons that had wandered the High Kingdoms in his youth.

Allard groaned. “Don’t tell me it’s my turn already.”

“It is.” Arran leaned against the wall. “At least it’s stopped snowing.”

“Small comfort,” said Allard, climbing to his feet. His coat and gun lay in the corner. “Time to go freeze myself for another eight hours.”

Arran looked at Allard’s Uzi. “You shouldn't leave that lying around.”

“Hey, some of us like to relax at the end of the day.” Allard tugged on his coat. “I suppose you’re going to go upstairs and swing that thing,” he waved a hand at Arran’s sword, “around in circles.”

“More or less,” said Arran. “I prefer to be ready. Lying about and watching televised buffoons is hardly the way to maintain readiness.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Allard picked up gun and checked the ammunition clip.

“Where’s Conmager?” said Arran.

“In the barn, enchanting more bullets,” said Allard. He slung the gun over his shoulder and opened the front door. “We used up most of them in Chicago.” He stepped outside. “Well, enjoy working yourself to a threat.”

“Try not to freeze to death,” said Arran. Allard smirked and disappeared out the door. Arran strode upstairs and looked around. The bedrooms were empty. He reached up, grabbed a chain dangling from the ceiling, and pulled it. A collapsible wooden staircase swung down from the ceiling, and Arran climbed into the attic. It ran the length of the farmhouse, sunlight filtering through a dirty skylight. Asides from a few boxes stacked in one corner, the spacious attic lay empty. Arran had begun using the space to practice his sword work. He did not want to lose his edge in the relative peace of Conmager’s safe house.

He stopped.

Ally stood at the far end of the attic, barefoot in black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Her arms blurred in a flurry of punches. As he watched, she spun and kicked at the air, foot level with her face.

She stopped. “Oh.” Her leg lowered. “I didn’t see you.”

“I just came up,” said Arran. “I can leave, if you wish.”

“No, no.” She wiped sweat from her forehead. “It’s fine. I was almost done, anyway.”

“Do you practice often?” said Arran. She had told him of the martial arts she knew.

“Yeah,” said Ally. “I always used to practice an hour every day. Now…it’s more like three or four. Asides from Conmager’s lessons, I don’t have much else to do.” She shrugged. “It passes the time. And it keeps me from thinking too much.”

Arran nodded. “I understand. It is good that you practice.”

Ally shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” She smirked. “I always thought I could take care of myself.” A tremor entered her voice. “Turns out that I couldn’t.”

“No one can stand on their own,” said Arran, “at least not forever.”

“But you did,” said Ally. “You spent all those years alone. You made it to Earth alone.”

“And I would have perished if not for Sir Liam, if not for Siduri.” Arran drew his sword. “See the blood on the blade? It is constant reminder that I cannot stand alone.”

Ally stepped forward. “I guess you’re right.” She raised a hand to touch the stained blade, gasped, and shuddered.

Arran frowned. “What is it?”

“It’s…the white magic. I can sense it in the blade, now.” She tried to smile. “Conmager’s lessons must be working.”

“He told me you have the potential to become the greatest of Wizards,” said Arran.

Ally shook her head. “Who am I kidding? Conmager’s not much of a Wizard, we both know that. He says I have Alastarius’s power, but I doubt it. I can barely do the simplest spell.”

“You drove off the winged demons,” said Arran.

“Do you come up here often to practice?” said Ally, looking away.

“I do.” Arran waved his sword in an arc. “The ceiling is high enough that I do not damage it. I could spar with you, if you wish.”

“You’d win,” said Ally. “I’ve never used a sword in my life.” But a bit of life came into her tired eyes. “Then again, maybe that’s a good idea.” She crossed to the opposite side of the attic. “All right. Let’s start.”

Arran blinked. “You don’t have a weapon.”

“That’s the whole point of the martial arts, learning to fight armed opponents.” Ally grinned. “What are you waiting for?”

Arran shrugged. “As you wish.” He took his Sacred Blade in both hands, lifted it, and charged her. Ally circled against the wall, her eyes never leaving him. Arran feinted left, spun right, and launched a chop for her head. Ally hopped out of the way.

“You’re staying out of reach,” said Arran.

“You have a long weapon.” Ally circled around him.

“True,” said Arran. “But in a real fight, you’d wear yourself out long before I did.”

Ally snorted. “In a real fight, you’d have shot me to death by now.”

Arran laughed. “You’re right, I deem.”

Ally spread her arms. “Oh, so you think that’s funny?” Arran saw an opening and lunged. Ally spun aside, but Arran saw her evasion coming and shifted his thrust into a sideways chop. Ally tried to dodge but moved too slow. The flat of his sword smacked into her hip. She staggered, missed a step, and Arran had the tip of his sword at her throat in a heartbeat.

“God,” said Ally. “I guess you win. So much for practicing.” She winced and rubbed her leg.

“Did I hurt you?” said Arran, lowering his sword. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

Ally shook her head. “No, no. Just a bruise, I think.” She smiled. “You know, when my mom first started teaching me this stuff, the same thing happened. I must have eleven or twelve, and she accidentally kicked me right in the stomach. Mom pretended to be so tough, and she really was…but she didn’t stop apologizing for an hour.” Ally laughed. “It was…she was…” She wrapped her arms around herself and turned away from Arran. “I…I…”

She lowered her head and began to cry, her shoulders shaking with the sobs.

Arran sheathed his sword and took a step towards her. “Ally…”

She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.

“Ally,” said Arran.

Ally collapsed against him, sobbing into his shoulder. Arran hesitated and then put his arms around her. Her body jerked with every agonized draw of her breath. Arran stood with her for a long time, unsure of what to do.

Ally sniffled and looked up at him. “I can’t go on. My parents are dead. I don’t know myself anymore. Sometimes I wake up and can’t remember if I’m Ally or Alastarius. And they’re going to kill us. They’re going to kill me.”

“Not while I still draw breath,” said Arran.

Ally scrubbed her hand over her eyes. “I used to dream about a monster ripping out my heart. Now I know it was Goth-Mar-Dan. He killed Alastarius, and Marugon’s going to send him to kill me.” Her voice trembled with hysteria. “I’ve dreamed about it for so long. He’ll come for me, he’ll kill Lithon, he’ll kill you, he’ll kill me, or he’ll give me to Marugon…”

“No!” Arran gripped her shoulders. “I do not know what the future holds. But I vow that I will protect you. I will not let you die, will not let any harm come to you, while I still have an ounce of strength.”

Ally stared at him. “You promise?” She sounded so frightened.

“I swear,” said Arran, “on all the names of all the gods that ever were. Alastarius’s Prophecy may be about Lithon. But you are my purpose. And I shall not let you come to harm, not while I still draw breath.”

Ally stared at him, trembling. Her face jerked closer and closer to him, and then she was kissing him. Shock overwhelmed him for a moment, then his reason returned and informed him of all the reasons that kissing Ally Wester was unwise.

She kissed him harder.

A rising flood of emotion swept away all thought.

Arran kissed her back, pulling her tight against him.

###

Moonlight fell through the window and into her eyes.

Ally blinked awake and lifted her head, her hair brushing over Arran’s chest. His arm lay around her, hand resting on the small of her back. She shifted, the bed creaking beneath her, and looked at the clock and the wall. It was four in the morning. Arran did not have to get up for another few hours. She sighed and lay back against him, her head resting against his chest. Her mouth stretched in a wide yawn.

Ally pulled the blankets closer, cozy warmth washing over her from the heat of Arran’s body. She waited to fall asleep.

Instead, her eyes wandered over Arran’s body. Muscle corded every inch of his lean frame, unencumbered by a single ounce of fat. She wondered how he kept from freezing to death during his guard shift. Her fingers slid over his chest, brushing a long scar along his shoulder. Some of the scars looked like old puncture wounds, others resembled faded cuts. She thought some had been left by bullets grazing him, ripping away the skin and leaving furrows in his flesh.

Ally kissed one of the scars. He must have been in so much pain for so long. She turned her head and saw him watching her through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice a low whisper.

Ally nodded. “I keep waking up.”

He hesitated. “Are you sore?”

“A little.”

“I am sorry,” said Arran. “I did not mean…”

Ally put a light kiss on his mouth. “I know you didn’t. It was my first time.” She smiled. “The second time, that was…”

Arran laughed. “I’m older than you. You shall wear me out.”

Ally leaned into him, twining one leg around him. “Oh, I think you wanted to get worn out.” She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, tracing the shape of his scars.

“I suppose I did, at that.”

She shook her head. “You have so many scars.”

He blinked. “I have seen many battles. Too many.” His fingers closed over hers, against one of his scars. “That one…you know, I do not even remember when it happened. A gunman in the Border Woods almost killed me. His first shot missed. The second left the scar. I killed him before he could fire a third time.” Her fingers brushed another scar. “A knife in Narramore.” She touched a long white scar that ran over his ribs. “That was in the Desert of Scorpions. When Baal-Mar-Dan almost killed me.”

Ally pulled back the covers a bit. “And that was where he stabbed you,” she said, voice soft. A large scar marked his stomach, a patch of hard white flesh.

“Yes,” said Arran. She felt the arm around her back tense. “I almost perished.”

Ally lay back against him, head on his chest. “That seems to have happened quite often.”

“More than I care to remember.”

“So many scars,” said Ally. She listened to his heart’s slow, steady beat. “You must have been in so much pain.”

“I was,” said Arran, “but I did not care. I did not care if I lived or died.”

She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “Do you care now?”

“Yes,” said Arran. “I have to live to protect you.”

“That…actually makes me feel better,” said Ally. “You’ve been through so much, and yet here you are. You crossed your world…our world…and came through the Tower and saved my life. After everything that happened to you, you found the strength to go on. And…I guess I can to.”

“But I did not do it alone,” said Arran. “I would have perished, if Siduri had not helped me. And you need not go alone.”

“No.” Ally smiled. “I have Mary and Lithon.” She kissed him with some force. “And you. And you.” Her hand slid below his stomach.

Arran’s eyes widened. “That’s not,” she felt his heartbeat quicken, “that’s not a scar.”

Ally smiled. “Oh, I know.”

###

Snow blasted into the creature’s red eyes.

The changeling that had once been Nathan Jameson, the ex-boyfriend of Mary Lucas, hurried through the dark woods, clawed feet kicking up clods of frozen snow. Every movement filled its twisted body with pain. The cold sank into its flesh, and it yearned for warmth. Specifically, it yearned to find hot flesh and devour it.

But Lord Marugon had commanded otherwise.

Marugon’s Voice thundered through the changeling’s broken mind over and over again, filling it with his will. Lord Marugon had commanded that the changeling search for Lithon Scepteris and Ally Wester. The changeling, and hundreds of others, had gone to scour the world in search of them. The changelings were to remain unseen and unnoticed. They were not to hunt, not to eat, until they had found Lord Marugon’s quarry.

The changeling loped over a fallen long, its hot breath steaming over its fangs. It was hungry and tired, and it hated the world, hated itself, and hated and feared Lord Marugon. The changeling stopped, glancing at the star-strewn sky. The seeking spells Lord Marugon had burned into its brain buzzed.

It was getting closer to its prey. A rush of eagerness filled it, pushing aside its exhaustion. The changeling hurried into the night, slipping like a shadow from tree to tree.

For more than Lord Marugon’s seeking spells drove the changeling that had once been Nathan Jameson.

Memories of Ally Wester lay within the dark murk of the creature’s ruined mind. It remembered her, from its dim, almost-forgotten days as a mortal man. She had caused him great pain. She had ruined his life. And if she had not ruined his life, the changeling would not have become what it was now.

It wanted Ally Wester dead. The desire for revenge filled the creature, drove it through the endless cold days and nights, over the countless miles.

It came across a snow-covered gravel driveway. The thunder of the seeking spells and the Voice filled the changeling’s head, and Ally Wester was close, it knew. So was Lithon Scepteris, but that did not concern the changeling very much. It stood motionless for a moment, watching for guards, then loped down the driveway. It saw an old farmhouse far in the distance, lights burning through its windows. A surge of bloodlust filled the creature. Perhaps it could find Ally Wester and tear her head from her shoulders.

The changeling sprang forward and slammed into an invisible wall.

White lights burned before its eyes, and burning pain lanced through it. It let loose an agonized gibber and staggered back, its leathery skin crawling with revulsion. Some instinct in its mind recognized the presence of white magic. It felt the white magic reaching into its thoughts, digging into its memories. For a moment it wanted to turn and flee and leave this awful place far behind.

Then the changeling’s hatred rose up. It wanted Ally Wester dead, its will matching Lord Marugon’s command, and the combined force of its rage and the black magic ripped through the tendrils of the white magic. The changeling staggered forward, snarling, its clawed fingers lashing at the cold air. The pressure in its mind grew and grew…

Then all at once the pressure vanished. The changeling staggered, blinking its glaring eyes. It had broken through whatever wards surrounded this place.

The creature that had once been Nathan Jameson loped forward with a hiss of satisfaction.

A broad clearing surrounded the farmhouse and the nearby barn. The changeling crept along, keeping low to the ground. It saw a young man leaning in the barn’s doorway, a machine gun cradled in his arm. The creature crept around the barn, taking care to remain out of sight, confident that the following snow would erase any tracks.

The changeling slid up to the house and crouched against the foundation. The seeking spells screamed through its dark mind. Ally Wester was so close. It inched up and peered through a window.

Ally Wester sat on the couch, leaning against a weathered man with deep eyes and dark hair. The changeling wanted to leap through the window and tear Ally’s throat free. But the weathered man had a sword propped against his knees, and even sheathed, the light of the sword’s white magic stung the changeling’s eyes. The weathered man could destroy the changeling before it took two steps.

But it wanted Ally Wester dead.

For a moment it peered through window, rage and fear warring in its skull.

Then a cunning thought took hold. The changeling would do as Lord Marugon compelled. It would return to him and tell the Warlock about Ally Wester. Then Lord Marugon would deal Ally Wester a far more painful death than the changeling ever could.

The changeling slipped away into the dark trees, racing for the south.

The wind and the snow did not feel quite so cold.

Chapter 4 - Stealth

Anno Domini 2012

“Arran Belphon.”

Arran turned.

He stood in the Chamber of the Dead in the Tower of Endless Worlds, the forest of titanic columns spreading away in all directions. The stone faces stared down at him from the pillars, effigies of the dead gazing at him with cold eyes. He turned in a circle, his heart racing.

“Arran Belphon.”

The caretaker of the dead stood behind a sarcophagus, wrapped in gray mist, shifting from the shape of a giant skeleton to a hooded specter and back again.

“What?” said Arran. “Earth, I have to get to Earth…”

“You have failed,” said the caretaker, “and now all is lost.”

“I don’t understand.”

The caretaker raised a skeletal hand and pointed at a nearby sarcophagus. “Look.”

Arran strode to the sarcophagus.

An effigy of Ally covered the tomb, her body twisted and broken, her mouth yawning in an endless scream.

Arran’s mind lurched. “No.” He stepped back from the awful sight, his heart hammering. “No, no, this cannot be…”

“You failed her, Arran Belphon,” said the caretaker, gliding towards him. “Arran. Arran…”

“Arran!”

Arran gasped and jerked awake.

“Jesus,” said Mary. Arran blinked, his heart racing. He sat at the table in the farmhouse’s kitchen, his head propped on his hand. “I’ve never seen anyone fall asleep while they were eating.”

Arran glanced at his half-eaten breakfast. “My apologies.” He picked up his fork. “It is not a criticism of your cooking.”

Mary gave him a look and returned to the stove. “Well, someone has to feed all of you, and Allard couldn’t boil a hot dog without burning down the house.” She stirred something in a pot. “You look tired, Mr. Belphon.”

Arran chewed and swallowed. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Mary gave him another look, pointing with her wooden spoon. “That,” she said, “is bullshit, and we both know it.”

Arran looked back at her. “Perhaps I misspoke. I have not been sleeping as much.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Mary. “Is Ally up yet?”

“No,” said Arran. “She is still sleeping. She needs her rest.”

“I’d guess so,” said Mary. “You’d better not be taking advantage of her, Mr. Belphon.”

Arran put down his fork. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” Mary stirred her pot with savage force. “Taking advantage of her. I had someone do that to me.”

“No,” said Arran. “I am not.”

She shook the spoon at him. “You’d better not. You ever hurt her, Mr. Belphon…you ever hurt her, and I’ll shoot you in your sleep.”

Arran believed her. “But I will not. Do you understand? I would sooner cut off my right hand than hurt her. I spent too long looking for her.”

Mary snorted. “But you weren’t looking for her…or you were looking for her and didn’t know it. She’s told me some of it.”

“Yes,” said Arran. “That is the irony.” He paused. “How much has she told you?”

Mary smirked. “Quite a bit.” She paused. “What she gets pregnant?”

Arran blinked. “What?”

Mary gave him a level look. “What if she gets pregnant?”

Arran shook his head. “Conmager told her that the white magic will prevent her from conceiving until she has better control of her powers. Ally will not become pregnant. Even if she wishes it.”

The people of the United States, Arran had noticed, had a horror of children. But in Carlisan, sons were a man’s pride, proof that his family line would continue after his death. The prospect of children pleased Arran, but it was for the best that Ally could not conceive.

Not while Marugon and his creatures hunted her.

Mary gave him another look. “She’d better not. That’s the last thing she needs.”

Arran finished his breakfast and stood.

“Do you have guard duty?” said Mary.

“Shortly,” said Arran. “Allard is taking an extra hour. Conmager wishes me to teach Lithon the sword for at least an hour, preferably two, every day.”

“Yeah.” Mary smiled. “Lithon was telling me about it. He’s really excited. I guess it help keeps his mind off things. Is he any good?”

“Not yet,” said Arran, putting his plate in the sink, “but for his age, he’s very good. I see his potential. He’s very fast. He’ll be better than me, someday. He’ll be better than Sir Liam, perhaps one of the best swordsmen who ever lived. And I’m teaching him to shoot, as well.” He remembered the horrors on the fields outside Carlisan. “A sword is often not much use against a gun. I will teach him pistols; Allard will teach him rifles.”

Mary snorted. “Allard?”

“Allard has become a skilled marksman,” said Arran, “better than I am at long range. I must get started. Lithon is no doubt waiting.”

“All right,” said Mary. “Remember, if you hurt Ally…”

“Yes, you’ll shoot me,” said Arran, “assuming I do not shoot myself first.”

###

Lithon swung the wooden practice sword in a high loop. Arran parried, turned his own wooden blade down, and caught Lithon’s weapon as it descended in a low swing. Lithon blinked in surprise, and Arran whipped his sword up and tapped Lithon on the side of the head.

Lithon’s face fell. “You saw through it.”

Arran shrugged. “It was an obvious feint. A swordsman with any experience would have seen it coming.” He frowned. “Did I teach you that?”

Lithon shook his head. “I thought of it myself. It seemed like it would work…the high swing flows right into a low one.”

“It does,” said Arran, “but that will only work if you’re faster than your opponent.”

“But I am faster than you!” said Lithon.

“True,” said Arran, “and you’ll be faster yet someday, I think. But you are only fourteen, and I’ve been practicing with the sword since I was half your age. It was a good thought, but I’m taller than you. Even if you had gotten through my guard, a low swing would only have wounded me in the knee or leg. Not bad, certainly, but you’ll want to hit vital spots.”

Lithon looked thoughtful. “Sword fighting isn’t at all like it is in the movies, is it? That’s all flashy and fancy.”

“Yes,” said Arran. “Players and actors use all manner of fancy moves and tumbling tricks, but a real fight, when two men try to kill each other, is almost always over quickly.”

Lithon looked away. “Like when you saved us, killed those winged demons.”

Arran nodded. “And if a real fight lasts a long time,” he thought of his fight with Khan-Mar-Dan at the edge of the world, “then the first one to make a mistake usually loses. And dies in the process, as well.” He stepped back. “We’re almost done. Let us go through the basic movements one last time.”

“We already did that,” said Lithon.

Arran snorted. “And we’ll do it again and again, until your muscles know them better than you do yourself. We shall do them until you can do them without thinking, until they are part of your very reflexes.” He dropped the wooden sword and drew his Sacred Blade. “And we’re going to try something different.”

Lithon gray eyes got wide. “What are we doing?”

Arran gestured with the blade. Luthar’s Sacred Blade stood propped in the corner of the attic. “My brother’s sword. Go and see if you can draw it.”

Lithon shrugged. “Okay.” He went to the corner and drew the Sacred Blade. The silvery steel flashed, and the gem embedded in the blade shone with a faint blue glow. Lithon staggered and put both hands around the hilt.

“Is it heavy?” said Arran. “Too heavy to lift?”

“No.” Lithon looked with wonder at the blade. “It was just…I almost lost my balance, because it was so long. It looks like it should be heavier than it is,” he swung the sword in a slow loop, “but it’s not. It’s only a little heavier than the wooden sword.”

“Good,” said Arran. “That means you have the potential to become a Knight of the Order.” A bit of excitement stirred at the thought. Arran had been the last Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade for years, but perhaps he could train more.

Lithon looked dubious. “But I’m supposed to be the King of Carlisan, aren’t I? Can I be King and a Knight at the same time? Does it work that way?”

“Yes,” said Arran. “Five Kings of Carlisan, your own ancestors, have been Knights. King Arkan, called Torchbearer, was both King of Carlisan and Master of the Order of the Sacred Blade. He led the war that freed Narramore and Rindl from the rule of the Warlocks.” He took his Sacred Blade in both hands. “Now, let us…”

“What’s this?” Lithon pointed at the glowing gem. “Your sword doesn’t have one. What is it?”

Arran hesitated. “I do not know. It was a gift from my brother. He said it would aid me in my last despair.”

“Last despair,” said Lithon. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” said Arran, “so hopefully I shall not need it, whatever it is.”

Lithon looked at the Sacred Blade. “I’m going to have to kill him someday, aren’t I?”

“Who?”

“Marugon,” said Lithon. “That’s what Alastarius’s Prophecy is about. Me killing Marugon.”

“Perhaps,” said Arran. “He did say ‘overthrow’, not kill. And the Prophecy does not seem…precise. Alastarius Prophesied that you would bring him back from the dead. I think Conmager assumed that you would raise Alastarius back to life. Instead you saw his spirit, told Ally what to do, and that act brought him back to the mortal realm, if only for a short while. And I spent a long time looking for Alastarius on Earth, and I was really looking for your sister.”

Lithon looked at the floor. “It frightens me. Marugon would kill me, if we ever fought.”

“Perhaps,” said Arran again, “but you are only fourteen, remember. You likely will not have to fight him until you are a man.”

“I want to fight him,” said Lithon, eyes flashing. For a moment he seemed much older than his years. “He killed my parents.”

“Then I shall do my best to make you ready for that day,” said Arran. He lifted his Sacred Blade. “Enough talk. I shall call out my move, and you shall respond with the appropriate block or parry. Swing high!” He whipped his Sacred Blade for Lithon’s head. Lithon sidestepped and parried with Luthar’s blade, the swords ringing. “Good! But parry with the flat of your blade, not the edge, lest the force of a foe’s blow drives your blade into your own flesh.” Lithon nodded. “Right swing, low!” He swung, aiming for Lithon’s hip. Lithon parried, the swords clanging. “Good. Middle thrust.” Lithon blocked the thrust and stepped inside Arran’s guard, launching a counterblow. Arran pivoted and caught the blow with a low parry. “Improvising. Good! Now, come at me with the basic thrusts and swings. Try not to chop my head off.”

Lithon grinned. “That would make Ally mad.”

Arran gave him a look. Lithon attacked, working Luthar’s sword through the thrusts and swings. Arran back around the attic, parrying. Lithon’s progress pleased him. The boy’s blows were still clumsy, but very fast. He would become only better with time.

Lithon looked over Arran’s shoulder and blinked. “Ally!” He lowered his sword.

Arran lunged forward. Lithon’s eyes widened, and Arran had his sword at the boy’s neck in a blink.

“Hey!” said Lithon.

“A lesson,” said Arran, stepping back and lowering his sword. “Never take your eyes from an opponent, for any reason. Even a very compelling one.”

Ally snorted. “Flatterer.” She wore jeans and blue button-down shirt, the tail dangling to mid-thigh. “I came up to tell…Lithon!” She rushed forward. “You’re hurt!”

“Huh?” said Lithon. Arran’s blade had left a small cut in his neck. “Oh. I guess I am.” He put his hand over the cut. “Arran must have nicked me.”

“My apologies,” said Arran. “I did not mean to wound you.”

Lithon shrugged. “Oh, it’s okay. I’ll go clean it up.” He sheathed Luthar’s Sacred Blade and propped it in the corner. “Thanks for the lesson, Arran.” Arran nodded, and Lithon disappeared down the stairs.

Ally glared. “You hurt him.”

Arran shrugged. “It was an accident.”

“You could have hurt him badly.”

“It was an important lesson,” said Arran, sheathing his Sacred Blade. He picked up Luthar’s sword and hooked the scabbard to his belt. “He should keep his eyes on his opponent. A drop of blood spilled now may save him from much more harm in the future.”

Ally sighed. “I guess you’re right. So you’re teaching him to defend himself?”

“I shall try,” said Arran. “I suspect it will be necessary, given what he will face.”

Ally shuddered. “We don’t have much of a future, Lithon and I.”

“No man can see the future,” said Arran.

Ally raised an eyebrow. “Alastarius did. And look at how well that worked out. He’s dead, my parents are dead, and someday Marugon will kill me too…”

Arran took her hands in his own. “Do not do this to yourself. I despaired after Antarese and I almost perished. You must not despair. Marugon fears Lithon. He fears you, what you might become. He has tried his utmost to kill you both and failed. That is reason for hope, I should think.”

Ally stared at him. “Do you think we have a future?”

“What do you mean?” said Arran.

“I love you, you know,” said Ally. “And I think you love me.”

Arran nodded. “The Ildramyn.”

Ally frowned. “What about it?”

“It…told me that I would find light and healing, if I could survive,” said Arran. “I think it meant you.”

Ally almost smiled. “And what I am to you, then?”

“I…” Arran thought for a moment. “Hope. I had no hope, for a very long time. And now I do.”

Ally blinked several times, tears in her eyes. “Arran…I…I…” She coughed and looked up at him. “We should go downstairs. Conmager’s probably wondering what happened to us.”

Arran smiled. “Or what we’re doing.”

She punched him in the arm. “Pervert.”

“I don’t know the word.”

“Oh. Um…lecher?”

“Ah. I see,” said Arran. “Now you speak like Mary.”

Ally rubbed her forehead. “Oh, God. Mary. She thinks…never mind that, she’s probably told you what she thinks.”

“At some length,” said Arran, “and considerable volume.”

Ally laughed. It did Arran good to see some of the shadows lift from her face, even for a few seconds. “Well, come on. We have things to talk about with Conmager.”

They went downstairs together.

###

“A terrible, terrible tragedy,” said Wycliffe, shaking his head. The glare of the camera lights irritated him, but he tried not to let it show. “Yes, Dr. Simon Wester did work for me some years ago, from 2003 to 2004, I believe. He left to pursue an academic career, and his wife to write novels. Their deaths are a terrible loss to our community and to the nation.” The Voice buzzed just beneath his words, conveying grief and sympathy.

The blond reporter leaned forward, her face a mask of sincerity and solemn concern. “Were you and Dr. Wester close, Mr. Vice President?” Wycliffe considered using the Voice to drive her to his bed, but decided against it. It had been weeks since Marugon’s rampage through Chicago, yet the city was still in an uproar.

He did not need any more controversy.

Wycliffe put on a thoughtful face. “Not very, I’m afraid. Dr. Wester respected each other as professional colleagues.” He still could not believe how the Westers had hidden Lithon Scepteris for all those years. “I was almost a historian myself, you know. But I vow that the terrorists who committed these heinous acts shall be brought to justice. It will be this administration’s firm policy to protect the American people from such travesties.”

The reporter nodded. “Do you have any special plans for the upcoming Christmas holiday?”

Wycliffe laughed. “I’m afraid not. Christmas is going to be a working holiday for President Jones and myself. We’ve got a lot of work to do to combat the corruption that has seeped into every level of American life, and by God we’re going to do it.”

“Well, that’s all the time we have,” said the reporter. “We’d like to thank Vice President-Elect Wycliffe for taking time out of his very busy schedule to speak with us.”

Wycliffe smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

“And that’s a wrap!” called the cameraman. Wycliffe leaned back in his chair and looked around the conference room. A row of lights, cameras, microphones, and other assorted television equipment lined the wall. A horde of television people moved amongst the machinery, and three men in suits hurried up the reporter and began talking all at once.

“Pardon, but I must be on my way,” said Wycliffe, slipping off his microphone and handing it back to the reporter. “Please speak with Mr. Markham, the office manager. He’ll assist you with removing your equipment.” The producers and the reporters smiled, nodded, and thanked him.

Wycliffe slipped back into the corridor and headed to his office. Gracchan party functionaries hurried up and down the hallways, all of them stopping when Wycliffe passed. He got to his office and shut the door. Stacks of paper stood scattered around the room and on his desk, a legacy to the chaos of the last few weeks.

He dropped into his chair with a sigh, stared at the ceiling, and tried to think.

The official fervor over Marugon’s rampage last month had begun to subside. Neither the FBI nor the CIA nor the Chicago police had had any luck tracking the “terrorists”. Wycliffe supposed that whoever had escaped with the Wester children had covered their tracks very well. A few people still claimed to have seen devils flying in the night sky, but no one of importance believed them. The feds’ investigation had gone cold, and the hordes of journalists and private investigators swarming through Chicago had found nothing.

And none of them had discovered anything linking that night’s carnage with Wycliffe or his organization.

But it still worried him. Some link could yet be found. One of the expended bullets traced to a gun, perhaps, or a witness who had seen the winged demons leaving the compound. And Marugon had not yet found Lithon or Ally, and he would rip apart the world to find them. Sooner or later, it would be traced back to Wycliffe. He had so much to keep secret. Between the arsenal in warehouse 13A, the deals with Kurkov’s organization, the Stanford Matthews Tobacco Company (scheduled for full production next year), and the deal with Marugon, Wycliffe had the potential for enormous scandals. Any one of those scandals could destroy him, and not even the Voice could keep Wycliffe's numerous enemies at bay if the truth became public knowledge.

And if Marugon kept on his course, the truth would come out.

This led Wycliffe to one inescapable, terrifying conclusion.

Wycliffe had to rid himself of Marugon. He had not labored for twenty years only to have his efforts destroyed by his partner’s madness.

Wycliffe got up and paced the office, stepping around stacks of paper. “How? How?” He muttered to himself over and over again, pacing in a circle around his desk.

Direct confrontation was out of the question. Marugon’s black magic would crush Wycliffe like a bug. And Marugon had the winged demons and the changelings, now numbering over six hundred.

Wycliffe sighed and looked out the window. Jones’s demand for Secret Service protection no longer seemed unreasonable. But what could Secret Service agents do against the likes of Marugon and Goth? Perhaps Wycliffe could wait until Jones had assumed office. Then he could send military forces against Marugon and the winged demons. The idea appealed to him. He had used Marugon to reach power, and after he had the power, he could use the strength of the military to smash Marugon. Wycliffe could even take credit for smashing a hideous terrorist cell lurking in the heart of Chicago. But that way had risks as well, tremendous risks.

And suppose Marugon blew Wycliffe’s cover even before Inauguration Day?

The intercom buzzed, and Wycliffe hit the button. “What?”

“Mr. Vice President,” said a male voice, one of the new security guards he had hired since Marugon’s rampage. “Mr. Kurkov is here to see you.”

Wycliffe blinked. “Kurkov? Send him in at once.”

“Yes, sir.” The intercom clicked off.

Wycliffe sighed and dropped into his chair. With all the trouble, he had almost forgotten about Kurkov’s bomb. At least Marugon had promised to return to his world once the bomb had been delivered. But that damned bomb was yet another scandal in the making.

The door opened, and Vasily Kurkov strolled into the office, his leather jacket creaking. He smelled of cigarette smoke and liquor.

“Vasily,” said Wycliffe. “I dearly hope you have some good news for me.”

Kurkov laughed. “I am the angel of good news.” He sat in the guest chair and put his boots on Wycliffe’s desk.

“Well?” said Wycliffe. “Out with it already.”

Kurkov grinned. “The little bomb Lord Marugon wants so badly? It will arrive in Los Angeles in another three days.”

Tension and relief mixed in Wycliffe’s stomach. “After all these years you’ve spent looking, and all the mess getting it over the Pacific, it’s finally going to arrive?”

Kurkov looked pleased with himself. “Yes. The freighter left Vladivostok on time. It encountered no storm or squalls while the crossing. It may even arrive at Los Angeles a little early.”

“Early?” said Wycliffe. “Has hell frozen over?”

Kurkov snorted. “Hilarious.” He produced a cigarette and lit up. “Yes, yes, let’s make fun of Kurkov, after all my efforts on your behalf.”

Wycliffe gave him a look. “And how many hundreds of millions of dollars have you made from these efforts? I think your ego can withstand some nettling.”

Kurkov snickered. “Perhaps.” He flicked some ash onto the carpet. “But I am leaving for Los Angeles tonight.”

“Again?” said Wycliffe.

Kurkov blew out a cloud of smoke. “I am going make certain this goes right. I shall drive the bomb to Chicago myself.”

“How are you getting it here?” said Wycliffe.

“U-Haul truck,” said Kurkov. “The bomb, I do not think you understand its size. It is not very big. I shall bury it behind other boxes in the truck. That way, even if I am pulled over, all the police shall see is moving boxes.” He grinned. “And I will have some of my associates following me in cars…armed associates, should the police become too inquisitive.”

“This is tremendously dangerous, you know,” said Wycliffe, “driving a nuclear bomb across the county in a goddamn U-Haul truck.”

Kurkov sneered. “Do you think I am stupid? Of course it is dangerous.” He rubbed his fingers together. “But the profit is very great. And I know what I am doing.”

“You’ll be taking Dr. Krastiny and his associates with you, I assume,” said Wycliffe.

“No.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Why not?”

“I do not trust them.”

Wycliffe snorted. “You don’t trust anyone.”

“True.” Kurkov dropped his cigarette butt into the trash. “But…let us say they are no longer reliable.”

“Why?” said Wycliffe. “Because they took that contract with Marugon to find Ally Wester?”

Kurkov nodded. “I require loyalty. They shall have to be liquidated at some future date. When we return to Russia, I think. And don’t bother to protest. When they found that girl, it caused you big problems, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Wycliffe. “Frankly, I think Marugon might have brought more difficulty onto our heads by trying to kill the girl and her brother. Had he left them alone, most likely he would have received his bomb and departed for his world without a shot fired. Now he has the changelings scouring the nation in search of her.”

Kurkov coughed. “Well, at least the problem will solve itself soon, no? Marugon leaves with his bomb.” He shrugged. “Of course, that will terminate our business relationship. You will no longer need to buy guns and bombs to sell to Marugon.” He grinned. “But it has been very profitable, yes?”

Wycliffe laughed. “For you. And you have another fifty million dollars coming yet.”

Kurkov gestured with his cigarette. “And profitable for you, too…you’re Vice President-Elect now, and…” He dropped his cigarette, leapt to his feet, and yanked a gun out from under his jacket.

Wycliffe stood. “What the hell?”

A changeling slipped into the office, clawed fingers brushing against the carpet.

“What the hell is one of those things doing in here?” said Kurkov, his gun leveled at the creature.

Wycliffe waved a hand. “You may as well put that away, Vasily. You could empty the entire clip and not even scratch its skin. Besides, it won’t hurt us.” Not unless Marugon had overridden that compulsion. Kurkov scowled and put his weapon away. “I want to know how the thing got in here. Security should have spotted it. And I instructed them never to…”

The changeling shuffled towards the desk, a rasping growl wheezing from its fanged mouth. It snarled, closed its eyes, and wheezed again.

Kurkov stepped away, revulsion on his face. “What is the miserable thing doing?”

Wycliffe stared at it in wonder. “I think it’s trying to say something.”

The changeling nodded, greasy hair sliding over its pointed ears. “Mar…Mar…”

Wycliffe frowned. “Marugon?”

The creature nodded. “Marugon. Where?”

“So it can’t find Marugon,” said Kurkov.

“He is in the bunker under 13A warehouse,” said Wycliffe. Marugon had holed himself up in the library over the last few weeks, muttering spells of the black magic over and over again. Wycliffe had no idea what he was doing.

The creature shook with a spasm, trying to force words. “Take…me. Marugon. Bitch…ice queen. The bitch.”

Kurkov spat. “It’s lost its mind.”

“Not that these things had any mind left to begin with,” said Wycliffe. He paused, a memory scratching at the back of his thoughts. “I remember this one! It was the first changeling I transformed. Nathan Jameson, I think. Wasn’t that his name?”

The changeling nodded. “Ice queen.” Its voice rasped over the words. “Bitch. Find…find her. Ally. Found…”

Kurkov frowned. “Ally? Does it mean Ally Wester?”

“Yes!” The changeling nodded. “Ice queen. Found. Her.”

Wycliffe frowned. What armed chaos would Marugon unleash now?

“Marugon,” rasped the changeling, interrupting Wycliffe’s thoughts. “Take. Marugon.”

“Very well,” said Wycliffe. “I need to speak with Marugon anyway. Come along.”

He set out into the hallway, watching for staffers.

The changeling loped after him, hissing.

###

“Could you,” said Allard, shoveling more mashed potatoes onto his plate, “pass the gravy?”

Ally nodded and passed the gravy. Allard mumbled thanks and dumped a generous amount of gravy over the potatoes.

“You should not eat so much,” said Arran. “You’ll have a hard time staying awake tonight.”

Allard gave him an incredulous look and waved his fork over the kitchen table. “But how I can resist this food?”

Mary snorted. “Kiss-up.”

Allard winked at her. “You wish.” Ally gave him a look, and Allard grinned and began shoveling potatoes into his mouth.

“Allard is right, you know,” said Conmager, wiping his mouth. “The food is excellent. You shall make us all fat, before you are done.”

Ally grinned. “And you even made enough to satisfy Lithon.”

Lithon rolled his eyes. “But I was hungry.”

Mary blushed and looked at her plate. “It’s no big deal. Someone has to do the cooking, and if Arran cooked, we’d have nothing but stew and jerky every day.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Ally was not hungry, but she ate a little anyway, to satisfy Mary and Arran. Mary’s feelings would be hurt if she did not, and Arran worried for her, thinking that she did not eat enough.

She didn’t, in truth. She cared what happened to Lithon, to Mary, to Arran, and had become friends with Conmager and even Allard. But Ally did not care about her own fate very much, a fact that worried Mary to no end.

So she ate.

“It is time,” said Conmager, “that we decided what we are to do next.”

Ally felt a twinge of fear. She did not want to leave. She had been safe here.

“I cannot tell you what to do, only advise,” said Conmager. “But now let me advise. I think it is time we moved on.”

“Where?” said Arran. Ally sought his hand under the table. She found it, and his hard, callused fingers gave hers a comforting squeeze. “Another of your safe houses?”

“At first,” said Conmager, “But a longer journey. I think we should travel through the Tower of Endless Worlds and return to my world.” He smiled. “Our world…it is your native world, Ally and Lithon, even if you cannot remember it.”

Ally shook her head. “All I can remember of it is the Crimson Plain.”

“And I can’t remember any of it,” said Lithon.

“Why should we return to our world?” said Arran. “The journey through the Tower is perilous. The Tower is collapsing, and the way back to our world may no longer exist.”

“The Tower might be falling,” said Conmager, “but such a colossal structure would not fall so quickly.”

Arran shook his head. “The Tower is falling into ruin. The way you took to Earth is likely gone, and the way I traveled might have disappeared. The Tower is crumbling very quickly, I think, though I know not why.” Ally could hear the faint tension in his voice at the mention of the Tower. She knew the memory, among others, still haunted him.

“Perhaps,” said Conmager, “but these creatures, these children of the void, only seem to attack lone travelers. They appear to leave large groups alone. The soldiers you overheard said as much.”

Ally blinked. “They attacked us and Sir Liam.” She could now remember what had inspired the strange image that had haunted her dreams for so long, the vast stone corridor and the whispering shadows.

The voidspawn, the children of the void.

“Sir Liam was tired and old, and you and Lithon were but children,” said Conmager. “If we went, we would be well-equipped. You and I know some of the white magic.”

Ally grimaced. “Not much, in my case.”

“And we will have Sir Arran’s Sacred Blade, and the enchanted bullets,” said Conmager. “We could fight off any assault.”

“I do not think that is possible,” said Arran, his voice quiet. Ally felt the tension in his fingers. “I barely escaped with my life from the Tower. One misstep, a second’s hesitation, and I would have perished but inches from the door to Earth. I will not go to the Tower again, save for a great need.”

“Yeah,” said Mary, waving her serving fork. “Why should we go to the other world? I mean, if we’re safe here, why? Isn’t the other world dangerous, filled with winged demons and gunmen and worse things? I’ve heard some of the stories you tell.”

“True,” said Conmager, “but hear me out, I beg. I think it would give us an advantage. First, Marugon searches for Ally and Lithon here on Earth. If we could slip through the Tower and reach our world without his knowledge, it would throw off his search.”

Mary snorted. “Isn’t that why Sir Liam brought Ally and Lithon here in the first place?” Allard grunted and reached for the mashed potatoes.

“Yes,” said Arran. Ally again felt the tension of memory in his hand. “That was his hope.”

“And it worked so well, didn’t it?” said Mary.

Conmager scratched his chin. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

Ally raised an eyebrow. “Even when she’s right?”

“A second reason,” said Conmager. “I think it is time that we took the fight to Marugon.”

“And how shall we do that?” said Arran.

“Lithon is King of Carlisan,” said Conmager, “and perhaps it is time he claimed his throne.”

“And how will he do so?” said Arran. “Most of the High Kingdom’s people have perished. Even if a remnant could be gathered, Marugon’s soldiers would quickly slaughter them.”

“Marugon’s dominion over the High Kingdoms is crumbling.” Conmager’s dark eyes gleamed in his lined face. “From what you said, it seems that he has wearied of his conquests. I would wager that the High Kingdoms are breaking into petty domains, ruled by winged demons or ambitious gunmen. If the surviving people of the High Kingdoms rose up, it would not be hard to defeat these petty tyrants. And we could fight the gunmen with their own weapons.”

Arran stared at him. “Guns. You want to bring more guns to our world.”

Conmager nodded. “Five of the Tower’s doors open to Earth. One stands in Wycliffe’s warehouse. That door and its ill history we already know. The second door stands in the woods behind the Westers’ old house. You came through that door, Sir Arran, as did Ally and Lithon. The third door stands in New York, the fourth someplace in Ghana. But the fifth door opens in the town Broken Skull.”

“Charming name,” said Ally.

Allard grunted and swallowed a mouthful. “Actually, it’s a little town in South Dakota. I’ve been there; Regent took me. Little shitburg, but lots of cheap beer.”

“I own a warehouse there,” said Conmager, “and it is filled with guns. I purpose we return to our world and take the guns, bit by bit, with us. We shall have to set up caravans, as did Marugon, but we can ferry the weapons over. And then we can arm the people of the High Kingdoms and drive out the winged demons and Marugon’s soldiers.”

“I dislike this plan,” said Arran. “We shall do again to the High Kingdoms what Marugon has already done.”

“And it must be done again.” Conmager leaned forward. “It is the only way to restore the High Kingdoms, if only as pale shadows of their former selves. The High Kingdoms will take centuries to heal. But that healing cannot begin until Marugon is defeated.”

“Marugon is here on Earth,” said Arran. “How shall waging war across the High Kingdoms defeat Marugon?”

“We cannot confront Marugon, not yet.” Conmager gestured around the room. “His winged demons and changelings almost destroyed us. Alastarius Prophesied that Lithon would defeat Marugon. I say we must restore the High Kingdoms, raise an army, and return to Earth to kill Marugon.”

“No,” said Arran. “We are not ready to fight Marugon. But we must not fight the gunmen in the High Kingdoms. I tried and failed. We should wait until Lithon is old enough, until Ally is strong enough, and then attack Marugon here.”

Conmager blinked. “I do not believe that is wise. Marugon is the last of the Warlocks, yes, but he is the mightiest. He could kill us all with little effort.”

“He is still a man,” said Arran, “of mortal flesh and blood. One bullet could kill him, if we caught him by surprise. It would not surprise me if his spells protected him from bullets. But if we catch him off guard, when Ally and Lithon are stronger, we can kill him.”

Ally shook her head. “No. He’s not mortal. At least not entirely.”

Arran frowned. “What?”

“Marugon is…” Something fluttered just behind her conscious mind. “It…I don’t know. Something. I thought I remembered.” She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Mary pointed her fork at Conmager. “Shouldn’t Ally and Lithon have a say? After all, if you’re making these big decisions about their lives, shouldn’t they say what they think?”

Conmager nodded. “Of course.” He looked at Lithon, and then at Ally. “What do you think? Should we stay, or should we go?”

Lithon shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Ally hesitated. “I don’t want to leave here. I really don’t. But I don’t know what we should do. I don’t even know what I want to do, anymore.” Had she ever really known? “We need to think about it.”

“I agree,” said Conmager. “Such a great decision should not be made over a supper, however tasty.” Mary smiled. “But in any case, we should move soon. I have a number of safe houses scattered across the country, and we should not linger long at any one of them.”

“Where are we going next?” said Allard. “Someplace warm, I hope.”

“Minnesota.” Conmager finished his water and set down his glass. “A bit west of Duluth.” Allard groaned.

Mary looked at Ally. “Do you want any more to eat?”

Ally shook her head, staring at her plate. “No, no thank you. It’s good…I’m just not very hungry.”

They finished their meal in silence. Allard went to his guard shift. Mary cleared the plates and went into the kitchen. Conmager went to the barn to enchant more bullets. Ally paid them no heed, staring into nothing. Something scratched at the back of her mind, something important, but she could not bring the thought into focus.

“What is the matter?” said Arran. “And I mean besides the obvious, as you so often say.” Ally almost smiled. “Something is troubling you.”

Ally shook her head. “I don’t know. I feel like we’re missing something important. Something that’s obvious, but we’re just not seeing.” A thought clicked into focus, and she sat up straighter. “What does Marugon want?”

Arran shrugged. “Revenge, I suppose. Conquest, destruction. Rule over the High Kingdoms, or what remains of them.”

Ally shook her head. “No, no. Why does he want those things?” She rubbed her temples. “Why?”

“I know not,” said Arran. “He is a monster, I do not doubt. Why does such a man do anything? Who can understand his mind?”

“We must,” said Ally. “It’s important, but I don’t know why.”

“Go to sleep,” said Arran. “You need to rest.”

“Yeah.” Ally nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Sleep.” She had not gotten much lately, between her nightmares and her growing relationship with Arran. “I’ll sleep.”

But she still felt as if she had missed something of tremendous importance.

###

Wycliffe muttered under his breath, the Voice trembling with soft power. It sent out waves of indifference, of apathy, of quiet ignorance. The staffers and office workers glanced over him and the changeling and looked away. They showed no reaction to the sight of the changeling, its claws dragging over the carpet.

Kurkov looked alarmed. “What are you doing?”

Wycliffe shushed him and followed the changeling outside, across the loading yard, and to warehouse 13A. He swiped his card through the lock and the massive steel door hissed open. The changeling hurried inside, Wycliffe and Kurkov struggling to keep pace. The stacks of crates cast deep shadows over the warehouse. Wycliffe looked over the array of weapons and frowned. What was he going to do with all this stuff? Marugon had stopped sending caravans through the Tower.

“Slow down,” Wycliffe commanded. The changeling growled, but slowed its pace. “Now, downstairs. Take the stairs.” He was not sharing the elevator with the stinking creature. “Lord Marugon is likely in the library. I shall go first. Understand?” Wycliffe started down the stairs, the changeling and Kurkov behind him. He let himself into the bunker and strode down the corridor.

He felt the presence of black magic in the library, cold energy crackling through the air.

Wycliffe steeled himself and stepped into the library. Shadows lay thick over the floors. Marugon sat hunched over one of the reading tables, his fingers tracing designs in the air. A gleaming steel disk the size of a serving platter lay on the table, runes carved into its surface. Even as Wycliffe watched, one of them flared with black light and then went cold and dark.

“Lord Marugon.”

Marugon looked up. “Unless you have located Ally Wester, do not disturb me.”

Wycliffe blinked. “What are you doing, if I might ask?”

“This?” Marugon ran a finger over the disk. “This disk, once properly enchanted, will push its bearer partway into the spiritual world. Much as the winged demons exist both in the material world and the spiritual.” Lines of exhaustion marked his face. “I assume you have business other than pestering me?”

“Of course.” Wycliffe snapped his fingers, and the changeling slunk forward. “It claims to have found Ally Wester.”

Marugon stood, shoved past Wycliffe, and stood over the changeling. “Where?”

“Ice queen,” growled the changeling. “Bitch. Ally. Bitch.”

Marugon’s hands shot forward and seized the changeling’s temples, a mewl of pain escaping the creature’s maw. Wycliffe felt a surge of the black magic as Marugon ripped into the changeling’s mind. The changeling began to tremble, and then shrieked and almost arched backwards. Marugon gasped, shuddered, and stepped back, and the changeling collapsed to the ground.

“Well?” said Wycliffe. “Did it find her?”

Marugon laughed. “Such a marvelous coincidence. I did not foresee this. But neither did Ally Wester and her protectors.”

Wycliffe tried to bite back his exasperation. “What are you talking about?”

“My enemies are in a farmhouse some miles north of here,” said Marugon. “They have surrounded the house with wards to turn back a creature of the black magic and fill its mind with forgetfulness.”

“No wonder the changelings couldn’t find them,” said Wycliffe. He looked at the creature huddling on the ground. “So how did this one bypass the wards?”

Marugon laughed. “A remarkable coincidence, as I have said.” He toed the quivering changeling with his boot. “It seems this creature knew Ally Wester, before its transformation.”

Wycliffe blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” said Marugon. “It knew her, and hated her. That hatred survived the transformation and burns within the creature still. And that hatred permitted the creature to pierce the wards, to find Ally Wester and Lithon Scepteris” He looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. “It saw a Knight. And a user of the white magic, though not of great power. No doubt the renegade who escaped your grasp, all those years ago.” He snarled. “And another man and woman as well, but they are of small concern.” Marugon opened his eyes and pointed at the changeling. “Find King Goth-Mar-Dan and bring him to me at once.”

The changeling climbed to its feet and loped away.

“So,” said Wycliffe, putting his hands in his jacket pockets. “You’ve found them. Again. What do you intend to do about it?” What manner of armed chaos did Marugon plan to unleash this time?

“A farmhouse,” murmured Marugon, closing his eyes. “They are in the countryside. The police shall not hinder me. Nor shall there be any inconvenient witnesses.” He looked at Wycliffe and grinned. “Oh, but you fear more…what is the word…bad publicity? Is that it?” Wycliffe nodded. “Fear not, Vice President Wycliffe. I have twice tried to destroy my hidden enemies by main force twice, and twice I have failed. This time, I shall trust to stealth and cunning.”

Wycliffe tried to smile. “So we’ll avoid a shooting rampage through Chicago this time?”

“Of course,” said Marugon. “The enemy is not in Chicago.”

“You will go yourself?” said Wycliffe. Perhaps Marugon and Ally Wester would destroy each other and leave Wycliffe untroubled.

“No,” said Marugon, glancing at the table and the steel disk. “I must complete my work here.”

“Why?” said Wycliffe. “Your enemies don’t know you’re coming. You could crush them in a heartbeat, if you caught them by surprise. Then you can return here and finish at your leisure.”

“I shall soon have the nuclear device,” said Marugon. He looked at Kurkov. “Is that not so?”

Kurkov nodded quickly.

Marugon shivered, much to Wycliffe’s astonishment. “If I can get it into the Tower before my enemies move against me, than I shall fear nothing ever again. I will have won. But to do that I must finish the spells upon this disk.”

“Why?” said Wycliffe. “What are you planning to do with that damn bomb?”

Marugon said nothing.

The changeling crawled back into the library. Goth followed it, his dark, leather-clad bulk filling the doorway. “Lord Marugon. You sent for me?”

Marugon smiled and stepped towards the winged demon. “Goth-Mar-Dan. My friend. Let us be honest. Let us have no more secrets between us, hmm?”

Goth frowned, red light flashing behind his sunglasses. “I do not understand, Lord.”

“I shall be succinct,” said Marugon. “You know the black magic.”

Wycliffe blinked. Marugon had told him that the winged demons could not learn the black magic. Just how long had Goth known black magic? By himself, Goth was terrifying. Goth skilled in the black magic was not a thought Wycliffe wanted to consider.

Goth growled. “Lord. I do not understand.”

Marugon laughed. “Do not be coy with me, Goth-Mar-Dan. I have always known, from the moment we first met outside the gates of Castamar. You have kept your secret well, but you cannot hide it from one such as me. You know the black magic; you have for at least a century.” Goth went rigid, his claws unsheathing. “You are not mighty in the black magic, but you have some skill. Your power is close to that of Wycliffe’s, I believe. Though you have no skill with the Voice. A human soul is required to use the Voice.”

A deep rumble issued from Goth’s throat. For a moment Wycliffe thought the winged demon would spring at Marugon. “It is forbidden for my kin to learn magic of any sort.”

“Oh, I know.”

Goth growled. “So what shall you do, Lord?”

Marugon smiled. “Forbidden is such a meaningless word. The ancient Warlocks, the founders of the Black Council, forbade your kin from learning the black magic, lest the winged ones rise up against them. But the Black Council is no more. I am the last of the Warlocks. And with or without black magic, you cannot harm me.”

Goth said nothing.

Marugon began to pace. “Ally Wester and Lithon Scepteris have been found.”

Goth turned his head to follow Marugon. “Where?”

“A farmhouse several hundred miles north of here, in the province of…”

“Wisconsin,” said Wycliffe.

“Yes, Wisconsin,” said Marugon. “The house is layered in wards of forgetfulness. If a creature of the black magic encounters the wards, it is turned aside and loses it memory of the house.” He gestured at the changeling huddled in the corner. “But this creature knew Ally Wester before its transformation. It hated her, and the power of that hatred pierced the wards.”

Goth’s lip twitched, revealing his yellowed fangs. “So what will you have of me?”

“Go north and kill Ally Wester,” said Marugon. “Use your skill in the black magic to dispel the wards. Then creep into the farmhouse and slay her.”

“What of the others?” said Goth.

“Kill them, should the opportunity arise,” said Marugon. “But Ally Wester must die.” He began to pace again. “There is not much time left before my purpose is fulfilled. My enemies will try to stop me. But Lithon Scepteris is just a boy, and his guardians nothing more than rabble. But Ally Wester has the potential to become greater than Alastarius himself. I cannot permit that. Without her, my enemies are nothing, though they may not yet know it.”

“Very well,” said Goth. “Am I to go alone?”

“No,” said Marugon. “Brute force has failed us. Therefore we shall try stealth and assassination. I will send Dr. Krastiny and his associates with you.” He looked at Kurkov and smiled. “You do not mind, do you?”

Kurkov shook his head. “No, not at all. Whatever you wish.”

“Good.” Marugon turned to Wycliffe. “Prepare one of your vans. Goth and Dr. Krastiny’s assassins will be departing shortly.”

“As you wish,” said Wycliffe. He would have the vehicle painted a different color and have the serial numbers removed. God only knew what could go wrong this time.

Goth bowed and disappeared through the door, boots clanging against the metal floor.

“See to it that I am not disturbed.” Marugon returned to his seat at the table, staring down at the strange metal disk. “And you may wish to prepare your meat freezers. The changelings will be returning, now that Ally Wester and Lithon Scepteris have been found.”

“Very well,” said Wycliffe. Marugon paid him no further heed.

Wycliffe backed into the corridor, and Kurkov followed.

“I am leaving for Los Angeles at once,” said Kurkov. “The sooner I can get Marugon the nuclear device, the sooner I can get my money, and the sooner I can return to Russia. That man is mad, I have no doubt, and his creatures are worse.”

“What?” Wycliffe scoffed. “Are you developing a conscience at this late date, Vasily?”

Kurkov snorted. “Don’t be foolish. I fear for my sanity and my life around Marugon. You brought this man to Earth. You can deal with him.”

With that, Kurkov hurried away and vanished into the elevator.

Wycliffe scowled and stared after him. Kurkov was right. The sooner Marugon had his nuclear bomb, the sooner Wycliffe would be free of him.

He slid his smartphone free and dialed the complex’s garage, passing on Marugon’s orders about the van.

Chapter 5 - Abduction

Anno Domini 2012

Krastiny drove, staring out the window, his hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel.

He tried to ignore the hulking monstrosity sitting in the passenger seat.

Bronsky and Schzeran occupied the back seat, alongside an assortment of equipment and weaponry. They sat still, staring at the floor, not risking a glance at Goth. The van hit a patch of rough road, and  Krastiny cursed and eased the vehicle ahead. “Damn these icy roads. It’s worse than Siberia.”

“But not as cold,” said Schzeran, darting a glance at Goth.

“True,” said Krastiny. “Quite true.” He reached down and pulled a knit cap over his bald head.

Goth shifted. “You have something to say?” His voice rumbled like a collapsing mountain.

Krastiny started, cursing himself as a fool. He could have been back in Russia by now. He should have taken Marugon’s money and run. Instead he had lingered, hoping to smooth things over with Kurkov. “Ah…Mr. Marson. There is a town five miles from the farmhouse, according to the map. I think we should stop there, watch the farmhouse for a few days. We can better plan our attack.”

“Yes,” said Goth.

They drove in silence for an hour.

The weather worsened, and Krastiny considered pulling over to the side of the road, but decided against it. He did not want to tempt Goth’s wrath.

“We have,” said Goth, “something to discuss.”

Krastiny blinked. “We do?”

“Ally Wester,” said Goth.

“Our orders are to kill her,” said Krastiny. Marugon had promised them another five million dollars each for the task.

“Yes,” said Goth. He took off his sunglasses, his hellish eyes burning with fiery light. “But I have decided to make some changes to our orders.”

Every fiber of Krastiny’s being screamed against angering Marugon. “Oh?”

“We will capture Ally Wester alive,” said Goth, the light from his eyes bathing his face in a bloody glow. “And then we will take her back to Chicago.”

“Ah…why?” said Krastiny.

Goth chuckled. “I have a use for her. And I shall kill her after I have finished with her. So we shall obey Marugon, in the end.” He leaned closer, his foul breath filling the van, and Krastiny did his very best not to tremble. “You have no objections?”

“None,” said Krastiny, shaking his head. “None at all.”

Goth looked to the back of the van. “And you?”

“No!” said Schzeran, pale and sweating, and Bronsky shook his head. “No objections. Do whatever the hell you want with her. Keep her, rape her, eat her, kill her, turn her into a lampshade, whatever, I don’t care.”

Goth growled. “You talk too much.”

Schzeran shut up.

Goth chuckled and put his sunglasses back on.

Krastiny kept driving, trying to keep his hands from shaking on the wheel.

###

Two days later Krastiny crouched behind a tree stump, a pair of binoculars in hand. He saw the distant farmhouse in its clearing. Lights burned in its windows, casting pools of radiance over the crusted snow.

His radio’s headpiece clicked. “Boss?”

It was Schzeran.

Krastiny tapped the microphone clipped to his jacket’s collar. “Yes?”

“Finished scouting. Looks like they’ve only got one guard.”

Krastiny blinked. “Just one?”

“Sitting in the barn. Just within the door. See him?”

Krastiny lifted his binoculars and focused on the barn. He saw a young man leaning against the barn door, a gun cradled in his arms. “I’ll be damned. Remember that young fellow Wycliffe wanted us to find a few years back? What was his name?”

“Kyle Allard.” Schzeran muttered something inaudible. “Jesus Christ. It’s him. Talk about a conspiracy.”

“Any other guards?” said Krastiny.

“Hell no,” said Schzeran. “And this Allard bastard seems incompetent. Give me a rifle with a decent scope, and I’ll have him dead before he hits the ground.”

“Goth doesn’t want anyone killed,” said Krastiny. “I think he wants to snatch Ally out from under their noses and see how long it takes for them to notice.”

“Stupid plan,” said Schzeran. “They aren’t expecting anything. I say we come in and kill them all. No muss, no fuss, and only a little mess, depending on where we shoot them.”

Goth’s deep voice cut into the channel. “You object?”

Schzeran sputtered. “No. Just wondering, that’s all.”

Krastiny heard crunching snow, and he spun, bringing up his pistol. Goth stood behind him, wearing black armor of overlapping steel plates. His wings loomed black against the sky, and a scimitar and a pistol dangled from his belt. A crown of red gold rested on Goth’s head, its points shaped like twisted flames.

“Here,” said Goth.

Krastiny grunted. “Pardon?”

Goth raised a hand, claws brushing the air. “The ward begins here. Another step and it shall activate, warning its caster of my presence.”

Krastiny grunted again. “Then I suggest you don’t step forward.”

Goth chuckled. “Yet.” He raised both his hands and began to chant. The language sounded harsh, guttural, made even worse by Goth’s growling voice.

“God,” muttered Schzeran. The headpiece crackled with static. “Sounds like he’s breaking rocks with his tongue.”

Goth made a chopping gesture. Something like black light glimmered around his iron claws. For a moment of halo of white light shimmered around the farmhouse, incandescent in the growing twilight.

Then the light faded.

Goth growled. “The ward has been altered.”

“You can pass through without alerting the occupants?” said Krastiny.

Goth nodded. “We shall wait until nightfall.”

Krastiny glanced at the pale blue sky, already fading to purple. “Not long. And how shall you get in the house and steal the girl without alerting her guardians?” Goth glanced at him, eyes burning. “If I might ask, of course.”

“Another spell,” said Goth. “I shall put them to sleep.”

“You can use the black magic to put people to sleep?” said Krastiny. His temper got the better of him. “Why didn’t you use it before? It would have saved us a great deal of trouble.”

Goth turned his head, his burning eyes flaring. Something cold crawled down Krastiny’s spine, and for a terrible moment he expected Goth to step forward, iron claws reaching.

Goth looked away. “The spell can only be used on those who are unaware.

They waited.

The sky grew darker and the air colder. Krastiny shivered and envied Kyle Allard the space heater by the barn’s entrance. Thick gray clouds crawled over the sky, blocking out the moon and the stars. A heavy snowfall was coming.

A short time later, night fell.

“Good,” said Goth. “The darkness shall aid me.” His wings flexed. “Come when I call for you.”

He took to the air, becoming a dark speck against the black sky. Krastiny watched as the winged demon soared, spun, and then dove.

Goth landed right behind Kyle Allard, and Krastiny heard the demon’s guttural voice over the radio as Goth chanted a spell. Allard began to turn, but too late. A black light washed over him, and Allard wavered, toppled, and collapsed into the snow. He hadn’t even seen Goth. Despite his fear, Krastiny felt a twinge of admiration for the winged demon’s stealth and speed.

Goth faced the house and began muttering another spell. A shimmering curtain of black light washed over the house.

Then Goth’s rough voice crackled over the radio. “Come.”

Krastiny started towards the house, gun in hand. He saw Schzeran approaching from the other side.

Goth waited for them by the front porch. “Krastiny. Tell your man to bring the van.”

Krastiny tapped his microphone and relayed the order to Bronsky.

“Wait for me here. I shall soon return. If anyone steps through the front door, kill them.” Krastiny leveled his gun at the entrance, and Schzeran did the same.

Goth flapped his wings, soared up, and crashed through a window on the second floor.

“Now what?” said Schzeran.

Krastiny shrugged. Schzeran fell silent, shrugged, and watched the door.

###

Lithon paced the attic, practice sword in hand. “Middle thrust,” he muttered, performing the move. “Low thrust, high thrust.” This had gotten easier since Arran had first showed him the movements. “Swing low, swing high, swing middle.” Lithon had never shared Katrina’s and Ally’s penchant for the martial arts, much preferring football, baseball, and basketball. But he had taken to sword work with a zeal. “High parry, middle parry, low parry.” He cast dancing shadows over the wall as he thrust and swung. He wanted to learn sword work. He would need it.

He was going to kill Marugon someday.

Lithon turned, took the hilt in both hands, and prepared to do some of the more advanced moves Arran had shown him. “The Crowning…”

All at once Lithon’s limbs felt weighted by lead, and his mouth cracked in a great yawn.

Lithon blinked, shook off the weariness, and tried to begin. “The…the Crowning…”

He yawned again and fell to his knees. Something like black light shimmered before his eyes, and exhaustion swept through him in a wave. A small corner of his mind recognized that something was terribly wrong. He clung to that corner, tried to fight.

The black light shimmered once more and faded away, and the exhaustion vanished.

Lithon blinked, looking around the room. What had just happened? Perhaps he had been pushing himself too hard. The last few weeks had been dreadful, after all. He shook his head and came to his feet. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before, even when he played hockey and football and basketball at school.

He titled his head, listening. The house had fallen silent. Something was wrong, he knew it…

Glass shattered, and Lithon heard something thump in the downstairs hallway. He hurried to the stairs, took two steps, and froze.

A winged demon stood by the shattered hall window. Its wings brushed the ceiling, arching above a crown of red gold. Its gaze fixed on Lithon, and a hideous grin spread over its pale face. Lithon yelled and sprinted for the stairs. Marugon had found them. He had to warn Conmager, he had to warn Arran…

The winged demon was faster.

Its clawed hand lashed out and smashed into Lithon’s face. Pain erupted along his jaw, and the back of his head slammed into the wall. Blackness fell over his vision, and Lithon knew no more.

###

Ally groaned in her sleep and reached for Arran, but could not find him. She had gone to bed early, so tired she had not even bothered to undress. Arran must not have come up yet. She rolled over and tried to shake off the black fog that filled her mind.

The door creaked.

“Arran?” muttered Ally. “Arran, is that you?”

She opened her eyes.

The winged nightmare from her dreams stood over the bed, grinning down at her.

Ally jolted back, every muscle in her body went rigid. For a dreadful moment the dream played in her mind, and she felt the iron claws stabbing down, tearing flesh and bone, and curling around her heart.

“No, no,” whimpered Ally. “Oh, God…”

The winged demon reached for her.

Ally raised her hands and began to chant, trying to cast a spell of the white magic.

The demon’s clawed hand curled around her throat, and her spell dissolved in a choked gasp.

“Ally Wester,” said the demon. Its fingers tightened around her throat, cutting off her air.

The creature picked her up and flung her against the wall. She struck it, bounced, and hit the floor with a painful thump. She tried to crawl away, but the demon seized the back of her neck and pulled her up. Ally kicked and punched, trying to break free, but the demon paid no heed to her blows. A clawed hand seized her cheek, turned her face, and shoved a gag into her mouth. Before she could react, the demon had tied her wrists behind her back with a heavy cord.

The beast dropped her to the floor and put a knee in her back. Ally screamed into the gag, her bones creaking beneath the weight. The demon tied her ankles together, bent her knees back, and tied the ropes around her wrists and ankles, leaving her hog-tied. Ally screamed and thrashed like a landed fish, but she could not break free.

The winged demon scooped her up and slung her over its shoulder, the ridges of its armor digging into her clothes. It strode into the hallway, and Ally saw Lithon slumped against the wall, blood dripping down his face and onto the floor. She screamed and tried to wriggle free, every muscle in her body straining.

The window at the end of the hall had been shattered, its frame knocked to pieces. The demon leapt out the window and took to the air, wings beating icy air over Ally’s face.

###

The van pulled up the driveway and stopped besides the house. Bronsky got out, gun in hand, his face an impassive mask.

“What’s taking him so long?” said Schzeran. “It’s been…”

Goth burst from the upstairs window, wings pumping. The demon circled and landed besides the van. Krastiny’s eyes widened. A young woman in jeans and a T-shirt rested in his arms, bound and gagged. She shivered in the deep cold, eyes wide with terror, red hair falling over her face.

Krastiny had seen her picture many times. “Ally Wester.”

“We leave,” said Goth. “Open the door.” Bronsky hastened to obey, and Goth dumped the young woman into the back seat. “We will not be returning to Senator Wycliffe’s stronghold.”

Krastiny strode around to the driver’s seat. “We’re not?”

“We return to Chicago, but to a different building,” said Goth. His thick lip curled, revealing his fangs. “I require some time alone with the girl, before I kill her.”

Krastiny heard her muffled screams, even through the gag. “Very well.”

He got in, started the engine, and drove away. He saw the girl trembling in the rearview mirror, and an unexpected wave of guilt washed over him. He had killed hundreds of people in his life and never felt a twinge of remorse. He had handed others over to Kurkov’s enforcers and KGB torturers and never looked back.

But he had never handed anyone to a creature as terrible as Goth. God only knew what horrors the demon would visit on Ally Wester.

“Bronsky,” said Krastiny. “Make the poor girl unconscious.” Goth glanced at him, and Krastiny swallowed. “Else we’ll listen to her screams the entire way back.”

Goth looked away. Bronsky produced a small flask and poured some of its contents onto a rag. He jammed the rag over Ally Wester’s face. She tried to writhe away, but her eyes rolled up and she fell still and silent.

Krastiny drove into the night.

###

“Here,” said Goth. He pointed. “Turn here.”

Krastiny drove through the ruinous warehouse districts of Chicago’s south side, not far from Wycliffe’s complex. An abandoned factory rose up to the right, its windows smashed, its bricks crumbling, and its paint peeling. A chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire encircled the decrepit structure. The fence’s gate hung askew, half on the sidewalk, half into the street.

“Here?” said Krastiny.

Goth growled. “Turn.”

Krastiny turned and drove through the factory’s yard, taking care to avoid the piles of rusted machinery, broken bricks, and crumbling potholes.

“Stop here.” Krastiny stopped, and Goth opened the side door. “Get out, all of you.”

Krastiny obeyed and wrapped his hand around his gun. Suppose Goth decided to dispose of them? Krastiny would not go down without a fight. Yet what could bullets do against a winged demon?

Goth strode to the back of the van and opened the door. “Under the passenger seat.” He scooped up the semi-conscious Ally Wester and slung her over his shoulder.

“Under what?” said Krastiny.

“Under the passenger seat,” said Goth. “There you shall find the money Lord Marugon promised.” He turned his burning gaze over them. “Leave at once.”

Krastiny didn’t argue.

Goth strode to a small steel door in the factory wall. A gleaming metal keypad rested next to the door, and Goth’s clawed fingers danced over the pad. Krastiny made note of the sequence. The door slid open, and Goth stepped inside, Ally Wester slung over his shoulder.

The door clanged shut behind him.

They stood in silence for a long while, watching the ruined building and listening to the wind’s cold whistle.

“Poor bitch,” said Schzeran. “Wander what the old devil will do to her.”

Krastiny snorted. “You know full well what he’ll do to her. She’ll wish we had put a bullet through her head, before Goth-Mar-Dan is done with her.” He shook his head. “I’m getting too old for this. I think it might be time to retire.” Krastiny stared at the factory for a long time, battling with his unexpected guilt.

The feeling was new to him, and he did not like it.

“What do we do now, boss?” said Schzeran. “I mean, it’s damn cold out here. If you want to sit and brood, let’s go find someplace warm.”

Krastiny opened the van’s door and looked under the passenger seat. A metal suitcase lay on the floor. He opened it and saw thick wads of hundred dollar bills, just as Goth had promised. “Here’s the money.”

“The old demon kept his word,” said Schzeran.

“Good.” Krastiny slammed the suitcase shut. “Now we get the hell out of town before Kurkov decides...”

He turned around just as a bullet blew Bronsky’s skull to mush.

Chapter 6 - The Knight and the Assassin

Anno Domini 2012

Ally groaned.

Icy metal pressed against her back, the chill soaking through her clothes. A strange reek brushed her nose, a mixture of chemicals and spoiled meat. She blinked her gummy eyes open. A dark roof of metal girders arched far above her, a few rays of moonlight leaking through a skylight.

She turned her head, and a moan of fear slipped from her mouth. She lay spread-eagle on a metal table, her wrists and ankles pinned by heavy metal shackles. A rack stood besides the table. It held a variety of surgical instruments and serrated knives, all of them crusted with blood.

The memory came crashing back, and she remembered the winged demon towering over her bed.

She thrashed against the metal cuffs to little effect. Her head turned, eyes darting over her surroundings. Dim blue light came from a few lamps scattered about the floor. Her table sat in the corner of a cavernous room, the shapes of ruined machines hulking against the walls…

Her gaze fell over a massive glass tank, and Ally screamed until her lungs felt as if they would burst.

The tank held a naked female corpse floating in blue chemicals, slashes and scars marking the pale dead skin. A dozen more glass cylinders stood besides the first, each holding a naked corpse. A row of metal shelves held a variety of body parts - hearts, heads, hands, feet. A glass jar held dozens of eyeballs, all of them seeming to stare at Ally.

And as she screamed, a dark shadow leapt swooped from one of the massive broken machines.

The winged demon dropped out of the darkness and landed before the table, its crown of red gold glittering in the dim light.

“You are awake,” said the demon, stepping towards her.

Ally shrank back against the metal slab. “Don’t…don’t touch me. Stay away.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Ally stared at the demon’s hard, pale face, the burning eyes, the crown of red gold. She remembered those iron claws plunging into her chest, coiling around her heart and ripping it free. “You’re Goth-Mar-Dan.” Arran and Conmager had told her of the king of the winged demons, a terror of blood and murder and horror. “You killed me.”

Goth-Mar-Dan titled his head to one side, watching her.

“You killed Alastarius,” whispered Ally.

“I killed Alastarius,” said the demon, lifting a clawed hand. Layer after layer of dried blood marked his iron claws. One of Alastarius’s memories rose into Ally’s mind, and she recalled that the winged demons never washed the blood of a kill from their talons. “I tore his heart from his wretched body. And you remember it.”

“Go to hell,” said Ally, her voice a feeble croak.

Goth-Mar-Dan moved with terrifying speed, lunging towards her. His hideous face stopped a few inches from her own, and she felt the heat of his eyes pulsing against her face. “I slew Alastarius. And now Alastarius’s heir is in my power.”

Ally closed her eyes, her jaw trembling.

“Do you know what this place is?” said the demon.

Ally opened her eyes. Goth-Mar-Dan stood before one of the tanks, admiring the corpse within. “I don’t know.”

“I considered bringing their corpses here,” said Goth-Mar-Dan.

Ally said nothing, watching the demon.

“Your companions and your guardians,” said Goth-Mar-Dan. He chuckled, his voice like grinding stone. “The Knight. The feeble apprentice. Wycliffe’s dog, the cigarette merchant. The other woman. And Lithon Scepteris. I slew them all. Perhaps I shall return, after I am finished with you, and add them to my collection.”

Ally felt her heart twist. “No. No. You didn’t kill them.”

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed at her, fangs bared. “I slew them all. You saw Lithon’s body in the hallway.”

“He…he wasn’t dead,” said Ally, trying not to cry and failing. “He…”

“Was he breathing?” growled Goth-Mar-Dan, pacing towards her. “Were his eyes open? Was he standing?”

“I…he…” It had been too dark to see. “He can’t be dead.”

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed. “He is, and all the others. Lord Marugon sent me to slay them.”

Ally’s face worked. “Then kill me and get it over with.”

The demon drew closer. “Lord Marugon commanded me to slay you. And I shall.” He ran his clawed fingers down her cheek, the points pressing against her skin. “But I have a use for you first.”

Ally tried to turn away. Goth-Mar-Dan laughed again and stalked away. Fear and panic worked through Ally’s mind. One of the spells Conmager had tried to teach her flashed through her memory. If she could stun the winged demon, long enough to find a way to freedom…

Her wrists were bound, but her fingers were still free. Ally summoned her power and began to chant, her fingers tracing the spell’s patterns. She felt the white magic rise to the call of her spirit, following the pattern of her spell…

Goth-Mar-Dan whirled, one clawed hand coming up. Black light glimmered around his fingers, and an unseen force smashed into Ally, slamming her back against the table. A cold fog swam through her mind, and the white magic crumpled and faded away.

Goth-Mar-Dan snarled. “Do not do that.”

Ally tried to summon the white magic once more, but she could not reach through the cold fog in her mind. “The winged demons can’t use the black magic.” Conmager had told her that. So had Arran.

He laughed at her. “Indeed? Then how did I block your power?” He turned away, voice low and quiet. “When I was young, three hundred years ago. I was flying through the Wastes, looking for human flesh to devour. I came across a Warlock. The fool had fallen from his horse and broken his leg. He commanded me to aid him, to return him to Castamar.” Goth-Mar-Dan paused for a long moment. “Instead I devoured him.”

Ally stared at him. “But…the winged demons serve the Warlocks…”

“I knew it was forbidden. But I cared not.” He lifted his hand and muttered a phrase, black light glimmering around his fingers. “And when I devoured him, I gained his powers. He was weak in the black magic. Barely more than an apprentice. But I consumed others, some of them stronger, and I stole their powers, their strength. And with that power I ruled my kin. No one has ruled the kin as I long as I have. I had killed a dozen Warlocks when I met Lord Marugon.” A hiss came through Goth’s fangs. “His power was greater than any I have encountered. I swore to serve him, even after the Knights and the Wizards destroyed the Black Council. For one day I will consume him and make his power my own.”

“That’s horrible,” whispered Ally, staring at the demon. Had Alastarius even known how powerful Goth-Mar-Dan could become?

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed and leaned over her. “But first, I have you. Alastarius’s heir.” His ghastly claws rubbed against her cheek, and the fire in his eyes burned brighter. “All his powers have passed onto you.” He lowered his fanged mouth and whispered into her ear. “I could never have defeated Alastarius in battle, to have consumed him. But you have his powers, and you do not know how to use them. You are helpless.”

Stark terror tore at Ally like a wild animal. “You can’t. I have the white magic. It would destroy you.”

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed, his vile breath washing over her. “The raw power is within you. It is your choice whether you use the white or the black magic. And it is that power I shall take from your flesh.” He paused. “Or…perhaps. Dare I?” Both his cold hands clamped around her face, the claws pressing against her skin. “Perhaps I shall father a child on you.”

Ally moaned in revulsion and tried to look away, but Goth-Mar-Dan’s talons held her fast.

“Yes,” growled the demon. “A child born of your womb and my seed. It would inherit your power and mine. I could devour such a child, make its power my own. Though you would not survive the birth. Yes. Perhaps I shall consume you while the child remains in your womb.”

Goth-Mar-Dan dragged one finger down her cheek, and Ally shrieked. The demon lifted his hand, her blood trickling down his fingers. Goth-Mar-Dan licked the blood from his claws and smiled. “I can taste the power in your blood. You are mighty. And you are mine.” His clawed hands roved down her body, squeezing, grabbing, clutching. “You are mine.”

Ally closed her eyes, trembling. Raw, animal panic took over her mind. She yanked and pulled against the cuffs, bruising her wrists and ankles.

She was going to die a horrible death, and she could do nothing to stop it.

Something began to burn in her mind. A crackling heat spread from her heart and sank into her blood. Ally shuddered, sweat beading on her skin despite the cold. Goth-Mar-Dan growled and stepped back, looking down at her.

Darkness washed over Ally’s vision, the world fading away. Perhaps the fear had shut her mind down. Nothingness and unconsciousness rushed up to claim her.

She welcomed them both.

###

Columns of crimson stone rose towards the distant ceiling, lined with thousands of stone effigies gazing at each other.

“Arran Belphon.”

Arran turned.

The caretaker stood over a sarcophagus, his gray-robed form shimmering and misty. Arran looked down at the tomb. Ally’s carven effigy stared up at him, twisted and tormented. A growing sense of urgency gnawed at him.

Something was wrong.

He looked around the Chamber of the Dead. Walls of black mist flowed through the chamber, sparking with dark light. Arran had visited the Chamber before, and he had seen no walls of black mist.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered, hands dropping to his weapons.

A wave of dizziness came over him. The Chamber of the Dead fragmented into a thousand pieces, the black mist rushing to engulf him…

Arran awoke.

He sat at the kitchen table, a half-finished glass of water glinting in the moonlight near his hand. Mary lay on the floor by the stove, a spilled box of rice besides her. Arran frowned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Hadn’t he just sat down? He had given Lithon a lesson in sword work, and Ally had been taking a nap before dinner. Lithon had gone upstairs to practice some more…

…and Arran remembered nothing after that.

He looked at the clock on the stove and cursed in astonishment. It was two-thirty in the morning, and it had only been six o’clock when he had sat down. Arran shook his head again, trying to clear some of the fog. Had he fallen asleep for eight hours? Why hadn’t anyone awakened him? And why was Mary lying on the floor?

Something was indeed wrong. He drew a gun, went to one knee, and shook Mary’s shoulder. “Mary. Wake up.”

Mary groaned and rolled away. “Leave me alone.”

Arran snatched the glass of water from the table and dumped it over her face. “Wake up, damn it.”

Mary spluttered and sat up, glaring daggers at him. “Arran! What the hell are you doing? It…it…” Confusion came over her face. “What am I doing on the floor?” Her eyes got big. “Why do you have a gun?”

“Something’s wrong,” said Arran. “Look at the clock.”

Mary gaped. “Two-thirty? But I just started supper!”

“Get up,” said Arran, helping to her feet. “We have to find the others.” Mary nodded and retrieved her pistol from one of the kitchen cabinets.

They hurried through the dining room, into the living room, and froze. Conmager lay sprawled on the floor, his cane beneath him. Arran knelt and shook him. Conmager jerked awake and lunged for his gun.

“Something’s happened,” said Arran.

“What?” Conmager’s lined face creased in confusion. “Why am I on the floor?”

“I’ve noticed.” Conmager groped for his cane, his bad leg jerking, and Arran helped him up.

“But…” Conmager glanced at the clock over the TV and swore. “Merciful gods! It’s two in the morning. It’s…it was six o’clock.”

“We must have all fallen asleep at once,” said Arran.

“But how?” said Mary.

Conmager went rigid. “There’s a spell of the black magic, one that can be used to send people into deep sleep.”

“You mean…” said Mary.

“They’ve found us,” said Arran. “Where are Ally and Lithon?”

“I’ll check upstairs,” said Conmager. “Arran, go find Allard. If he fell asleep outside…he might have frozen to death by now.”

Arran nodded and hurried outside. The moonlight glistened against the crusted snow as he ran to the barn. Allard lay in the doorway, his Uzi besides him. He had fallen within range of the space heater. Arran knelt and shook him.

“Huh?” said Allard. “I’m up, I’m up…” His voice trailed off. “I’m outside. Why am I outside?”

“You fell asleep on watch,” said Arran.

Allard blanched. “Oh, God. I did, didn’t I? I’m so sorry. I…”

“Shut up and get up,” said Arran. “We all fell asleep. Conmager thinks it was a spell of the black magic.” A growing fear spread through him. “We have to hurry.”

Arran ran back to the house, Allard staggering behind him. He hurried through the living room, up the stairs to the second floor, and froze.

“Oh my God,” said Allard, lurching to a stop behind Arran.

Lithon lay on the floor, a pool of dried blood around his head. Mary and Conmager knelt over him, rummaging through a first aid kit.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Arran, a horrible certainty settling over him.

Conmager shook his head. “No. He has a nasty gash on his jaw, and a bump on his head, but he’s alive. He’ll live, though he’ll have headaches for a week.”

“What the hell happened?” said Allard, gaping at Lithon. “Did he fall and…”

Mary glared at him. “Look at the window.”

The window at the end of the hall had been shattered, the frame and a portion of the wall lying in chunks across the floor. A cold wind blew through the hole.

“Ally,” said Arran. “Where is Ally?”

Conmager wrapped a bandage around Lithon’s head. “I don’t know.”

Arran shoved past them and kicked open the door to Ally’s bedroom. There was no trace of Ally, though he did see droplets of blood on the wall Arran examined the other bedrooms, ignoring the others’ glances.

He saw no sign of Ally.

“She’s not here,” he said. “And there’s blood on the wall.” His heart hammered with panic, and he forced down his fear and tried to think.

“Did you check the attic?” said Allard.

“I’ve already been up there,” said Conmager. “There’s nothing…”

Lithon groaned, his eyes opening. Conmager heaved a great sigh of relief.

“Lithon.” Arran knelt. “What happened? Where is your sister?”

Lithon stared at him with hazy eyes. “I heard the window shatter. There was a winged demon with a red crown. He hit me. I…I don’t know what happened next.” He winced and lifted a hand to his temple. “My head feels like it’s going to fall off.”

“Goth-Mar-Dan,” said Arran. “He’s here.”

Mary shook her head. “He was here. All the blood in Lithon’s hair is dry.”

Lithon’s eyes got wide. “Ally.” He tried to stand, groaned, and fell back down. “Ally. I think he took Ally.”

“What?” said Arran. “You saw him?”

Lithon nodded. “I think so. He had Ally tied up, over his shoulder. Then everything went dark.”

Arran’s fear changed to pure dread.

“Oh, God,” said Mary. “One of those winged monsters has her?”

And Ally had been in Goth-Mar-Dan’s clutches for over eight hours.

“We have to find her,” said Arran.

Conmager shook his gray head. “We must run, now.”

“What?” said Arran and Mary in unison.

“We must go,” said Conmager, “at once. I don’t know why Goth-Mar-Dan didn’t kill Lithon. Perhaps the blow only looked fatal, though I cannot see one such as Goth-Mar-Dan making that mistake. But regardless, we must go. Marugon knows where we are now. His minions may return, or he may come himself.”

“We cannot abandon Ally,” said Arran.

“It may be necessary,” said Conmager, “hard as that seems. Alastarius Prophesied that Lithon would overthrow Marugon. He said nothing about Ally.”

“His spirit said you were to train Ally,” said Arran, his voice rising in a snarl.

“Arran, it’s already been eight hours since Goth-Mar-Dan was here,” said Conmager. “And most likely Marugon, to judge from that sleep spell.” He took a deep breath, face tight with pain. “She’s probably been dead for hours.”

“Damn that,” said Arran. “We have to find her.”

“She’s my sister!” said Lithon, trying to stand and failing. “You can’t just leave her.”

“We have no choice!” said Conmager. “Lithon must live, he’s the one who will overthrow Marugon…”

“Damn Alastarius and damn his Prophecy!” said Arran.

“The choice is hard, but we must make it,” said Conmager, coming to his feet and shouting. “We must save Lithon.”

“I’m not…I’m not going without Ally…” croaked Lithon.

“Lithon’s going to need Ally,” said Arran. “Do you think he can face Marugon himself, without someone to wield the white magic? Who’s going to help him? You? Your wards cannot even sense the presence of Goth-Mar-Dan and Marugon!”

“He’s right!” said Mary. “We can’t just leave her.”

“She’s not here!” shouted Conmager. “Goth-Mar-Dan took her, and we cannot linger. Perhaps the chance will come to find her later. But for now…”

“No,” said Arran.

He turned, ran back into his bedroom, and threw open the closet door. He buckled a pair of holstered Glocks around his waist. Two more went into shoulder holsters, over his Kevlar vest. He slung Luthar’s Sacred Blade over his back, wrapped his old cloak around his shoulders, and stepped back into the hallway.

“Arran, this is folly,” said Conmager. “You cannot hope to find her. We need you here. We must guard King Lithon…”

Arran ignored him and dashed down the stairs. He threw open the front door and examined the ground, looking for tracks. A pair of tire treads marked the snow and gravel of the driveway. A vehicle had pulled up to the house and left again. Arran ran down the driveway, following the tracks. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps he could still catch them.

He followed the driveway until it intersected with the road. It would be harder to track the vehicle on an asphalt surface. Nevertheless he knelt and examined the road. A few pieces of gravel lay strewn across the asphalt, leading away towards the south. It made sense. Chicago and Wycliffe’s stronghold lay to the south. Arran ran along the shoulder of the road, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Perhaps they had not gone so far yet. Perhaps he could catch them.

Guilt churned in him, putting a rancid edge on his fear. He had sworn to guard Ally from harm. And now she had fallen into the iron claws of Goth-Mar-Dan, the most terrible of the winged demons. He had to save her. Else everything would have been in vain. His torments and battles in the High Kingdoms would have been for naught.

He had not been able to save Siduri from Khan-Mar-Dan. Now Ally would suffer the same fate.

“No,” growled Arran.

Something cold brushed his nose, and flakes of snow began to fall. Arran cursed and ran faster as the wind picked up and the snow grew thicker. Snow would obliterate any tracks. Arran ran faster, ran until his heart hammered and his lungs felt as if they would burst.

He skidded to a stop.

He had reached a crossroads. Three black roads marked with yellow lines stretched away into the distance. The snow began to cover the yellow lines.

He had no idea where he was, no idea where to go.

His breath steamed in the air, his mind struggling to fight off despair.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no.” He had not spent all those years and miles looking for Ally only to lose her like this. What horrors would she experience at the hands of Goth-Mar-Dan? Visions flashed through his mind, each worse than before.

He stared into the dark woods, black despair swirling through his mind. Goth-Mar-Dan would kill Ally horribly. And without her, regardless of what Conmager thought, Lithon was doomed. Marugon would kill the boy. Everything would be lost, forever.

Arran turned in a slow circle, his eyes wandering unseeing over the crossroads. Was this was the Ildramyn had foreseen, when it said hardship and pain filled his path? Had the wretched oracle seen this fate? Arran dropped to his knees, his chest heaving.

This was the last despair, for he had no hope left.

He had failed Ally. He had failed Siduri. Her spirit should never have forgiven him at the ruins of Castle Bastion. And Luthar…

Arran blinked. What had Luthar said?

“Your hope and what you most love will be stolen from you by a thing of nightmare, a creature of wickedness,” Luthar had said, his spirit brought back to the mortal realm by the power in Alastarius’s cairn “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.”

Something too desperate for hope and too powerful for despair shot down Arran’s nerves. He groped over his shoulder and yanked out Luthar’s Sacred Blade. The metal flashed silver, even in the dark.

The blue gem set in the blade shone with a faint azure glow.

“Luthar,” whispered Arran. He pulled off his gloves and touched the gem. Despite the winter air, it felt warm beneath his fingers. “Luthar. I don’t know if you can hear me. But you were right. I have come to my last despair. Goth-Mar-Dan has taken Ally. I love her. I cannot lose her, for then all is lost.” He swallowed, staring into the gem’s glow. “I cannot save her by myself. I need your aid. Help me, Luthar. Please.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Arran felt his mind begin to crack.

Then the sword jerked in his hand. The gem’s glow brightened, casting a blue radiance over the road. Warmth shot up Arran’s arms, plunging deep into his chest.

“Take me to Ally,” said Arran. “Take me to her!”

The gem blazed, its glow swallowing up the world.

###

Stars blurred overhead.

Ally flew over a great forest, its treetops mantled with snow. Then she veered south, soaring over a vast swamp, and she glimpsed stealthy men in furs, their hands wrapped around powerful bows of horn and wood. A ridge of rocky hills came into sight, and a ruined castle sat atop one of the hills, gaping rents looming in its white walls. She shot through one of the breaches, hurtled down a ruined corridor, and came to a halt in a large paved courtyard

She turned in a slow circle and swallowed. A great heap of stones stood in the courtyard’s center, an inscription scrawled into a nearby paving stone. She recognized the shape of the crumbling towers and battlements that overlooked the courtyard. She had seen them hundreds of times in her haunted nightmares, as Goth-Mar-Dan’s clawed hand plunged toward her heart.

This was Castle Bastion. Alastarius had been betrayed and killed here.

Ally looked down at herself. Her body was wispy and ethereal, and she could see the cracked stone of the walls through her arms. Had Goth-Mar-Dan killed her? At least she had fallen unconscious before the winged demon had begun the torture. But now what? Would she wander the world as a disembodied specter?

The cairn began to glow.

Ally turned as thick white mist swirled around her knees. Gentle white light leaked from the cairn’s stones, bathing the courtyard in a pale radiance. She felt the white magic well up, rising out of the earth like a spring.

The mist swirled, and a ghostly old man wrapped in a battered green cloak stepped forward. His dark eyes stared at Ally, his tangled white beard drifting in the currents of the breeze.

“Ally,” he said, voice deep and resonant.

“You.” Ally stepped towards him. “Alastarius. You’ve brought me here, haven’t you?”

“In part,” said the old Wizard. He adjusted his cloak, and Ally realized her own habit of wearing a green coat had come from his memories.

“Am I dead?” said Ally.

“Not yet,” said Alastarius. “But all men die, as I know all too well.”

“Where am I?” said Ally. “What is this place?”

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “You know, do you not? This is Castle Bastion, on my world. On our world.”

“I know that,” said Ally. “I mean…what’s happened to me? This isn’t the physical world, is it?”

“Very good,” said Alastarius. “We are in the spiritual world, the ethereal realm. Your physical body remains on Earth. Your spirit, however, has been summoned here, in part by my power, but mostly by your own need.”

“So I am dead, then,” said Ally. “If my spirit has left my body.”

“No,” said Alastarius. “Your spirit fled your body. The horror of Goth-Mar-Dan caused your spirit to flee, and I brought it to this place.”

Ally looked away. “Then I shall die any moment, then.”

“No,” said Alastarius. “Time does not work quite the same way in this place. A second in the material realm may be a thousand years here.” He looked grave. “But that is why I have called you here. If Goth-Mar-Dan does not kill you as he killed me, then you will die in a few days. So will Arran Belphon, Lithon Scepteris, Mary Lucas, Thomas Wycliffe, Goth-Mar-Dan, Marugon himself, and everyone living on Earth and this world and ten thousand times ten thousand other worlds.”

Ally stared at the ghost. “What are you talking about?”

“Come to me,” said the Wizard’s spirit. “I have much to tell you.”

Ally stepped towards him. “And I have much I would know.”

Alastarius smiled. “Then let us converse.”

###

Azure light blazed past Arran.

For a moment he felt the sensation of walking down a tunnel, of speeding past miles and hills with a single colossal stride. His blood pounded through his veins, and he clutched the hilt of Luthar’s Sacred Blade, and the weapon vibrated in his hands.

The blue light vanished, and Luthar’s sword went still.

Arran looked around.

He was no longer at the crossroads in rural Wisconsin. He knelt on a slush-coated sidewalk on a street lined with abandoned warehouses and ruined factories. The familiar smell of car exhaust and asphalt filled his nostrils.

The sword’s magic had taken him back to Chicago.

Arran stared through the half-ruined gate to an abandoned factory. A black van had been parked besides a small doorway, and three men stood around the van, speaking in low voices. Arran crept through the gate, slinking through the shadows of ruined machines. One of the men spoke Goth-Mar-Dan’s name, and Arran felt a surge of hope.

Maybe he was not too late to save Ally.

“Thank you, Luthar,” whispered Arran. He slid his brother’s Sacred Blade back into its scabbard. “Oh, gods, thank you, Luthar.”

Arran yanked two pistols from his belt and peered around a rusted machine. One of the three men was short and bald, another tall and lean, and the third big and hulking with a shaved head. Arran’s hands tightened around his pistols as he listened to their conversation, and he realized they had helped Goth-Mar-Dan kidnap Ally.

Arran felt no qualms about killing all three.

He stepped out, raised his guns, and fired. His first shot blasted through the big man’s head, throwing brains and blood across the pavement. The big man fell with a thump, and Arran took aim at the other two.

But faster than he thought possible, the remaining two men spun, raised guns of their own, and opened fire.

###

“Who am I?” said Ally. “Who am I, really? I mean, Conmager didn’t know.”

“Very well.” Alastarius closed his eyes for a moment. “Your true name is Allara Marentine. You are my granddaughter.”

“Your granddaughter?” Ally stared at the old man’s face, horrified and amazed. She had his dark eyes, and she saw some resemblance in the bones of his face. “But how is that possible?”

Alastarius smiled, his dark eyes sad. “You look just as my dear wife did, years ago. Many years. I had three children, all daughters. None of them had the talent to become a Wizard, since it is rare among women. My eldest daughter married Lord Everard Marentine, a noble of Carlisan. You were their youngest child.”

“What happened to them?” said Ally. “Why do I not remember them?”

Alastarius’s face remained grave, but his eyes grew sadder. “Because they were murdered when you were but six months old.”

Ally hesitated. “You…you mean my birth parents?”

“Your parents,” said Alastarius. “All your siblings. Both your aunts, my daughters, and their husbands and children.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “And my dear wife. All slaughtered on the same day.”

“My God,” said Ally. “I’m sorry. No one ever told me that your…that our family had been killed.”

“No one you know could have told you,” said Alastarius. “Arran Belphon was just a child, and I would not meet Conmager for another year.”

“Who killed them?” said Ally. “Why?”

“They had gathered at your father’s estate. For a feast. I was to have been there, but I was distracted. A winged demon had been seen in the countryside. Sir Liam Mastere and I rode out to find it.” His voice grew bitter. “It was a feint, and it kept me from your father’s estate long enough for Lord Marugon and King Goth-Mar-Dan to kill everyone there. A nurse hid you in a cupboard. But Marugon slaughtered the others.”

“Why?” said Ally. “Why would Marugon do that? Did…did he want to keep your Prophecy from coming true?”

Alastarius shook his head. “No. I would not make that Prophecy until my dying breath, over nine years later. Marugon did not come to kill me, but to take revenge against me, to hurt me as badly as he felt I had hurt him.”

“What did you do to Marugon?” said Ally.

Alastarius sighed. “Nothing. Which was the problem. He felt that I had done nothing for him.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ally. “He’s just a man, like Arran always says. Why did he hate you so much?”

Alastarius laughed.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Lord Marugon is many things, Ally, but he is most certainly not human.”

###

Krastiny squeezed the trigger, and the dark man in the black cloak leapt aside, dodging behind a broken air handler. Schzeran’s shots clanged against the machine.

“Behind the van!” yelled Krastiny. A bullet struck the ground at his feet, and Krastiny dodged behind the van, Schzeran at his heels.

“Shit,” said Schzeran, staring at Bronsky’s corpse. “Shit. He owed me money yet. I mean, just…shit.”

“Be silent,” said Krastiny in Russian. Hopefully the dark man did not know the language.

“Who the hell is he?” said Schzeran, in Russian as well.

“One of Ally Wester’s protectors, I would guess,” said Krastiny, checking his pockets. The van’s passenger door still stood open, and he crawled over, reached up, and snatched a second gun from the glove compartment. “Listen to me. He cannot see us from behind that machine, only hear us. I will charge him with both guns. He’ll hear the shots and think that both of us are attacking. With luck, he will expose himself. You must shoot him then.”

Schzeran blinked. “But won’t he kill you, boss?”

Krastiny smirked. “Then shoot him first. Understand?”

Schzeran nodded.

Krastiny climbed to his feet, joints aching, and ran out from behind the van, guns blazing. His bullets rang against the rusted air handler. The dark man leapt out, a pair of pistols in his fists. He leveled his weapons, and Krastiny’s stomach knotted in panic…

Schzeran’s first shot slammed into the dark man’s side, the second into his chest. Krastiny pivoted and fired three times into the dark man’s torso.

The dark man staggered, clawed at the air, and collapsed into the snow.

###

“Not human?” said Ally.

“At least not entirely,” said Alastarius. “His material body is human, of course, as is at least part of his spirit. But only part. He is dominated, mind and body both, by the void.”

Ally watched the mists swirl through Castle Bastion’s ruined courtyard. “Then he is possessed?”

“No,” said Alastarius. “Come closer. Let me show you.”

Ally hesitated, and then stepped close to the Wizard’s specter.

“This is one of the advantages of the spiritual realm,” said Alastarius. “For those who know how, the past can be viewed as if it were happening now. Take my hand.”

Ally obeyed, and the old man’s hand felt strong and substantial.

Alastarius muttered a spell, and he and Ally soared into the air, leaving Castle Bastion behind them, and shot away to the north. Ally watched the countryside as they flew past. The snow vanished, falling up into the sky, leaving behind trees with red and orange leaves. The leaves turned green, then shrank back into the trees as snow erupted from the earth.

Ally stared in wonder. “Are we going back in time?”

“No,” said Alastarius. “In a certain sense, we are going nowhere at all. The spiritual world contains echoes of all past events. We are viewing those echoes, you might say. And…now!”

The world melted, twisted, and reformed.

She and Alastarius stood in a large hall built of black basalt and red granite. Rough-hewn pillars supported the roof, and slashed torn war banners dangled from the rafters. A current of icy power ran through the hall, and Ally felt the cold presence of black magic.

“What is this place?” said Ally, wrapping her arms around herself.

“The Citadel of the Warlocks, in the city of Castamar, in the Year of the Councils 917,” said Alastarius. “Or 1957, on Earth.” He raised an arm and pointed. “Look.”

A massive obsidian altar rested against one wall, and a beautiful woman stood before the altar, clad in a robe of black silk and linen. Her dark hair streamed over her shoulders as she swayed back and forth, muttering a spell of the black magic. Shadows and black light sparked and writhed around her fingertips.

“Who is that?” said Ally.

“Adelemoch of Castamar,” said Alastarius, “one of the few female Warlocks who ever lived. And Marugon’s mother.”

“His mother?” said Ally.

“Watch,” said Alastarius.

Adelemoch arched her back and threw up her arms, shouting words of power. “Come forth. Come forth, great dark ones, princes of the void. I call to you! By my power, by my will, I summon you forth!” The floor shook, and dust fell from the ceiling. A pillar of darkness writhed over the altar. It widened, split open, and something hideous stepped out of the nothingness and into the world.

Ally took a step back. Her eyes refused to focus on the monstrous thing, but it was tall and broad and huge, wrapped in shadow, its wings brushing the ceiling.

“That’s one of the children of the void, isn’t it?” said Ally. She remembered fleeing through the Tower of Endless Worlds with Lithon and Sir Liam, the nightmarish horde snapping and whispering at their heels. “She summoned a child of the void.”

Alastarius snorted. “Oh, more than just a child. That is one of the great princes of the voidspawn, a creature of madness and dark power. The children of the void you and Arran survived are as gnats next to this creature.”

Ally stared at Adelemoch. “What is she…”

Adelemoch slipped out of her robe, removing her clothing until she stood naked before the altar. Her pale body trembled with a strange mixture of lust and terror. She climbed onto the altar, lay back, and spread her legs.

And as Ally watched, the hideous creature mounted Adelemoch.

“Oh, God,” said Ally, taking a step back in sheer revulsion. Adelemoch’s shrieks and moans rang off the ceiling. “She summoned that thing to our world and let…and let it…”

“And that creature, that prince of the void,” said Alastarius, “is Marugon’s father.”

“How?” said Ally. Adelemoch made a sound Ally never would have thought a human throat could produce. “How is that possible?”

“Is it so hard to believe?” said Alastarius. “On Earth there are legends of succubae and incubi, demons that lie with mortal men and women. Adelemoch worshipped the children of the void and hoped to set them free.”

“Set them free?” said Ally. “They are imprisoned?”

“Yes,” said Alastarius. “The Tower of Endless Worlds imprisons them. Even a summoning as powerful as Adelemoch’s could only summon a prince of the void for a few hours at most. Now let us see what passes nine months from now.” He muttered a phrase and waved his hand.

The hall waved, blurred, and snapped back into focus. Now a number of young men in black robes stood around the altar. Adelemoch lay sprawled on its surface, her stomach bulging with pregnancy. Sweat dripped down her pain-wracked face, and she groaned, her teeth grinding.

“Adelemoch’s apprentices,” murmured Alastarius, gesturing at the young men.

“The birth goes ill,” said one of the men in a low voice.

“Aye,” said another apprentice. “It was as if she is birthing one of the winged kin.”

“Do not be foolish,” said the first apprentice. “A winged one would have devoured her from within. But the birth does go ill. Perhaps she is carrying the…child we have discussed.”

“The Black Council itself will not approve,” said the apprentice.

Adelemoch’s shriek of agony cut off their discussion. Blood pooled over the altar’s surface, and the piercing cry of an infant filled the hall. Ally watched as one of the apprentices lifted a newborn boy, the umbilical cord still hanging from his stomach.

“Mistress,” said one of the apprentices, kneeling besides Adelemoch. “The birth was successful.”

Adelemoch moaned, her eyes turning glassy and distant.

“She’s dying,” said Ally.

“His name,” said Adelemoch, her voice a rasp. One of the apprentices cut the umbilical with a dagger and wrapped the infant in a blanket. “His name…” She laughed, her voice cracked and hideous. “He…is both mortal and spirit. He…he will be great…he will free them, he will free them all.” Her voice faded to a faint whisper. “He is the Lord of the Ugaoun…Marr’Ugaoun…Marr’Ugaoun…”

Adelemoch shuddered and went still.

“What did the Mistress say?” said one of the apprentices.

“I…am unsure,” said the apprentice holding the child. “I think…yes. His name.” He looked down at the baby. “His name is to be…Marugon.”

The child wailed.

###

Arran lay on the cold ground, trying to keep still. His chest and stomach felt as if they had been pounded by giant boots, but the Kevlar vest had stopped the bullets. He watched through half-lidded eyes as the thin man approached him.

“Krastiny,” said the thin man. “I think he’s still alive. Should we question the bastard?”

Krastiny, the short bald man, scowled. “I said to use Russian, idiot. No. Shoot him and let’s be on our way.”

The tall man shrugged and grinned. “My pleasure, boss."

Arran swung his leg up and kicked. His boot impacted into the tall man’s wrist, and the gun went flying. Arran rolled to his knees, raised both his pistols, and fired. The bullets shredded into the tall man’s shoulders and chest. He shrieked, staggered, and fell to his knees.

Arran’s last shot blew off the top of his head.

Arran surged to his feet, guns leveled, and found himself face to face with Krastiny. The short man held a pair of pistols pointed at Arran.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching each other.

“Well,” said Krastiny. “This is awkward.”

Arran dared not waste any time with this man. Could he shoot to kill before Krastiny reacted?

“Ah, ah, ah,” said Krastiny, tightening his grip on the pistols. “I can shoot just as fast as you can. And that bulletproof vest won’t stop a bullet through the skull. So drop your weapons and we can be on our way.”

“Only after you drop yours, old man,” said Arran.

“Not likely.” Krastiny shook his head. “Why are you here? How could you have followed us?”

“It’s beyond your understanding,” said Arran. If he fired and hit the old man’s hands, perhaps Krastiny could not fire back. “I’m here to save Ally.”

“Ally. The girl.” Something like a shadow crossed Krastiny’s face. “Goth has her.”

“Goth?” said Arran. “You mean King Goth-Mar-Dan.”

“He’ll kill you, if you get past me,” said Krastiny.

“Perhaps,” said Arran, “but I care not.”

Krastiny laughed. “Even if you kill me, you still won’t get inside. That door is three inches thick. And you don’t know the code for the keypad.”

“I don’t care,” said Arran, refusing to take the bait and look at the door. “I shall find a way in.”

A strange, almost pensive, expression flickered over Krastiny’s face. “Yes. Yes. Perhaps you would. I think you’re a more dangerous man than I am, whoever you are.”

“You’re stalling.” said Arran. He had to get into that factory.

“Bronsky and Schzeran,” said Krastiny. “I’ve known them both for years. Yet you shot them without blinking, without flinching, without hesitating. Not many men can do that.”

“I care not.” Nevertheless Arran felt a twinge of guilt. King Septimus Stormrider had been right, even in the depths of his folly. Arran had become a hardened killer, a man who could murder without a second thought. He brushed aside his guilt, refusing to take his eyes from Krastiny.  “You’re a fool. You helped Goth-Mar-Dan abduct Ally. I killed them both, and I’ll kill you.”

Krastiny smiled. “No. I don’t think you will.” Krastiny swung his arms out to the side, turned his hands, and dropped his guns.

The weapons hit the concrete with a clatter.

“The code for the door’s lock is 3986,” said Krastiny.

“I should kill you,” said Arran.

“Probably.” Krastiny shrugged. “But you won’t. You have more important things to do.”

Arran lowered his guns, watching for any sign of treachery. “Why are you doing this?”

Krastiny chuckled. “I’m not entirely sure. I’ve killed more people than I can remember. But I never felt any guilt, until now. Not for any special virtue of the young lady, you understand. It’s just…”

“That Goth-Mar-Dan is a monster and a nightmare made flesh,” said Arran. “He is an abomination. And any man that has the tiniest shred of conscience will despise him.”

Krastiny closed his eyes. “Yes. I daresay that’s it. The door’s code is 3986. Remember that.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “Besides, there’s several million dollars sitting in that van. I think I shall take it, retire, and live a life of decadent luxury.”

“I should kill you,” said Arran.

Krastiny walked towards the van. “You repeat yourself. And you won’t. You have better things to do. Kindly do me a favor and kill Goth-Mar-Dan. It won’t do to have him stalking me.”

Arran ignored the little man and ran across the yard. He heard the van start and pull away, its headlights sweeping across the street. The small steel door loomed before him, a black keypad built into its frame. Both the door and the keypad looked new. Arran squinted at the keypad, pecked in the numbers Krastiny had mentioned, and stepped back.

The door slid open, revealing a grimy concrete stairwell. A vile stink washed over him, a mixture of strange chemicals and rotting flesh. Arran’s hands worked at his belt, loading his pistols with the two remaining ammo clips he had dipped into Siduri’s blood. He drew one of the pistols in his left hand, his Sacred Blade in his right, and hurried down the dark stairs.

###

“That’s Marugon?” said Ally, staring at the wailing child in the apprentice’s arms. “So…he is both human and…”

“Ugaoun,” said Alastarius, “to use one word for them. He is part human. But he is also half Ugaoun, half voidspawn. He is both a man and a prince of the void. With Adelemoch dead, her apprentices tried to raise Marugon. They thought they could control him, use him to rule the Black Council and Castamar.”

The baby kept wailing. “And they were wrong?”

“Oh, yes,” said Alastarius. “They did not understand the truth.” His dark eyes were grave in his lined face. “Marugon can hear the children of the void, Ally. Countless millions of them, and he can hear them all. They speak inside his skull, sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting, sometimes commanding.”

“What do they command him to do?” said Ally.

“To free them, to return them to the mortal worlds,” said Alastarius. “The pressure in his mind drove Marugon mad.” He waved his hand and the hall blurred. An adolescent Marugon stood before the apprentices, screaming curses at them. One of the apprentices began to cast a spell, and Marugon snarled, stepped back, and chanted a spell. Shadows shot out from his hands, and the apprentices writhed in agony, fell, and crumbled into ashes. Marugon turned and fled from the hall. “Marugon killed his teachers and fled Castamar. He came to me.”

Ally stared at him. “To you? Why?”

They shot over the world, mountains and forests hurtling past, and returned to the courtyard of Castle Bastion.

Alastarius sighed and closed his eyes. “He wanted help. The voices of the children of the void were destroying him. He wanted to renounce it all, the Black Council, the Warlocks, the black magic, everything, and he thought I could aid him.”

Ally stared at the mist. “Did you?”

“I wrought a spell that would keep the voices at bay. For a few years it worked. Marugon was free, for a short time. He lived with me, with my family.” Alastarius’s lips pressed into a hard grimace. “Then the spell shattered. The children of the void forced their way back into his mind, demanding that he free them. It twisted him into the monster he is now.” Deep grief crossed the old man’s face. “For a long time I blamed myself, even after he slew my family. If only I could have wrought a more powerful spell. If only I had done more. But it is futile. Marugon is what he is. His nature cannot be changed. If I had been wise, if I had been less a fool, I would have killed him when I had the chance. Much evil would have been averted.”

“You did what you thought best,” said Ally. “You tried to help him.”

Alastarius’s smile was brittle. “And I paid for that folly, did I not? And you paid, and Lithon paid, and millions of others have paid.”

“But what’s done is done,” said Ally. “You said he wants to free the children of the void. How is he going to do that?”

“The Tower of Endless Worlds imprisons the children of the void in the dark places between the worlds,” said Alastarius. “Destroy that, and they will be set free to ravage the mortal worlds once more.”

“Destroy the Tower?” Ally remembered the Tower’s immensity, its infinite bulk. “How can Marugon even do that?”

“How? My dear child, he has already begun.”

Chapter 7 - Two Swords

Anno Domini 2012

Arran stepped into a cavernous room. Massive steel girders supported the ceiling, and hulking machines loomed against the walls, their parts and gears rusted and corroded. Arran walked without sound, his eyes scanning the darkness. Nothing moved, and he heard nothing but the pounding of his heart. Ahead a blue light came from a row of glass tanks…

He froze in revulsion. “Dear gods.”

Each of the tanks held the corpse of a naked woman, floating in some kind of chemical brine. All the women looked to have died in agony. A nearby metal rack contained rows of glass jars of eyeballs, hearts, tongues, heads, hands and other dismembered organs. Arran scanned the glass tanks, praying he would not see Ally’s naked corpse among them.

He did not.

Anger rose up, mixed with his fear and apprehension. Such ghastly evil could not go unpunished. He stepped around the glass tanks and stopped. A steel table stood nearby, its surface stained with dried blood, and Ally lay on the metal slab, still wearing the jeans and T-shirt she had worn to bed. She looked unconscious, but otherwise unharmed. He felt a tremendous wave of relief.

But there was no trace of Goth-Mar-Dan.

Arran turned, scanning the ghastly tanks and the broken machinery. Where was the lord of the winged demons? Had he taken Ally here and then departed? Perhaps Arran could take Ally and flee before the winged demon returned.

He looked at his sword. The Sacred Blade shone with a faint blue glow, which meant there was a creature of the black magic nearby. Ally lay out in the open, unguarded. Like bait for a trap…

His Sacred Blade burst into white flames.

It was a trap!

He whirled and raised his Sacred Blade just as a winged shadow dropped from the steel girders and swooped towards him. The razor edge of a blade glittered, and Arran parried, his sword clanging from the force of the blow. Goth-Mar-Dan landed with a crunch, his sooty armor clattering, his eyes burning with the fires of hell. Arran parried the demon’s next blow, slipped to the side, and riposted. Goth-Mar-Dan leaped back, flapped his wings, and took to the air. Arran spun, trying to follow the winged demon’s weaving and dodging among the girders and broken machines.

“A Knight!” boomed Goth-Mar-Dan’s deep voice, crackling with twisted glee. “I thought we had killed all your kind!”

“You were wrong,” said Arran, scanning the darkness for the demon.

Goth-Mar-Dan howled with laughter, the echoes bouncing around the vast chamber. “What is one more? I have slain dozens of your brethren, Knight. What is one more before I enjoy my prize?”

Arran caught sight of a black wing and raised his gun. “You shall not.”

“And you will stop me?” Goth-Mar-Dan swooped low, hovered for an instant, and then soared away. The demon was taunting him. And why not? Bullets could not harm a winged demon, and even Conmager’s enchanted bullets would likely do little harm to the king of the winged demons.

But Goth-Mar-Dan thought Arran’s gun held normal bullets.

He did not know about Siduri’s blood.

“Then slay me, Knight.” The demon’s voice dripped with mockery. “Slay me and save the girl.” Metal crunched, and Arran spun. Goth-Mar-Dan had landed a dozen paces away.

Arran raised his gun and took aim.

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed.

The bullet shot from Arran's gun, encased in a ball of white fire. It slammed into Goth-Mar-Dan’s left shoulder. The winged demon howled in astonishment and pain, the fires of his eyes flaring. The second burning bullet smashed in the winged demon’s stomach, crumpling armor. Goth-Mar-Dan staggered, and Arran lined up his weapon for a killing shot…

Goth-Mar-Dan growled a phrase. Shadows swirled around him, and he vanished. Arran’s bullet slashed through the space the demon had occupied and crunched into a machine.

Goth-Mar-Dan knew the black magic. But how? Arran had never heard of a winged demon wielding…

He turned just as Goth-Mar-Dan reappeared behind him. The black scimitar lashed out, and Arran parried, staggering beneath the force of the blow. Goth-Mar-Dan growled and vanished again, reappearing a dozen yards above Arran’s head. The winged demon dropped down, scimitar point leading, and Arran flung himself to the side. Goth-Mar-Dan yanked out a pistol and fired, blasting holes in the concrete floor. Arran rolled, went to one knee, and leveled his pistol just as Goth-Mar-Dan took aim.

For a moment they stared at each other

Arran groaned, keeping his aim steady as he climbed to his feet. “Not again.”

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed. “Kill me, Knight. Do what no man has ever done.”

Arran said nothing, trying to calculate the odds. He guessed it would take at least three or four of the blood-dipped bullets to kill Goth-Mar-Dan, but Goth-Mar-Dan needed only one clean shot to kill Arran. Did the winged demon know about the Kevlar vest? Arran could not take that chance.

“Come now,” said Goth-Mar-Dan. “Let us settle this in the old fashion.”

Khan-Mar-Dan had said something similar. “What?”

“Blade against blade, Knight,” said Goth-Mar-Dan. “Just as my kin and your wretched Order have fought for centuries. Let us see who is the stronger. When I count to one, we shall point the guns at the wall. When I reach two, let us drop them. Do you agree?”

Arran watched the demon’s pale face. “Very well.”

Goth-Mar-Dan snarled. “Good. One.” He pointed his gun at the wall, and Arran followed suit. “Two.”

They dropped their pistols to the ground with a clatter.

Goth-Mar-Dan howled with glee, his left hand coming up, a second pistol gleaming in his grip.

But Arran had anticipated the treachery. He dropped his Sacred Blade and yanked the second pistol loaded with bloodied clip from his belt. Both Arran and the demon fired simultaneously. Goth-Mar-Dan’s bullet burned along Arran’s side, its force deflected by the Kevlar vest. Arran’s bullet smashed into the winged demon’s arm, and Goth-Mar-Dan. Arran fired again, as did Goth-Mar-Dan. His bullet knocked the gun from the winged demon’s hand, while Goth-Mar-Dan’s bullet grazed Arran’s forearm. Arran’s hand shuddered in pain, and the gun fell from his fingers.

Goth-Mar-Dan howled and lunged for him. Arran had just enough time to snatch up his Sacred Blade and meet the attack. Goth-Mar-Dan swung, slashed and leaped back, his flapping wings adding momentum to the jump. He growled another spell, and black flames burst over the blade of the scimitar, radiating a deep chill.

Goth-Mar-Dan howled with insane laughter and charged to meet Arran’s attack.

###

“You remember your own journey through the Tower, do you not?” said Alastarius.

Ally’s mouth twisted. “I couldn’t forget if I tried, and I tried for years, believe me.”

“The holes in the walls,” said Alastarius.

Ally looked at the mist swirling around her knees. “I remember. I thought Marugon had made them.”

“You were right,” said Alastarius. “With the full might of his magic, Marugon could blast a small hole through the Tower’s walls and pull in some of the children of the void. But only a few, and they could not leave the Tower. The wards on the doors,” Ally remembered the deep-cut runes, glowing with green light, “prevented it.”

“Just what is the Tower?” said Ally. “How can it imprison the children of the void?”

“The Tower?” Alastarius shrugged. “The Tower is everywhere and nowhere at…”

“Oh, please,” said Ally. “That might be true, but it’s absolutely useless. What is the Tower, really?”

Alastarius smiled. “The Tower…well, in truth, I am not entirely sure what the Tower is. I will tell you what I do know. The Tower was built by an ancient race of great power. Some worlds worship them as gods, though whether or not they actually were gods, I know not. But I do know that these ancient gods lived before mortal creatures came to be. They knew that the mortals would come, one day, and wanted them to live in freedom. But there was another race, one that hated and feared the coming mortals, and wanted to keep them as cattle.”

“The children of the void,” said Ally. “How do you know all this?”

“I have learned bits and pieces, over the years,” said Alastarius. “Some scrolls I found in the ruins of the Forgotten Vales. Old books possessed by both the Wizards and the Warlocks. And the inscriptions on the Tower itself. I managed to decipher a few.” He sighed. “But Marugon told me much, before his mind shattered. The children of the void had been whispering into his soul since the moment of his conception.” He paused for a moment. “As you might have guessed, the ancient gods and the children of the void came to blows. The gods were victorious, and their foes were driven into nothingness, banished to the black places between the worlds.”

Ally blinked. “You mean outer space?”

Alastarius frowned. “The scientists of Earth have more knowledge of those places than I do, yet ‘outer space’ is a poor name. It is an unending gulf, a void of utter nothingness, a realm of eternal cold and silent darkness. In both the material and the spiritual realms, ‘outer space’ is a place of everlasting death.”

Ally nodded. “And so the ancient gods built the Tower of Endless Worlds to keep the children of the void imprisoned.”

“Yes,” said Alastarius. “The Tower was built on our world, on the Crimson Plain, but it touches all worlds. Endless worlds, Ally, worlds without number. The Tower is built of some stone harder than diamond, yes, but it is mostly a construction of awesome magical force. It touches all worlds, and forms the web of power that keeps the children of the void banished. The fact that one can use the Tower to travel from world to world is almost incidental.”

“Marugon might be powerful,” said Ally, “but I doubt that even he has the might to rip down the Tower.”

“The Tower is impervious to attack from without,” said Alastarius. “And even if one does manage to harm it, the Tower’s magic repairs the damage almost at once. But from within…ah, there the Tower is vulnerable to attack.”

“The holes Marugon blasted in the walls,” said Ally.

“Aye.” Alastarius closed his eyes. “After he fled from me, Marugon seized control of the Black Council. He devoted himself to the Tower’s destruction. He wandered its corridors, blasting hole after hole. I knew what he was doing. So I roused the Knights of the Sacred Blade, the White Council, and the High Kingdoms against him.”

“The war that overthrew the Black Council,” said Ally.

“It almost worked,” said Alastarius. “The Black Council was overthrown, and the Warlocks were slain, and Castamar was laid waste. The winged demons were scattered, and lands the Warlocks had held in their tyranny for centuries were freed. But Marugon fled through the Tower and vanished.” Alastarius sighed and shook his head. “The war was a mistake. It would have taken Marugon ten thousand years to destroy the Tower in that manner. It would have been better to let him alone.”

“What did you do after the war?” said Ally.

“I feared Marugon would return one day, or that he would find a way to cast down the Tower. I needed information. So I journeyed across the Desert of Scorpions, to the ruins where the Oracle of Time dwells.”

Ally shivered. “The Ildramyn? Arran told me of that thing.”

Alastarius nodded. “Aye. It tried to dominate me, but I was able to beat off its attacks, and it told me something of the future. It foretold me that Marugon would find a way to destroy the Tower on some distant world. And it told me that I would have to find a way to stop him.” He smiled. “But as Arran Belphon has no doubt told you, the Ildramyn’s foretelling is bitter. It told me that Marugon would return, and that I would die at his command. So I prepared. I trained Conmager and Siduri, and I prepared you.”

“Me?”

Alastarius nodded again, his eyes sad, his face tired. “Yes, Allara Marentine. You. In body, you are the image of my wife. But in mind,” he tapped his temples, “in mind, you are similar to me. Of all my children and grandchildren, you are the only one who had the potential to learn the white magic. So I prepared you. When I died, my powers, my knowledge, and my memory would pass to you.”

“How did I wind up on the Crimson Plain?” said Ally.

“The spell that passed my powers to you also put you into a deep sleep and thrust you into the spirit world,” said Alastarius. “You remained there, safe from Marugon and his minions, until Sir Liam reached the Crimson Plain with King Lithon, when the spell recalled you to the material world. Unfortunately, the soldiers were nearby. Luckily, Sir Liam was able to slay them. He took you with him, as I knew he would.”

Ally laughed.

Alastarius looked at her askance. “You find this funny?”

“It’s just…” She shook her head. “Arran curses your name. He thinks your Prophecy has manipulated and twisted his life. I thought he was merely bitter, but it seems that he was right. You were behind this all, trying to snatch something from defeat.”

“Aye, I was,” said Alastarius. “Arran is right to be bitter, I suppose. He crossed the High Kingdoms and the Tower seeking you, because Siduri told him to, and I told Siduri what to do. My mistakes have brought untold suffering and death to millions. Yet I did what I did because I had no choice. Sometimes there are no good choices, child, only a choice between degrees of evil. Once Marugon reached Earth and that wretched Wycliffe, the High Kingdoms would have been destroyed no matter what I did. Yet if I did nothing, then no one would have been left to stop Marugon.” He pointed at her. “Do you know why Marugon destroyed the High Kingdoms, the White Council, and the Order of the Sacred Blade?”

“Arran and Conmager think it was revenge,” said Ally. “But Marugon destroyed the High Kingdoms so no one could stop him. There would be no one left to oppose him. No one to stop him from throwing down the Tower.”

Alastarius nodded.

Ally frowned. “But what good would it do? Arran saw the Tower crumbling, but the children of the void still cannot escape. Marugon can’t break the wards on the doors. Else he would have already done so. And even with his foes destroyed, it will still take him ten thousand years to destroy the Tower, even if he had a hundred times the power.”

Alastarius sighed. “That is no longer so.”

Ally felt a jolt of fear. She suddenly pictured the children of the void streaming out the door hidden in the white house’s backyard. “What?”

“Marugon has found a way to destroy the Tower,” said Alastarius, “and he will use it in a matter of days, if he is not stopped.”

“How?” said Ally.

“Take my hand, and I will show you,” said Alastarius.

Ally took her grandfather’s hand, and the world dissolved.

###

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed and took to the air. Arran gripped his Sacred Blade in both hands and wheeled, trying to follow the winged demon’s movements. Goth-Mar-Dan darted around a hulking machine, swooped up, and plummeted, scimitar spinning in dark circles. Arran yelled and met the attack, their swords clanging, white flames burning against shadow fire. Goth-Mar-Dan growled and launched a dozen blows in as many seconds. Arran parried and dodged, the black scimitar swooping in for the kill. Arran managed to dodge, the blade blurring an inch past his nose. He backed away, keeping his eyes on the winged demon.

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed. “Can you not hit me? I fought Liam Mastere once. You are nothing next to him.”

Arran blinked sweat from his eyes. “He told me of that. You fled from him.”

Goth-Mar-Dan showed his fangs. “And you are no Liam Mastere. You are barely a Knight.” He feinted forward, stepped back. “You cannot kill me.”

Goth-Mar-Dan was right. The winged demon was stronger and faster than any foe Arran had ever faced. The dreadful memory of Khan-Mar-Dan tearing Siduri’s head from her shoulders played through his mind over and over again.

He could not let that happen again.

“Come, then!” said Goth-Mar-Dan, his voice booming against the walls. “Are you so afraid to fight me? Then throw down your sword. I will let the girl go, if you surrender to me.”

Arran shook his head, glancing over the grimy floor. “You lie.” If only he could find one of the guns loaded with the bloodied bullets.

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed. “You are wise. I will not kill you, Knight. I will maim you, cripple you. You shall watch as I have my way with the girl. Then I shall rip my child from her womb and devour it as you watch.” He stepped to one of the ghastly glass tanks and rubbed his talons over its surface. “Then you both will become my finest trophies. The last Knight and Alastarius’s heir, floating side by side forever.”

An idea came to Arran in a blaze of inspiration. “I think not.”

He yanked one of his two remaining Glocks from his shoulder holsters.

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed. “Fool! Do those bullets also have the white magic? You cannot harm me.”

“You’re right,” said Arran, flipping the pistol to automatic fire. “Not with this.”

He shifted his aim, squeezed the trigger, and emptied the clip into the glass tank.

The tank shattered, and vile-smelling chemicals burst out, gushing over Goth-Mar-Dan. The winged demon roared in shock, and the rotting corpse slammed into his chest with a wet slap, knocking him back. He bellowed and fell with a thump.

Arran sprang forward, his Sacred Blade trailing white flame, and slashed down. The blade clanged through the demon’s armor and skidded along his chest. Goth-Mar-Dan howled and pushed away the corpse. Arran raised his sword high and stabbed down, hoping to pin the winged demon to the floor. Goth-Mar-Dan rolled, and Arran’s sword slashed through the demon’s hip and caught in his leg. The white fire pulsed, and Arran leaned on the sword, hoping that the flame would catch and burn through the demon…

Goth-Mar-Dan roared, and a leathery wing smacked across Arran’s face. He staggered back, his sword sliding free from the demon’s leg. Goth-Mar-Dan’s boot lashed out and caught Arran in the gut. He groaned and went to one knee, his sword point dipping. The winged demon clambered up, moving with a marked limp. Arran staggered to his feet just as Goth-Mar-Dan attacked. He parried high, blocked low, twisted to the side, and darted a thrust through the demon’s guard. His sword point slipped through the armor plates and into the demon’s stomach. Goth-Mar-Dan roared and staggered back, pulling free from the blade. Arran charged, his blade flashing, and Goth-Mar-Dan took to the air. Arran lunged, his sword angled up, but Goth-Mar-Dan swooped away.

He grimaced, both hands clenched around his Sacred Blade’s hilt, and peered into the shadows. He saw no sign of Goth-Mar-Dan. Had he driven the winged demon off?

A man-sized piece of rusted machinery came hurtling out of the darkness.

Arran tried to dodge the hunk of rusted metal, but it clipped him on the side, knocked him off his feet, and spun him around. He heard ribs crack, felt his bones creaking in protest. Arran landed with a thump, his sword sliding from his hand, the breath blasting from his lungs. He felt something wet and hot flowing down the inside of his clothing. Bits of jagged metal jutted from his side.

Goth-Mar-Dan plunged like a black thunderbolt, scimitar point leading.

###

Ally turned in a slow circle, eyes taking in the colossal circular chamber. “What is this place?”

The domed ceiling, vanishing into the darkness above, could have held a fair sized lake. Pillars ran along the walls, each the size of a Chicago skyscraper. A vast seal of silvery metal rested in the center of the floor. It was at least a quarter-mile across, and countless rings of concentric symbols had been carved in its gleaming surface.

“The Chamber of the Great Seal, in the very heart of the Tower of Endless Worlds,” said Alastarius.

Ally could feel the titanic power focused on the seal. “It’s…it’s…I don’t know what it’s like. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Alastarius led her towards the Seal. The metal looked cold and slippery, almost like ice. “It is the focal point of the Tower, its cornerstone. The Tower’s weight is balanced at this point, and the Great Seal is the nexus of the magical forces that bind the Tower. It is the linchpin of the knot, if you’ll pardon the crude analogy. The mighty spells that bind the Tower, the warding runes, the awesome magical forces of this place, all focus upon the Great Seal. Marugon could spend ten thousand years demolishing the Tower, but so long as the Seal held, the Tower would stand and the children of the void would remain banished. And the Great Seal is almost invincible.”

Ally looked at the carven runes, and then at her grandfather. “Almost?”

“Earth is a world of wonders and horrors,” said Alastarius. “You know that, having lived half your life there. Earth’s technology has created wonders that defy belief, but it has also created the power to destroy. And the worst is a weapon of such power that Marugon himself could not have imagined it. A bomb that can destroy a city, a nation, a machine that summons a piece of the stars’ very fire and unleashes it.”

“You mean…” Ally hesitated. “You mean a nuclear bomb, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Alastarius. “I do not think I have ever seen a more terrible weapon. A handful of bombs, properly placed, can destroy a world. And Marugon has found one.”

“He has a nuke?” said Ally. “Will he use it to blow up the Tower?”

“He cannot use the bomb to destroy the Tower,” said Alastarius. “The Tower is too vast for that.” He pointed at the Great Seal. “Instead, he will take the bomb here, to the Chamber of the Great Seal. The explosion will shatter the Seal, the Tower will collapse in ruin, and the forces binding the Tower will dissipate.”

“But won’t Marugon kill himself, if he does that?” said Ally.

“Almost certainly,” said Alastarius. “Perhaps he thinks of the blast will free him of mortal flesh, transform him into a true prince of the voidspawn. Or perhaps he knows it will kill him. He may no longer care.” He took her arm. “Come. Let me show you.”

The Chamber swirled, dissolved, and reformed into a dimly lit library. Shelves of books climbed towards the ceiling, and comfortable chairs stood scattered around the room.

Ally took a step back and gasped.

Lord Marugon sat hunched over a low table, his fingers writhing over a metal disk.

“Do not fear,” said Alastarius. “He cannot see us.”

“I’ve seen this place before, in my dreams,” said Ally. “I’ve seen him before.”

Alastarius nodded. “Your buried both your powers and the connected memories deeply. Yet sometimes your spirit would rove over the world while you dreamed, when your power briefly manifested.”

Ally took a hesitant step forward, looking at the metal disk beneath Marugon’s fingers. Endless rings of dark-etched runes marked its surface. “What is he doing?”

“That disk will shift its bearer partway into the spiritual world,” said Alastarius. “Much as the winged demons exist simultaneously in this world and the other.”

“Why is he making it?” said Ally. “Will it make him resistant to material weapons like the winged demons?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Alastarius, “but Marugon’s power is such that he need not fear material weapons. No, he will place the disk in the bomb before he detonates it. That means the bomb shall explode in both the material and spiritual realms. The blast will shatter the Great Seal, throw down the Tower, and free the children of the void. Our world will be destroyed, of course, in the Tower’s fall. But the Tower’s fall will doom more worlds than you and I can comprehend.”

“But Marugon doesn’t have a nuclear bomb quite yet, does he?” She envisioned the children of the void bursting out through the doors, swarming over Earth, though Chicago, killing and slaying and feasting. “Does he?”

“Not yet.” Alastarius sighed. “But he will have the bomb in another two days at most. And in three days, the universe as you and I know may very well cease to exist.”

###

Arran yanked his last gun from its holster and squeezed the trigger. The bullets slammed into Goth-Mar-Dan, slowing him, but doing little other damage. Arran rolled, gritting his teeth through the pain, snatched up his Sacred Blade, and leapt to his feet to meet Goth-Mar-Dan’s attack. The black scimitar clanged against his sword, slid past his guard, and slashed down his forearm. Arran hissed in pain, fresh blood oozing down his arm. Goth-Mar-Dan turned his blade and stabbed down. The scimitar slashed down Arran’s side and grazed against his hip, and Arran lurched away before the winged demon disemboweled him. His breath came in shallow, rasping gasps.

He felt shards from the broken machine scraping against his bones.

“So,” said Goth-Mar-Dan, stepping back. Black blood oozed from the wounds Arran had inflicted. “You are more cunning than I deemed.”

Arran took his sword’s hilt in both trembling hands and watched the winged demon.

“Valiant, but futile,” said Goth-Mar-Dan. “You weaken, Knight. Your lifeblood seeps upon the stones.” He lifted his arm, displaying one of the wounds Arran had given him. The pale flesh and iron muscles crawled back together, healing themselves. “You weaken. But my wounds heal. I grow stronger.”

“Stop raving and fight,” said Arran.

Goth-Mar-Dan roared with laughter. “Come, now. You have proven a valiant foe, worthy of a quick death. You shall die here tonight, one way or another. Lay down your sword, and I shall spare you my torments.”

Arran staggered towards Goth-Mar-Dan, letting his sword point scrape against the concrete. The winged demon smiled.

“If you want my sword,” said Arran, something gurgling in his chest, “then you shall have it.”

He spun, drawing on all the speed he had left, and brought his sword across in a blurring arc. The blade dug deep into Goth-Mar-Dan’s side. The winged demon howled and leaped back. Arran tried to continue the attack, and Goth-Mar-Dan roared and went on the offensive. Arran parried most of the blows, and dodged many, but Goth-Mar-Dan scored minor hit after minor hit. The winged demon drove him around the glass tanks, past where Ally lay unconscious on the metal table, and closer to the grimy concrete wall.

Goth-Mar-Dan laughed all the while, his eyes burning.

The force of the demon’s next blow knocked Arran off balance. Goth-Mar-Dan’s leathery wing caught him across the face, and Arran smashed into the wall, groaned, and slid to one knee.

“I shall devour you, Knight,” said Goth-Mar-Dan, watching him. “Perhaps I shall wake the girl first. I shall permit her to watch as I consume you.”

“No,” said Arran, voice grating against his ears. “You will not.” But his words were empty. Pain burned through him with every breath, and he did not know if he had the strength left to stand, let at alone fight. Something began to burn between his shoulders. Had the demon wounded him there?

Goth-Mar-Dan growled, eyes narrowing, and took a step back.

The burning changed to a gentle warmth that spread through him. He reached back and touched the hilt of Luthar’s Sacred Blade. It felt hot, almost too hot to hold.

He frowned, stood, and drew the weapon free. Its silvery blade burst into cold azure fire, mixing with the white light radiating from Arran’s sword. Goth-Mar-Dan flinched and stepped back, and Arran stared at the swords in wonder. He could lift both swords at once. How was it possible? Only Sir Liam had been able to wield two Sacred Blades at once…

Goth-Mar-Dan gave a terrible cry of fury, took to the air, and dropped like a stone. Arran dodged, beat aside the winged demon’s thrust with his Sacred Blade, and thrust Luthar’s. The sword carved a gash in Goth-Mar-Dan’s shoulder. The winged demon shrieked and charged at Arran. Arran parried, picking off the blows with his crimson Sacred Blade, and Luthar’s sword darted out to score a minor hit on the demon’s arm. Arran gritted his teeth against the pain and fought on, tasting blood and sweat on his tongue.

With two swords, he could hold his own against the demon.

Goth-Mar-Dan roared and charged, black scimitar spinning.

###

“Two days?” said Ally. “Marugon will have a nuclear bomb in two days?”

“Possibly sooner,” said Alastarius. He waved his hand, and they returned to Castle Bastion’s mist-shrouded courtyard. “Wycliffe has an arrangement with a Russian criminal leader, a man named Vasily Kurkov. Kurkov provided the guns and bombs that Wycliffe sold to Marugon. Now Kurkov has obtained a nuclear bomb. He is bringing it to the city of Chicago even as we speak.”

“Does Wycliffe even know about it?” said Ally.

“He knows about the bomb, aye,” said Alastarius, “but he does not know what use Marugon intends for it, and he does not really care. Wycliffe has what he wants, the vice-presidency of the United States and a puppet president to control. Wycliffe wants Marugon gone.”

“The fool,” said Ally, “the miserable murdering fool.”

“Wycliffe’s folly,” said Alastarius, “though he knows it not, will have terrible consequences for both himself and countless others.”

“You have to stop him,” said Ally. “Marugon can’t set off that bomb…”

“I?” Alastarius pointed at himself. “I am dead, child. I died years ago. My spirit lingers on until my charge is fulfilled, but I cannot affect the world of the living. I can only watch, observe, and advise.”

“Lithon,” said Ally, swallowing. “You Prophesied about Lithon. You said he would overthrow Marugon. It’s not too late…”

Alastarius sighed. “Lithon will play some part, I have no doubt, but he is just a boy. He will become a great man, should he survive the next few days. But for now he is just a boy Marugon could crush with a thought.” Alastarius sighed. “No, Ally. My child. If Marugon is to be stopped, then it is up to you.”

Ally stared at the old man for a long moment. “Me?”

“Yes. I was the mightiest Wizard of my time, the mightiest Wizard in centuries,” said Alastarius. “And my powers have passed on to you, Ally, all of them. Do you not yet see? Your life was the goal of my machinations, my Prophecies. Someone had to survive. Someone had to possess the strength to battle Marugon, even after he had destroyed the Knights and the High Kingdoms and the White Council. Marugon thinks he has slain everyone who can possibly oppose him. He has not. You have the strength to face him and defeat him.”

Ally shook her head. “How? I have the white magic, but I cannot use it. At least not well enough to fight Marugon. Even Goth-Mar-Dan could stop me from using it.” Her physical peril seemed distant now, insignificant next to the ruin Marugon threatened to bring.

“Conmager tried to teach you, but his skills are limited.” Alastarius paused. “The night I appeared to you and the others. I would have told you everything. But it was your power that had brought me there. You did not want to hear what I had to say, and your mind pushed me away. Not consciously, of course, but it did nonetheless. Conmager cannot teach you what you need to know.”

“Then how?” said Ally.

“There is a way,” said Alastarius. “You’ve experienced some of my memories. That is only a part of what I’ve passed onto you. All of my memories rest within your mind. You have struggled against them for as long as you can remember. But if you were to embrace them…”

“Then I would have the skill to wield the white magic,” said Ally. She stared at the mist for a long time. “What would happen to me? Would I stop being me? Would I become you?”

“No,” said Alastarius. “I am dead. I cannot live again. You would remain you. But you would remember my life as if you have lived it yourself, though as a spectator.”

“Like a movie in my head,” said Ally.

“Essentially, yes. You would have skills you did not before,” said Alastarius, “not the least of which is the white magic. Your personality may change. But your mind is powerful, and it is yours. You will remain who you are.”

Ally snorted. “No, I won’t.” She was silent for a moment. “I don’t really have any choice, do I?”

“No. The choice is yours. I cannot force you to do this.”

Ally turned, face him. “Then I choose to do this.”

Alastarius smiled. “As you wish. Farewell, Allara Marentine, my granddaughter. We shall not meet again for many years.”

Her grandfather stepped towards her, raised his hands, and stepped into her.

Ally shuddered.

Her nerves crawled and twitched. Something deep within her mind, something that had always remained closed, shattered open.

A storm of memories flooded through her. She remembered Alastarius’s life as if it was her own.

She remembered Alastarius striding through the woods, a younger Sir Liam at his side as they spoke of many things…

She remembered Marugon coming before Alastarius, the Warlock’s face twisted with agony and torment and hope, remembered Alastarius’s family lying butchered and torn in the hall of Castle Marentine, remembered lying on the cold stone of Castle Bastion’s courtyard, the blood seeping over the stones…

A thousand memories burst through her mind.

Chapter 8 - White Magic

Anno Domini 2012

Ally opened her eyes.

She still lay on the cold metal table, the steel cuffs around her wrists and ankles. The stink of chemicals filled her nostrils, and the clang of steel and roars of rage filled her ears.

She felt no fear.

Arran and Goth-Mar-Dan fought some distance away. Goth-Mar-Dan moved with a limp, his lips peeled back in a snarl. His eyes blazed and black flames crackled around his scimitar. She saw the darkness gathered around him, within him, like a great black shroud. Arran fought with fury, despite a dozen bleeding wounds. She saw the fire of his scarred, unbroken spirit burning within him, matching the twin fires of his Sacred Blades. She could also see the bonds of spirit that bound Luthar’s blade to Arran, the threads of power that permitted him to wield two Sacred Blades at once.

Ally realized she could see both worlds at once, both the material and the spiritual.

Goth-Mar-Dan roared and hammered at Arran.

Ally’s eyes narrowed, anger rising up within her. Goth-Mar-Dan had killed her blood family. He had ravaged through the High Kingdoms for centuries, bringing blood and murder and misery wherever he trod. He had murdered Alastarius. He had brought her here to torture and kill her. And now he was about to kill Arran.

No.

She would not permit it.

Ally muttered a brief spell, drawing the white magic to her spirit. The world went hazy and cloudy as Ally shifted her body into the spiritual realm. She sat up and got to her feet, passing through the steel cuffs like smoke. She stepped away from the table and shifted back to the material world, the concrete cold and grimy beneath her bare feet.

Ally turned to face Goth-Mar-Dan, the white magic rising up within her.

Goth-Mar-Dan froze, his burning eyes falling over her. Arran’s eyes widened in wonder as Ally strode toward them.

Naked terror passed over Goth-Mar-Dan’s face and twisted into desperate rage. With a cry of fury and terror he sprang past Arran, accepting and ignoring two vicious hits from the Sacred Blades. Goth-Mar-Dan swooped into the air, scimitar raised high, black magic howling around its blade.

He descended on her with an ear-splitting roar.

“Ally!” shouted Arran.

Ally raised her hand and said a word. White light burst from her fingers, shining like a star in the dark factory. Goth-Mar-Dan crashed to the ground, screaming as the light fell over him. He strained forward, howling curses, trying to reach her.

Ally thrust her palm at him.

White fire exploded into the winged demon. The spell flung Goth-Mar-Dan backwards and cast him into the wall. He crumpled to the floor, his wings hanging broken and useless against his back. Arran charged at the dazed demon, his blades flashing. Goth-Mar-Dan staggered back, snarling in rage, trying to parry. Arran scored hit after hit, white and azure fire soaking into the winged demon.

Ally cast another spell and conjured a spear of light. She ran forward, hands clasped around the spear’s glowing shaft. Arran lunged forward and stabbed both his blades into the demon’s stomach, tearing past battered armor plates. Goth-Mar-Dan shrieked in torment, his hands clawing for Arran’s arms.

Ally stepped forward and stabbed. The spear of light cut through Goth-Mar-Dan’s armor like paper and sank deep, seeking the demon’s heart. Arran went into a frenzy, stabbing over and over again.

Goth-Mar-Dan stared at her in shock. “This cannot be! I killed Alastarius, I tore his heart from his chest, I slew him…”

“And now you are slain," said Ally. "You yearn for power so much? Then devour this."

She plunged the spear of light into his chest with all her strength and weight behind it.

Goth-Mar-Dan threw back his head and shrieked. The fire from Arran’s blades spread through him, ravaging through him in a storm of white flame.

And then Goth-Mar-Dan, king of the winged demons, collapsed in a spray of smoking ashes and obsidian bones. His red crown clanged against the floor and rolled away.

“Arran,” said Ally.

Arran groaned and fell to his knees. Sweat and blood soaked his clothes.

“Ally,” he said, shaking. She saw bits of metal jutting from his side. “I’m not…I…I can’t…dying.” He grabbed at the wall to keep from slumping over.

Ally smiled. “No, you’re not.” She reached down, seized his temples, and muttered a spell. The white magic rose in response to her spirit, flowed down her arms, and shot into Arran. He made a strangled noise, every muscle in his body going rigid.

The shards of metal fell out of his side. His wounds knit themselves closed, the skin sealing shut. Ally released him, and Arran shuddered once more and climbed to his feet.

“You’re alive,” he said, staring at her in wonder.

She smiled. “Thanks to you. He would have killed me, if you had not come.”

Arran seized her in his arms and held her tight. Ally rested her face against his neck. She wanted to stay like that for a long time.

“How?” he said.

“The white magic,” said Ally. “And it’s how you wielded two Sacred Blades at once. The power of your brother’s sacrifice knit his sword to your spirit, but you could not use it until a time of great need. Sir Liam carried his slain father’s Sacred Blade…and your carry your brother’s.”

“Thank you, Luthar,” said Arran, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Come on,” Ally said. “We must go. I have much to tell you. And we’ve not much time, I fear.”

“We need to find something for you to wear,” said Arran. “You’ve no shoes. You’ll freeze to death outside.”

“The others,” said Ally. “Are they here?”

Rage flashed in Arran’s eyes. “Conmager wanted to abandon you. Mary and Lithon and I tried to dissuade him, but we could not. He thought we had to save Lithon at any cost, even your life…”

Ally raised a hand. “Do not blame Conmager. He would not have left me behind lightly. It would have added another weight to the load of grief he carries. And does not know what I now know. He only did as he thought best.”

Arran’s mouth twisted. “Erroneous as that was.” He looked away. “Goth-Mar-Dan must have had a vehicle hidden here, somewhere. We can take that, rejoin the others.” He shook his head. “Though how we’ll find them, I have no idea. Conmager must be a thousand miles away by now.”

“Perhaps,” said Ally, “but it matters not. A moment. I’ll find him.”

“How?” said Arran.

Ally closed her eyes, her spirit calling the white magic.

###

Lithon folded his arms. “I’m not going anywhere until we find Ally.”

Conmager shook his head, thumping his cane against the floor. “We have to go. Now. Your life must be preserved, Majesty. If you die, then everything would have been in vain.”

Mary nodded. “Lithon’s right. We have to find Ally.”

“And we can’t leave, anyway,” said Lithon. “Arran’s run off.”

Conmager shook his head again, despair showing on his face. “Arran has gone mad, I fear.” He beckoned. Allard swallowed and stepped closer. “I don’t want to have to knock you out and take you with me. But I will, if I have no choice, and you’re giving me no choice…”

The floor trembled. Conmager whirled, raising his cane as a ghostly image of white light appeared in the corner.

“Master?” said Conmager, lowering his cane.

But instead of an old man, it was a pale image of Ally Wester.

“Ally?” said Mary. “My God, it’s Ally.”

“It is.” Conmager blinked his watery eyes. “But she doesn’t have the skill to cast a spell such as this…”

“I do now,” said Ally’s image. “Be quiet and listen to me, please. We do not have much time. I’m safe, and so is Arran. You must come to Chicago as soon as possible. Disguise the van, and load it with as many weapons as it can carry. Meet us at the Lake Michigan breakwater near downtown Chicago tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything then.”

“But…” said Conmager.

“Do it!” Ally’s voice softened. “Please. I cannot possibly tell you how important it is. But hurry.”

The image disappeared, its glow fading away into nothingness.

“Oh my God,” said Allard, his knuckles whitening around his gun. “She’s dead. She’s dead and that’s her ghost.”

“You’re an idiot, son,” said Conmager. “That wasn’t her ghost. She’s alive. She’s…” Conmager shrugged. “Let’s pack up and get going. She did say to hurry.”

Lithon grinned and ran to grab his things.

###

“Here!” Arran grabbed at the corner of a plastic tarp and pulled it back. A battered old car sat beneath it, orange rust chewing into its sides. “The keys are still inside.” He opened the door, saw a plastic bag on the floor, and reached inside. “And money. Lots of it.”

“No doubt it belongs to Goth-Mar-Dan,” said Ally. She turned, looked at the glass tanks, and shivered. “Or one of his victims. God only knows to what wicked ends he put the money.” She handed something to him. “Here are the last of your guns.”

Arran took the weapon and slid it back into its holster. “You…look different.” Her face was paler, highlighting the dark circles that now ringed her eyes. Her dark eyes themselves had turned bloodshot, giving them an eerie look. And he saw not a trace of fear or doubt on her face, only determined focus.

“Arran.” She touched his cheek. “Much is different. I’ll tell you everything, before we meet the others. But we need to rest. We can use the money to find a motel. But first let’s get out of this pit of misery.”

Arran nodded and gestured towards the car. “You can drive.”

“Wise, considering you don’t know how.” Ally got into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition as Arran lowered himself into the passenger’s seat. The engine coughed to life, the heater spitting blessed warmth over her body. She could felt Goth-Mar-Dan’s dark aura over the vehicle. The horror and despair of his victims had soaked into the very metal.

Ally pushed aside the aura and pressed a garage door opener attached to the windshield. A truck door on the opposite wall slid open, and Ally pressed the gas and left Goth-Mar-Dan’s lair behind.

Chapter 9 - I Am Become Death

Anno Domini 2012

Wycliffe watched the images flickering on the monitor.

A slender blonde reporter raised her hand, and President-Elect Jones nodded from behind the microphone-studded podium. “Yes, your question?”

“Concerning certain Cabinet appointments,” said the reporter, making notes on her iPad. “Is it true that the Gracchan Party’s largest donors are receiving Cabinet posts?”

Wycliffe tapped the microphone on his collar. “Laugh,” he commanded, putting a touch of the Voice into his words. “Politely. And for God’s sake don’t touch your earpiece.”

Jones chuckled and shook his silver-haired head. “Madam, I can assure you…” He paused for thought, looking both presidential and magisterial.

“Those rumors are false,” said Wycliffe. “The Gracchan Party has received substantial donations in recent months, yes. However, the presidential campaign was funded entirely out of my pockets and Vice President Wycliffe’s pockets.” Jones repeated the statement word for word. “While the Democrats and the Republicans may give Cabinet posts to the highest bidders…or should I say donors,” Jones’s delivery got a laugh, “that will not be the practice of the Gracchan Party. Instead, we shall find the ablest man or woman for the particular post.” Wycliffe waited until Jones had finished. “A search that may still take some time. No further questions today. Thank you all for your time, and God bless America.”

The reporters applauded, and Wycliffe rolled his eyes. Jones walked away from the podium and disappeared from the camera’s eye. Wycliffe turned his gaze to a different screen, one that displayed the hallway through the office building. “Now, come back to the control room in 13A and find me. At once, I might add. Don’t dither.” The Voice added force to the last command. Jones jerked and hurried forward, vanishing from the monitor.

Wycliffe chuckled and leaned back in his chair. The press conference had gone better than he had hoped. Now that Jones was President-Elect, the public could not see Wycliffe taking a dominant role. So he needed Jones for another year or two yet. Let Jones get some programs going, start pushing legislation through Congress. Let Jones fight the political battles, sully his hands with the dirty business of governance.

And let Jones take the assassin’s bullet at the opportune time.

Then Wycliffe would take over and ride the wave of popular sympathy for poor martyred Jones.

Assuming Marugon did not ruin everything, of course.

Wycliffe bit his lip and got to his feet. Krastiny and Goth-Mar-Dan had been gone for four days, as had Kurkov. Wycliffe paced to the warehouse’s main floor, looking over the stacked crates and containers. What was Wycliffe going to do with all this weaponry?

What if Goth failed? The worst of the investigation into Marugon’s rampage had passed, but what if Goth brought more trouble on Wycliffe’s head? But it did seem unlikely that Goth would fail. He had been stalking victims in Chicago for years. The police had never come close to the truth. Wycliffe doubted that they ever would.

“But how long,” muttered Wycliffe, pacing in a slow circle, “does it take to kill one girl?”

He looked at the rows of meat freezers lined up against the wall. Still, if things went sour, he still had the changelings at his command, over five hundred of them. Any government agent or police officer would receive an unwelcome surprise, should they try to inspect Wycliffe’s compound. And the winged demons remained in residence here. Though Wycliffe did not trust them, they would give any undesirable visitors a warm welcome.

Wycliffe sighed, staring at the meat freezers. He wondered if he could unleash all the changelings on Marugon at once. Perhaps they could surprise and overwhelm him before he loosed his powers. Wycliffe dismissed the idea with a snort. Even if it worked, the winged demons would kill him.

The scuff of a shoe against concrete interrupted his musings. Senator Jones staggered out of the security room, his face gaunt and haggard.

Wycliffe frowned. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the control room?”

“You weren’t there,” said Jones, his voice almost a whine, “and you told me to find you.”

“Oh.” Wycliffe frowned. “God, you look terrible. We’ve got to get you some better makeup. We can’t have you looking half dead.”

“I feel half-dead,” said Jones. “Thomas, I’m not a young man. I can’t keep this pace. Two press conferences already today. And then I’m supposed to give a speech and a dinner address.” He stepped forward and tried to grip Wycliffe’s arm, but Wycliffe’s glare sent him a step back. “I need to rest. You’ll wear me out with work. I’ll suffer a heart attack.”

Perhaps that was the better approach. Wycliffe had risked so much already. Maybe he should take the prudent course and let Jones die of enforced overwork? No one could trace that back to him.

Jones went even paler. “You’re…you’re considering it. Oh my God. You’re…you’re planning to let me die.”

Wycliffe scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous, Mr. President.” Besides, if Jones died of a heart attack, the stigma of ill health would fall over his successor. No, better to let an assassin’s bullet take Jones. Perhaps during a State of the Union address…

“You’re going to kill me.” Jones began to shake, his voice small and reedy. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Don’t be absurd. Haven’t I spent the last year getting you elected?” Wycliffe’s lip curled in disgust. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to see a man your age weep?” He summoned the Voice and poured the black magic into his words. “Go back to your rooms and sleep. I’ll send someone to rouse you when it’s time for your speech.” Wycliffe had found it expedient to keep Jones here. He did not want the broken old man out of his reach for an instant. “Go, already! I have better things to do besides watching you whine.”

Jones stalked away, his hunched shoulders shaking.

Wycliffe sighed and returned to the security room. He dropped into the chair, watched the monitors, and made sure Jones returned to his room. Wycliffe considered returning to his office and dismissed the idea. Warehouse 13A was secure, and Wycliffe could keep an eye on the compound through the security cameras. And the Internet, television, and telephone would allow him to monitor the political situation. He could rule the nation from here like a spider in a web of telecommunications, with Jones and the Gracchan Party as his mouthpiece.

And most of all, the bunker would provide a needed refuge should the situation turn dangerous.

He sat back and considered Cabinet appointments. Despite Jones’s speech, most of the posts would go to Gracchan loyalists, men and women Wycliffe had conditioned with the Voice. Some appointments would have to go to token Republicans and Democrats, but a few sessions with the Voice would transform them into loyal Gracchans.

A shiver of excitement went through him as he considered the possibilities. No one in American politics, or on Earth, had anything to match the potential of the Voice of the black magic. Wycliffe could do anything he wanted. He could become a shadow king, ruling the United States and the world from behind the scenes, keeping the fiction of a republican government in place. Or he could become a beloved magnate, a political titan, ruling through the system, manipulating it to his will. In either case, he would have as many women and as much money as he wanted.

Now if only Marugon didn’t ruin everything…

The beeping of the control board’s phone jerked into his musings. Wycliffe scowled and picked it up. “What?”

“Sir,” said the gate guard, “there’s a…gentleman here who demands to see you.”

Wycliffe pecked at the control board, and the central monitor shifted to show the front gate. The guard sat at his booth, looking irritated. A small U-Haul truck idled before the gate, the driver leaning out the window. Wycliffe zoomed the camera on the driver.

Vasily Kurkov gave the camera the finger.

Wycliffe sighed. “Let him in. Tell him to come directly to the warehouse 13A. Third truck dock. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said the gate guard, sounding confused. “But…”

“Less talking, more sending,” said Wycliffe. The U-Haul truck rumbled through the opening gate. Wycliffe got up and strode into the warehouse floor as the U-Haul truck drove inside and parked besides a stack of crates.

Vasily Kurkov opened the door and slid out.

Wycliffe burst out laughing.

Kurkov scowled and lit a cigarette. “Is something funny?”

Wycliffe shook his head. “Not at all.” Kurkov wore battered blue jeans, a flannel jacket, and scuffed cowboy boots. “That’s a splendid trucker disguise, that’s all.”

“Wiseass,” said Kurkov, puffing on the cigarette. “All my pains on your behalf, and you still mock me.”

“My apologizes,” said Wycliffe. He hesitated. “So…do you have it?”

Kurkov grinned. “What do you think?”

Wycliffe stepped back. “Is it dangerous? Is it leaking radiation?”

Kurkov scoffed. “It’s a nuclear bomb. Of course it is dangerous. But leaking radiation? That is silly. I’ve been driving with the thing for the last two days.” He tugged at his greasy hair. “Does it look like my hair has fallen out?”

Wycliffe shook his head. “Though it could use a bath.”

“Funny,” said Kurkov. He walked around to the back of the truck and pushed the door up. “Come here and look at this.”

Wycliffe peered into the back of the truck. A mixture of old furniture, dusty clothes, and cardboard boxes littered the truck. He frowned with impatient, his eyes wandering over dust and mothballs…

His heart skipped a beat.

In the corner, under a battered table, sat a large black metal box. It was the size of a large steamer trunk, or perhaps a child’s coffin.

“Is that it?” said Wycliffe. Kurkov nodded. “It’s…smaller than I thought.”

Kurkov grinned, ground out his cigarette, and clambered into the truck. “That mad Pakistani was a pain in the ass, but he knew his business.” He grunted and pushed the trunk to the edge. “Help me with this.” Wycliffe looked at him askance. Kurkov snorted. “Or do you want to call the baggage handlers, explain to this to them?”

Wycliffe grunted. “No, no. You’re right.” He grabbed the end of the box.

“Careful,” said Kurkov, climbing down and lifting the other end. “It’s heavy. Wouldn’t want to drop it, would we?”

“Oh, funny,” said Wycliffe. They strained, lifted, and deposited the bomb onto a nearby flatbed cart. Wycliffe wheezed and wiped sweat from his brow. He had gotten out of shape during the campaign. “That is heavy.”

Kurkov smirked. “Yes. So very heavy. Now, shall we go tell Lord Marugon, so I can receive payment?”

“Come along,” said Wycliffe, waving Kurkov to the elevator. They rode it down to the bunker and entered the library. Marugon still sat hunched over the table, muttering spells of the black magic, his fingers tracing sigils in the air. The metal disk hovered a foot over the table, intricate circles of tightly wound black runes marking its surface. The thing looked both beautiful and hideous.

Wycliffe stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Lord Marugon.”

Marugon looked up, his eyes dark and deep. “Yes?”

Wycliffe gestured at Kurkov. “He has returned with the bomb.”

A strange expression of mixed fear and elation and weariness crossed Marugon’s face, and disappeared once more behind his iron mask. “Has he? Has he, indeed?”

Kurkov nodded. “I have.”

Marugon stood. “So. After so long. It comes to the end.” His lips quirked, as if at a bitter joke. “Show me.” He waved a hand. The disk floated up and followed him.

“This way,” said Wycliffe. “It’s on the main floor.” They returned to the warehouse, the disk floating behind Marugon, and Wycliffe led the Warlock to the bomb.

“Yes,” said Marugon, gazing down at the black box. “Yes, this is it.”

Kurkov grinned. “Obtained at great expense, effort, and difficulty, but now standing here at your disposal.” He smirked. “Just give us some warning before you use it, yes?”

No one laughed.

Marugon made a quick gesture. The disk began to circle around him, sweeping in broad arcs. Something like black light flickered around its runes. “How does it work? How is it detonated? Tell me?”

Kurkov flipped open the case’s lid. Four switches stood in a row, besides a slot for a key and a digital timer. “This is how it works. First, you take this key,” he handed the key to Marugon, “stick it into the slot, and turn. The display will light up, and lights will go on over each of the switches. Then you must flip each of these switches in sequence, one after another. After you flip each switch, you’ll hear a chime. Once all four switches have been flipped, the display will flash. After they do, remove the key,” Kurkov mimed the motion, “and the detonation timer is locked on. The only way to stop it is to turn the key again. The timer runs for twenty-five minutes, and then…boom. Big boom.”

Marugon scowled. “A timer? Is there no way to make the bomb explode immediately?”

Kurkov blinked. “Um, no. The Pakistani scientist was used to building bombs for wealthy terrorist groups, the sorts that don’t blow themselves up with their bombs. The timer’s wired into the bomb.” He laughed. “Why wouldn’t you want a timer with your bomb, Lord Marugon? Surely you do not wish to blow yourself up with your own bomb, yes?”

Marugon said nothing.

“Ah…you aren’t going to blow yourself up with this, are you?” said Wycliffe. The thought did not distress Wycliffe a great deal. But he wanted to make certain he was many miles away, preferably worlds away, when Marugon set off the bomb.

Marugon ignored him, staring at the bomb. The disk whipped faster and faster around him. “Years of labor and toil. At now, at last, it is at hand. After so long.” He shuddered, and a half-mad smile spread over his lips. “Yes, very long, indeed.”

“I don’t understand,” said Wycliffe.

Marugon leveled his hand and muttered a spell. “Of course you don’t. You don’t have the capacity to understand.” The disk jerked to a halt, hovering above the bomb. Marugon reached down and closed the lid. “Robert Oppenheimer.”

Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “I…ah…I beg your pardon?”

“The man who led the scientists who built the first nuclear bomb. I read of him, in the books you provided. Do you know what Robert Oppenheimer said, when the first nuclear bomb was exploded?” said Marugon.

Wycliffe shrugged. “Something about destroying worlds, I think. Or was it a John Donne poem, the one about the Trinity?”

Marugon smiled, his dark eyes tense and gleaming. “Yes. If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst into the sky…I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.” He laughed, the sound sending unpleasant chills down Wycliffe’s spine. “What a foolish thing to say, is it not? The first nuclear bombs only destroyed two cities. A few hundred thousand people. What is that? Nothing.” He paused. “Do you know what the irony is, Senator Wycliffe? Do you?”

Wycliffe blinked. “Um…no.”

“Oppenheimer’s project destroyed two cities. Even now, the nations of Earth have the capacity to destroy themselves ten thousand times over, but that is still the destruction of but one world. One world. Nothing in the face of the infinite blackness between the worlds.” Marugon snorted. “The Destroyer of Worlds, indeed. But this bomb, this bomb that will destroy…” He blinked and stared off into space for a moment, his face both exultant and terrified and exhausted.

“Lord Marugon?” said Wycliffe, unnerved.

Marugon shook himself and looked up. “I shall depart into the Tower shortly. You will not see me again.” He smirked. “Enjoy your power and wealth, Thomas Wycliffe. Enjoy it well.”

Wycliffe blinked. Was it to be so easy after all? “Are you leaving at once?”

“Soon,” said Marugon, lowering his gaze. The disk settled on top of the black case. “Some preparations must be yet made.” He muttered a spell. The disk vibrated, flashing with shadows, and sank into the black metal.

Wycliffe stepped back. “That might make the bomb go off.”

Marugon fixed him with an irritated glare. “It will not. Now leave me.” He returned to his spell casting. Wycliffe shrugged, turned away, and headed back to the control room, Kurkov following.

“You know,” said Kurkov, dropping into one of the chairs, “I always thought he was mad. Now he’s gone absolutely batshit.” He lit a cigarette.

Wycliffe scowled. “Do you mind not smoking? You'll get ash into the equipment.” Kurkov ignored him. “Perhaps Marugon does want to kill himself. Go out a blaze of nuclear glory among the ruins of Carlisan, perhaps.” He sighed and settled into a chair. “Tragic, I suppose. But what is that to us? If he wants to destroy himself, then let him! So long as he does it on his world. It wouldn’t do to start Jones’s term with Chicago reduced to nuclear ashes.”

Kurkov grunted and blew out a cloud of smoke. “And you’d probably be dead.”

“There is that,” said Wycliffe. “And I have more important things to worry about.”

“Such as my fifty million dollars, for instance,” said Kurkov.

Wycliffe gritted his teeth. It was a small price to rid himself of Marugon. “How do you want the money?”

“Some of it in cash,” said Kurkov. “Others in assorted stocks and bonds. A large percentage of it into various Swiss bank accounts. The rest into various dummy corporations that my organization controls. The money will need to be thoroughly laundered before I take possession.”

Wycliffe nodded. “For my protection.”

Kurkov snorted. “And my own, more importantly.”

“This will take a few days to arrange,” said Wycliffe. “I doubt you’ll want official attention.”

Kurkov waved a hand. “Of course not. But the process should be underway immediately.” Wycliffe nodded. “Have Dr. Krastiny and his men reported back yet?”

“No,” said Wycliffe, “and it’s starting to concern me.”

“Another potential scandal?” said Kurkov. “Don’t concern yourself. I’ll have to kill all three of them. They cannot take commissions from other employers. Suppose they take a commission to kill me?”

“Marugon likely didn’t leave them any choice,” said Wycliffe. “I suspect Goth will kill them once they’re no longer useful.”

Kurkov scowled. “Another problem. I have to kill them myself.” He thumped his chest and put his boots up on the control board. “Only I can kill my employees.”

“How inspiring,” said Wycliffe. “But don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll return any day.”

Chapter 10 - The Plan

Anno Domini 2012

“Will the tide come in?” said Arran.

He and Ally sat on a crumbling concrete wall overlooking a small beach. Cold gray water frothed at the sands, and in the distance Arran saw a breakwater and a lighthouse. Behind them lay a park of lawns and trees, now crusted with old snow, and then the gleaming towers of downtown Chicago.

Ally almost smiled. “It’s a lake, Arran. Lake Michigan. We don’t have to worry about the tide.”

Arran grunted and watched the road. “I keep forgetting.”

Ally smiled at that. She wore an old green overcoat and boots they had bought secondhand. Her face remained pale, her eyes bloodshot. She seemed much older that she had a week ago.

Sometimes, when he touched one of his Sacred Blades, he felt the power that crackled in the air around her.

“His granddaughter,” said Arran. He shook his head. “You were his granddaughter.”

Ally kicked a chip of stone onto the beach. “Does that trouble you?”

Arran shrugged. “No. I cursed his name, you know that. I thought he was a puppeteer, playing with lives for some goal.” He snorted. “And I was right. It was all a great web he spun. All of it to forge you, someone to fight Marugon.” He looked at the lake’s gray expanse. “I wonder if he arranged for me to find you. He must have. He told Siduri that Prophecy.”

Ally sat besides him, her legs dangling over the crumbled wall. “Would you have had it any other way? He knew I would need someone to protect me.”

Arran said nothing. He saw the confidence and strength etched on her face now. She did not need him to protect her any longer.

But he would be damned before he stopped guarding her.

Ally stood and stared at the road. “They’re here. I wonder where they parked.”

Four figures hurried down the road towards the park and the beach. Ally strode to meet them, and Arran followed her, snow crunching beneath his boots.

“Ally?” said Mary, coming to a halt beneath a bare tree. Lithon hurried up besides her. He had a bandage around his head. Allard and Conmager lingered behind. “Ally?”

Ally grinned. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Oh my God!” said Mary. She and Lithon ploughed into Ally at the same time, hugging her. Ally staggered, laughed, and regained her balance. “Oh my God. You’re okay. I was so sure you were dead or worse.”

“I saw him,” said Lithon, almost crying. “I saw the demon, I couldn’t do anything to stop them…”

Ally held them out at arm’s length. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m fine. Thanks to Arran.”

“What happened?” said Mary. “Did he kill the demon?”

In response Arran removed a bundle from over his shoulder and unwrapped it. A crown of red gold and a black scimitar fell to the snowy ground.

“Goth-Mar-Dan,” he said, his voice quiet, “will no longer trouble this world or any other.”

“By the gods,” breathed Conmager, staring at the crown. “He’s dead? You killed him?”

“With Ally’s help,” said Arran. “I could not have done it alone.”

“Goth-Mar-Dan dead. At long last. The blood of countless thousands has been avenged. Who would have ever dreamed it possible?” Conmager ran a shaking hand through his graying hair. “Ally. I’m sorry. I did not think you could be saved. None of us had the strength to face one such as Goth-Mar-Dan, not even Arran. And Lithon. Alastarius’s Prophecy was about Lithon. I had to save Lithon.”

“It’s all right,” said Ally. “You did as you thought best. You were ignorant of the greater matter, as we all were.”

“It…” Conmager frowned, staring at Ally, and bit by bit Conmager’s watery eyes widened. “Master?”

Ally almost smiled.

“It…it cannot be,” said Conmager. “You…your aura…it’s as if Alastarius as returned.”

“In a way, he has,” said Ally, “through me.” She hesitated. “Come on. There’s a lot we have to tell you.”

###

They walked along the breakwater, the waves hissing against the sand.

Arran began, and Ally listened as he told them of leaving the house in the night, of the magic in his brother’s blade that transported him to Chicago.

“I owe Luthar a great debt,” he said. “His sword took me to a ruined factory in southern Chicago. Three men were there, assassins hired by either Goth-Mar-Dan or Marugon.” Arran told them of the battle and his fight with Goth-Mar-Dan in the factory. “And then I could use Luthar’s Sacred Blade." He shrugged. “I know not why. Ally…told me it was because of my brother’s death. A Knight could only use two Sacred Blades if one came from a fellow Knight who had fallen in battle. And then Ally…got up. She walked through the restrains and threw white fire at Goth-Mar-Dan. I ran him through, and Ally conjured a great spear of light and pinned him to the wall. He perished, she contacted you, and here we are.”

Conmager coughed, his cane scraping against the concrete. “How did you wield such a spell? I knew you had the power in you…you drove off the winged demons and the changelings when we fled Chicago. Was it the duress that gave you the skill?”

“In part,” said Ally.

She told them of the trance, the dream, Alastarius’s spirit, and his Prophecy.

“His granddaughter,” Conmager breathed. “Of course. I saw you, at Castle Bastion, before Marugon returned. But I did not know you were of Alastarius’s blood. I thought his family had perished.”

“I inherited his powers,” said Ally, “and I also inherited his memories and skills. I buried them all, for they were too painful to contemplate. But my grandfather’s spirit gave me the chance to embrace then openly, so I did. For I have no choice. Marugon did not destroy the High Kingdoms for revenge or for conquest. Let me tell you the truth of the last of the Warlocks…the Marr’Ugaoun.”

She described the visions Alastarius had shown her of Adelemoch’s death and Marugon’s birth in Castamar’s citadel. She told them how Marugon had come to Alastarius, how the children of the void had shattered his mind, and why Marugon had slain Alastarius’s family.

“So…he’s not really human?” said Mary.

Allard blinked. “You mean he’s like a demon, or something?”

“No,” said Ally. “He is human. His body is human, and at least part of his soul. But he is also Ugaoun, one of the children of the void.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not quite right. The children of the void are weak. Arran. You and Sir Liam slaughtered them in droves. Their numbers, not their strength, almost defeated you. But Marugon is mighty. He is one of the princes of the void. The mere sight of a prince of the void would drive most men to madness.” She shrugged. “And Marugon has heard their voices inside his skull all of his life, from the moment he was conceived. It has destroyed his mind, driven him into a state beyond madness. Always he hears the children and the lords of the void commanding him, cajoling him, begging him, threatening him, an unending chorus of a million voices.”

“What do they want?” said Conmager.

“Freedom.” Ally looked at Chicago’s skyscrapers. She remembered pictures she had seen in history class of the World Trade Center crashing to the ground in a cloud of flame and smoke. Thousands had died that day, and thousands more in the wars that followed. But Marugon wanted to bring down the Tower of Endless Worlds, and much worse would befall Earth if that Tower fell. “The Tower of Endless Worlds binds them, Conmager. It holds them prisoner in the black places between the worlds”

Conmager nodded. “And Marugon wants to free them.”

“Yes. Think of the Tower as part of a colossal spell, one that imprisons the children of the void. Marugon wants to break that spell. He’s tried. He’s been trying for years. Arran’s seen the holes in the wall," said Ally. Arran’s eyes clouded with memory. “But Marugon failed. The Tower is too vast for one man to shatter. But there is a way. The Chamber of the Great Seal, in the very heart of the Tower.”

“I’ve been there,” said Arran. “I crossed it on my journey to Earth. It is the size of a city, the roof a great dome. In the center lies an enormous silver seal, carved with countless runes. It feels…it feels as if the entire weight of the Tower rested on that one point.”

“It does,” said Ally. “The Great Seal is the nexus of the spell that binds the Tower and the children of the void. If it shatters, the Tower will collapse, and the children of the void will swarm over the mortal worlds.”

Conmager grunted. “And Marugon’s found a way to do it, hasn’t he?” A look of dawning comprehension came over his face. “That’s why he came to Earth.”

“Yes,” said Ally. “The guns did horrible damage to the High Kingdoms, but they were trifles. Marugon learned of nuclear bombs, the mightiest weapon ever created on Earth, and he will use one against the Great Seal. The power of a nuclear bomb can crack the Seal and bring the Tower crashing down.”

“Wycliffe’s Russian contacts,” said Conmager. “A criminal boss named Kurkov and his pet assassins. If anyone can get Marugon a nuclear bomb, Kurkov can. The man has a global empire of villainy.”

Ally nodded. “And once he has the bomb, Marugon will take it to the Great Seal and use it.”

Allard swore. “But that’s insane. He’ll kill himself, if he does that.”

Ally shrugged. “Marugon is so insane that he no longer cares what happens to him.” She looked at each of them. “He will have the bomb in a matter of days. And it has fallen to me to try and stop him. That is why I accepted Alastarius’s powers, his memories. I did not want them. I had spent most of my life hiding from them.” A great flood of grief spread through her. Marugon had killed her birth parents, and his winged demons had murdered her adoptive parents. He had killed her family twice. “I must stop him. Not for revenge, not for hate, though I do hate him, but for all the mortal worlds. The children of the void wish to destroy us, and Earth will become a hell if the Tower falls.”

“I shall come with you,” said Arran, just as she knew he would. “I have spent too long looking for you, fighting to find you, to part from you now. And I have wanted the chance to kill Marugon for long years. You may go to save the mortal worlds, but I will come for you and to avenge my brother, my father and mother, Siduri, and the High Kingdoms.”

“I will fight besides you,” said Conmager. “I have spent my life in service to Alastarius. And you are his heir. And I, too, have many debts to settle with Lord Marugon.”

Lithon folded his arms and stuck out his chin. “Well, I guess I’d better come. I’m Prophesied to kill Marugon or something.”

“Mary.” Ally looked at her friend. “You don’t have to come. This isn’t your fight. You can go your own way, if you wish.”

Mary folded her arms and scowled. “Like hell. This is my fight. You and your parents were nicer to me than anyone I’d ever met. I don’t understand half of what you told us, but I’m not going to abandon you now. You saved my life. And I shot at people for you. I guess that makes us, like, comrades. Or something.”

Arran laughed. “I daresay it does.”

“Yeah. Anyway. I’m not leaving.”

Ally lifted her eyebrows. “Allard?”

“Ah, hell.” Allard looked at the ground and kicked the snow. “I’d like to leave. I’d really would. But I’m not. This is partly my fault. I gave away those damn cigarettes. And I’ve got to make it right. Or at least try to.” He sighed. “Besides, Regent will kick my ass if I try to leave.”

“Damn straight, son,” said Conmager.

“Good.” Ally smiled. “I could not do this alone.”

“And where do we start?” said Allard.

“We start now,” said Ally. “Did you bring everything I asked in the van?” Conmager nodded. “Then let us be on our way. We’re going to Wycliffe’s compound.”

“What?” said Allard, sputtering. “That place is guarded like Fort Knox. I should know, I used to work there. And there’s winged demons there. And changelings.” He swallowed. “Lots and lots of changelings.”

“We must go there,” said Ally, not slowing, “because one of Wycliffe’s warehouses holds the only open door to the Tower.”

“Yeah, warehouse 13A,” said Allard. “I’ve been there too. Remember?”

“It’s the only open door to the Tower,” said Ally. “All the other doors are one-way and cannot be opened from Earth. When Marugon has his bomb, he will use that door to enter the Tower. With luck, we can find him before he has the bomb. If not, we shall have to pursue him into the Tower.”

“That may be so,” said Conmager, “but there are at least five hundred changelings, if my calculations are right. All of them will be there, now that Marugon is no longer searching for you. Three dozen winged demons as well, all of them armed and armored. You may have the power of Alastarius, but you are still just one woman.”

Ally gave him a tight smile. “I know this. Trust me, Conmager. It’s past time we liberated some of Marugon’s slaves.”

Conmager snorted. “You sound like Alastarius once did.”

“Not surprising. I am his granddaughter, after all.”

###

The black magic roared through Marugon

He muttered spell after spell, weaving runes of power into the disk, fusing black magic into the metal of the nuclear bomb’s case. The disk’s power would push the bomb partway into the spirit world, transforming its explosion into a maelstrom of both physical and spiritual force.

Nothing could survive such a blast. Not even the Great Seal of the Tower.

The voices roared, their approval echoing off the inside of his skull. They demanded that he work faster, ever faster.

Marugon tried to ignore them.

Perhaps he could soon have peace.

Chapter 11 - Liberation

Anno Domini 2012

Conmager pulled the van up to the curb.

Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping’s compound loomed across the street, its gate closed and crowned with barbed wire. A man in a blue uniform sat in the booth, staring at them through black sunglasses. A human, not a changeling or a winged demon.

That was just as well.

Ally took a deep breath and climbed out the back of the van. Her heart pounded, and a faint sheen of sweat covered her forehead, despite the December cold. Alastarius had seen dozens of battles and numerous wars.

But Ally had never walked into a battle before.

“And here we are,” said Allard, staring out the passenger window. He put a clip into his Uzi and stuffed several more into his belt. “Jesus. To think I’d ever walk willingly back into there.” He sighed. “I mean, Jesus.”

“Stop complaining. You were never held captive there,” said Conmager. “That guard already thinks something’s strange about us. Let’s get going.”

Ally’s heavy boots scuffed against the concrete. She and the others all wore Kevlar and weapons harnesses over their clothing. Ally didn’t carry any guns, as she had other weapons. But each of the others carried a small arsenal of weaponry. Arran had four pistols, an AK-47, a belt of grenades, and both his Sacred Blades. The others carried equally heavy firepower.

Conmager looked at the gate and the barbed wire-tipped brick wall. “Are you sure of this?” His voice dropped. “I can feel the black magic in that place.”

“As can I,” said Ally. Black magic hung over the warehouse compound like choking smoke. She sensed the presence of winged demons beyond the gate, as well as hundreds of changelings. And beneath it all, she felt a low hum of power that could only come from an open door into the Tower of Endless Worlds. “And I am sure. Come with me.”

“We look like damn SWAT team,” said Mary.

“What is a SWAT team?” said Arran, his eyes fixed on the gate.

“Never mind,” said Ally.

She stepped up to the booth, the others behind her. The guard’s face went pale as he took in their guns and armor.

“Hello,” said Ally.

The guard blinked, his hand inching towards a console. “What do you want?”

“We’d like to see Vice President-Elect Wycliffe, please,” said Ally. “Mind opening the gate for us?”

The guard stared at her. “You…um…don’t have an appointment.”

“Stop reaching for that alarm,” said Ally. She heard a clatter as the others drew their weapons and leveled them at the window. “And don’t think that bulletproof glass will save you. We’ve prepared for it.”

The guard looked around, panic evident on his face. “What the hell do you want? I don’t have any money.”

Ally smiled. “We want to you to open the gate, get out of the booth, and run as fast as you can.” She raised her hand. “One, two…”

“All right! All right!” The guard hit a switch. The gate slid into the wall with a low groan. The guard stepped out and raised his hands, peering at the cameras mounted on the wall.

“How do you see with those sunglasses on?” said Ally. “It is cloudy out.” The guard gaped at her. “Start running.” He sprinted away as fast as his legs could carry him. “Conmager.”

They filed through the gate. Conmager produced a small black box, flipped a switch, and dropped it into the guard’s booth. “We’ll want to move, ah, rather quickly.” He pointed. “Behind there.” A row of large metal containers stood lined up against a warehouse wall.

Ally nodded. “Go.” They ran and hurried behind the containers, pressing their backs against them. A few seconds later Conmager’s bomb went off. A tower of flame blasted up from the gate, and bricks sprayed in all directions, raining against the containers with loud bangs. A tremor shot through the ground, concrete slabs cracking and splintering. The gate had collapsed into a pile of smoking metal, broken brick, and roaring flame.

Sealing the complex off from the street.

“Good,” said Ally, “no one will interrupt us. Which way?”

Allard pointed to a squat brick warehouse. “13A.”

Ally started for the warehouse, the others following.

###

“Have a seat.” Wycliffe sat at one of the chairs below the security room’s wall of monitors. “William.”

Jones swallowed and sat down. Wycliffe leaned back in his chair, smiling, and glanced out the open door. Marugon still stood before the door to the Tower, muttering spells over the black coffin of the bomb. Soon Marugon would vanish through the Tower, and Wycliffe would be free to do whatever he wished.

Sweat beaded on Jones’s upper lip. “Is there something you wanted, Thomas? I do have a transfer of authority to oversee.”

Wycliffe laughed. “You amuse me, William. Despite your whining, you still amuse me. You still think you’re something more than a puppet.” He leaned forward, grinning. “Isn’t that funny?”

Jones blinked sweat from his eyes, but said nothing.

Wycliffe decided to enjoy this. “Haven’t you learned that by now? And what do I find you doing? Placing calls to the press. Leaving ‘anonymous tips’ about Vice President-Elect Wycliffe’s business dealings. Hinting at ‘dark allegations’ involving the Gracchan Party’s workers.”

Jones’s face went white. “I did no such thing, I…”

Wycliffe sighed. “I have your phone tapped. The future President of the United States masquerading as an ‘anonymous caller’, indeed! Think of the indignity.”

Jones trembled, but said nothing, his skin going grayer. Wycliffe wondered if the old fool’s heart would burst. “It…”

“Please,” said Wycliffe, sneering. “I listened to the entire call myself. You know, if you were going to betray me, I almost wish you’d have chosen a more imaginative route. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Of course, I didn’t choose you for your strong will or sterling character.” He let loose a dramatic sigh. “What do you think I’m going to have to do with you, William?”

A strangled sob slipped Jones’s lips.

“I could just shoot you right now.” Wycliffe waved a hand at the piles of crates. “God knows I don’t have any other use for this ammunition, now that Marugon’s stopped buying. Or I could command you to jump off a bridge. Perhaps I should order you to run until your heart bursts and you keel over dead.”

Jones’s knuckles turned white as he grasped the chair’s arms.

“Or,” said Wycliffe, “I could give you to Goth.” Assuming Goth ever bothered to return from Wisconsin.

Jones began to hyperventilate.

“He hates you.” Wycliffe shrugged. “Perhaps it’s your stink. The smell of a coward’s sweat. Absolutely repulsive. Yes, I think I shall give you to Goth. I wonder what he will do to you. It’s best not to think about it, probably.”

“You.” The skin of Jones’s throat crawled as he spat out the words. “You are an evil man.” Wycliffe laughed. “You’re right. I’m a wretched coward, and I curse the day I ever listened to you. But you’ll ruin this country.”

Wycliffe glanced out the door. How much longer would Marugon take? “You know, after twenty years in the Senate, I think you could have learned to make better speeches. In fact…”

A dull roar rang out, and the floor shook.

Wycliffe grabbed at the control panel for support. A half-dozen security monitors filled with static, and an alarm began to blare.

“What the hell?” roared Wycliffe. He grabbed at the phone, dialed the front booth, and got a busy signal. “What the hell just happened?” He threw the phone across the booth and stared at the remaining functional monitors.

His jaw dropped in astonishment. The front gate had been blown to a pile of burning rubble, blocking access to the road. “My God!” said Wycliffe. “I should have run on an anti-terror plank. My God!”

“We should call the police,” said Jones.

“Idiot! That’s the last thing we need. I…”

Marugon stormed into the control room. “What has happened? I feel the presence of the white magic.”

Wycliffe felt something icy brush his backbone. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.” He stared at the control panel for a moment, then reached down and set the cameras to track any motion in the loading yard. They locked onto six figures walking toward warehouse 13A. Wycliffe hit the switches for zooming and image enhancement. The intruders appeared on the largest screen, in color and live motion.  Four men and two women. Each carried a wide variety of weaponry, save for the red-haired woman in the lead.

“They have a lot of guns,” said Jones, his voice quivering.

Wycliffe resisted the urge to punch him. “Of course they do.”

Marugon hissed. “Her!”

Wycliffe stared at the figure in the lead, his eyes widening. “Ally Wester. And…and him! That’s the renegade, the one I captured, the one that escaped. And that…” Wycliffe’s hands curled into fists. “Him! Kyle Allard! That traitorous bastard! He did this! He betrayed me! I’ll make him wish he had never even looked at a cigarette…”

“Silence!” said Marugon, staring at the screen.

“What happened to Goth?” said Wycliffe. “He was supposed to kill the bitch. Why isn’t she dead?” A growing suspicion blossomed in Wycliffe’s mind. “He betrayed us. Or you two are in league against me…”

Marugon glared at him. “Be silent!” His words carried the command of the Voice, and Wycliffe’s jaw clamped shut of its own volition, almost severing his tongue. “Goth-Mar-Dan is most likely dead, you fool. She killed him. Which means she has learned enough of the white magic to threaten me.” He stepped back, eyes wide. “She will not stop me now, not when I am so close, after all these years!” He turned and disappeared back into the warehouse.

Wycliffe ran after him, fighting against the Voice’s compulsion, Jones trailing at his heels. “But…” Speaking felt like forcing a knife through solid stone, but at last he forced his will through Marugon’s black magic. “But you can kill her, can’t you?” The winged demons began to file into the warehouse, slouched and hooded in their leather jackets.

Marugon strode to the bomb. “I will not take that chance. You shall stop her.”

“Me?” said Wycliffe. “That’s absurd. She’s coming to kill you, not me.” Perhaps he should stand aside and let these attackers kill Marugon. Or let Marugon kill the invaders, more likely.

“And do you think they will stop with me? Fool!” Marugon turned and made a chopping gesture. Black magic surged through the warehouse, and the meat freezers burst open, their doors dissolving into rust. “No, I shall enter the Tower. They will have to go through you to reach me.” He leveled a wolfish smirk at Wycliffe. “I suppose that will give you ample incentive to stop them, yes?”

The changelings boiled out of the meat freezers, hundreds of them, red-eyed and hideous.

“Wycliffe!” Kurkov sprinted into the warehouse, clutching a pistol in either hand. “They blew up the front gate, there’s…” He stopped and stared at the changelings.

“I noticed,” said Wycliffe.

“Hear my command!” said Marugon to the winged demons, over three dozen of them. “A wizard of the white magic and Lithon Scepteris, last scion of Carlisan’s royal house, assail this stronghold. Kill them, and feast on their flesh!” Wycliffe felt the black magic rise up in a storm, and Marugon’s Voice thundered. “Changelings! Heed my command. Slay Ally Wester. Go!”

The winged demons threw back their heads and roared, tearing away their jackets. They seized guns and grenades and swooped away, soaring out the front entrance. The changelings surged after them in a flood of leathery gray skin and long claws.

Marugon turned to the bomb and lifted his hand. It floated off the ground, hovering near Marugon’s knee. “Farewell, Thomas Wycliffe.” Despite his smile, his eyes looked weary beyond comprehension. “Enjoy your conquests. While you can.”

“Wait!” said Wycliffe.

Marugon ignored him and walked towards the platform. He climbed the stairs, the bomb floating after him, and strode through the open door and into the Tower. The bomb followed him as if attached by an invisible leash. Marugon turned and faced the door for a moment. He lifted his hands and a veil of shadows and black flame shimmered over the door, then disappeared from sight.

And with that, Marugon turned and disappeared into the immensity of the Tower.

“What are we going to do?” said Kurkov, voice shaking. “The bunker! We should go to the bunker.”

“In a moment.” Wycliffe felt some of his panic dissipate. What could a wizard of the white magic, however powerful, do against over five hundred changelings and three dozen winged demons? He gestured towards the security room. “Let us watch. Perhaps Marugon will have solved the problem for us.”

###

Ally stared at the warehouse, her bloodshot eyes narrowing in pain. Arran took her arm, and her sleeve felt warm, even beneath his gloves. “What is it?”

“Black magic,” said Ally. “Marugon. He’s here, in the warehouse.” She drew herself up. “Brace yourself. Something’s coming.”

The warehouse’s metal doors clanged open, and Arran raised his pistols.

Changelings stormed out the door, charging across the loading yard. Their claws scraped against the concrete in a ghastly chorus. Black shapes swooped out of the door and took to the air, wings flapping. The winged demons circled over their heads, dozens of them. Kalashnikovs gleamed in the cold winter light. Arran swore, raised his guns, and took aim…

“Wait.” Ally gripped his arm with fingers of iron. “Wait, all of you.” Allard went gray in the face, holding his gun with shaking hands.

“We must strike!” said Arran. More and more changelings swarmed out of the entrance, hundreds of them. “They will encircle us if we do not…”

“Let them,” said Ally, staring at the advancing wave. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Arran lowered his guns, heart thundering in his ears, and the others followed suit. Hundreds of changelings swarmed around them, forming a ring of red eyes and yellowed claws. Winged demons circled overhead, snarling and growling. Arran’s eyes darted around the ring, looking for a break. Any moment the changelings would charge, the winged demons opening fire…

“Lay down your weapons,” said one of the winged demons, circling over them, “and perhaps we’ll let you live.” The other demons landed amongst the changelings, Kalashnikovs clenched and ready.

Ally stepped forward.

Dozens of machine guns and hundreds of red eyes pointed her way.

“No,” she said.” I think not.” She closed her eyes, raised her arms, and took a deep breath.

The winged demons stared at her in stupefaction. “Kill…”

Ally opened her eyes.

White light blazed in the depth of her pupils, and she clapped her hands. White fire blazed around her boots, and a column of light shot up from her and stabbed into the sky, throwing stark shadows across the compound. The winged demons shrieked and shied away from the light, covering their eyes.

The changelings stared at her, transfixed.

“Gods,” whispered Conmager.

“Hear me!” said Ally, her voice ringing out, sweeping the changelings with her glowing gaze. “You have been enslaved, your minds subjugated to another, your bodies twisted with the black magic. Hear me, and recall your former selves, your former lives.”

A collective moan escaped the changelings. Their ghastly faces seemed to relax, gaining a new appearance of humanity.

“I break the bindings upon your minds!” said Ally. White light flashed among the changelings. “The spell that holds your bodies is broken. You will return to yourselves, in time, as the black magic leaves you. Hear me! You are free!”

Her last word echoed like a thunderclap. The red fire in their eyes flickered and went out, replaced for an instant by a brilliant white glow. Ally lowered her arms with a sigh. The white light faded away, and stunned silence reigned for a few seconds.

Then as one, the changelings turned and attacked the winged demons with shrieks of rage.

Dozens of changelings leapt upon each winged demon. The demons roared and collapsed beneath the weight, the changelings clawing and biting. One of the demons broke free and lunged at Ally. Arran raised his guns and fired, pumping Conmager’s enchanted bullets into the demon. The others followed his lead and opened fire. The demon staggered as dozens of enchanted bullets ploughed into it, white fire burning its body to ash.

“Now!” said Ally, shouting above the melee. She raised her hand and conjured a spear of frozen light. “Take the winged demons!”

Arran shoved his pistols into their holsters and drew his Sacred Blades. The swords burst into white and azure flame, and he lunged for the nearest winged demon. A dozen changelings held it pinned to the ground, and Arran stabbed through the gap in the changelings, his blades sinking into the demon’s chest. It howled, writhing like a dying fish. The fire burst through the winged demon and reduced it to stinking ashes and gleaming black bones.

Arran spun away, seeking another winged demon.

###

Wycliffe shrieked, grabbing his temples. Pain stabbed through his skull in waves, and he grabbed at one of the consoles to keep from collapsing to the floor.

“What?” said Kurkov, gesturing with his gun. “What the hell is it?”

“It,” said Wycliffe, blinking tears from his eyes. “The white magic. God, that’s the white magic.” He rubbed the pain from his temples.  “No wonder Marugon was so afraid of it. My God, that hurts.”

“Um…” said Jones in a quavering voice. He pointed at the monitors.

Wycliffe squinted at the monitor, and fresh fear stabbed at him. He watched as the changelings turned and attacked the winged demons. Ally Wester’s cohorts dashed amongst the melee, emptying their weapons into the demons. A dark man with two flaming swords, a Knight’s Sacred Blades, slew winged demon after winged demon. Ally herself carried a glowing spear fashioned of the white magic itself.

Just looking at it sent tingles of pain down Wycliffe’s nerves.

“That’s not good, is it?” said Jones.

Wycliffe shook his aching head. “I don’t believe this. This can’t be happening.” Over half the winged demons had perished. The changelings began scattering in all directions, racing into the warehouses. A dozen burst into the office building, and Wycliffe watched on the monitors as they began smashing and breaking things. “They’ll get in here.” His fear transformed into naked panic. He staggered to his feet. “They’ll get in here! We’ve got to…”

Kurkov grabbed his shoulder. “The bunker. Now.”

Wycliffe nodded. “Yes, yes, you’re right. The bunker.” They stepped out of the control room and into the back hall, Jones following behind.

Wycliffe froze. A changeling stood in the hall, before the elevator, staring at them with eyes of brilliant white light. It grinned at him with pointed fangs, and Kurkov raised his gun and fired. The changeling staggered under the shots, but the bullets did not break its skin.

“Idiot!” said Wycliffe. “Bullets can’t touch them.”

“Then how are we supposed to get past it and into the elevator?” said Kurkov.

The changeling reached out and smashed a fist through the elevator’s panel. Sparks flew, and it pulled out a handful of wires and threw them to floor.

“It broke the elevator!” said Jones.

“Why doesn’t it attack?” said Kurkov.

“It can’t,” said Wycliffe. “I made it, and even if Wester broke my controlling spells, it still can’t attack me.” He summoned the Voice and unleashed it at the challenging. “Heed me! Kill Ally Wester, now!”

Pain lashed through his skull, and Wycliffe staggered back a step. The white magic burned inside the changeling’s mind, and had brushed aside Wycliffe’s power like a windshield brushing aside a bug.

Wycliffe’s black magic was no match for Ally Wester’s strength.

“The stairs,” said Kurkov. The changeling made a sound like a laugh and scurried away.

They hastened to the stairs, but the handle had been torn away and lay in pieces across the floor. Wycliffe cursed and grabbed at the door, but it refused to budge. “It’s locked!” He heard a smashing sound in the security room and turned. A changeling had leapt up on the control panel, shattering monitors and breaking equipment.

“Can’t you stop them?” said Kurkov. “Use the black magic?”

“Yes,” said Jones, “you’re so very skilled at that, after all.”

“I can’t,” snarled Wycliffe. “She put the white magic on them, and it’s too strong for me to reverse.” He heard something explode outside. “Now what do we do?”

“This is your fault!” said Jones. “You brought this ruin on our heads. Now…”

“Shut up!” said Wycliffe. “We have to get out.”

“And how are we to do that?” said Kurkov. “Those pet devils of yours are swarming over everything.”

They hurried back into the warehouse floor. Kurkov pried open a crate and began rummaging through it.

“Then what are we going to do?” said Wycliffe.

Kurkov handed Wycliffe an AK-47. “Fight.”

Chapter 12 - Retribution

Anno Domini 2012

A winged demon threw off a half-dozen changelings and staggered to its feet, black blood streaming from multiple wounds. The demon looked around, spun, and took to the air.

Ally lifted her hand.

White light burst from her fingers in a flash, and drilled into the winged demon. It screamed and collapsed to the ground in a heap. Arran sprang forward, his tattered old cloak trailing behind him. He stabbed down with both swords, his weight behind the blades.

The winged demon burst into flames, ash scattering in all directions.

Ally kicked aside a fanged skull and looked for more demons. She saw changelings skittering back and forth in all directions, and she heard crates shattering and machines smashing. An eighteen-wheeler truck tipped over with a massive groan, its cargo spilling across the ground. Something exploded on the far side of the compound. Screaming office staffers and dock workers ran for the ruined gate, clambering over the rubble.

Arran jogged to her side and looked at the chaos. “What the devil are they doing?”

“I suspect,” said Ally, “that they have grievances to settle with Senator Wycliffe. They can’t kill him, since that’s woven into the very spell of transformation. So they shall take their revenge in other ways.”

“Will they become human once more?” said Arran, staring at the thronging creatures.

“In a few hours, once the black magic drains away,” said Ally. Conmager, Mary, Lithon, and Allard approached, smoking guns in their hands. “Are there any demons left?”

“About a half-dozen,” said Conmager, loading a fresh clip into his Uzi. “Maybe a few more. But they fled.” He grinned, a new fierceness in his tired eyes. “They wanted no part with Alastarius’s heir, I believe.”

“Wise of them,” said Ally, striding towards warehouse 13A. “Should we survive, and the Tower still stands, we can hunt them down later.”

“Let me go first,” said Arran, trying to overtake her. “Traps might lie within…”

Ally smiled. “And I am better equipped to survive a trap than all of you.” The changelings had ripped away the warehouse’s steel door. Ally saw stacks of crates within in the dim-lit interior. She also sensed something that throbbed with greater power than either the white or the black magic.

The door to the Tower.

“Follow me,” Ally said. “And take great care. If Marugon awaits us within, he probably knows we’re here.”

Mary snorted. “What would have tipped him off? The bomb, the screams, or the changelings?”

“All of them, most likely. He will try to stop us. He has not spent his life seeking the bomb only to let us stop him now. If we find Marugon, hang back and let me fight him. I can protect myself from his spells, but I cannot protect all of you.”

Ally took a deep breath and stepped through the ruined door, the others following.

###

Wycliffe peered around a crate, his heart racing. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “They’re coming in here.” Jones said nothing but a muttered prayer. Kurkov cursed and hefted his AK-47.

“What are you doing?” hissed Wycliffe. “Are you insane?”

“There are three of us,” whispered Kurkov. “If we shoot them all at once, spray them with bullets, we can take them down.”

“You are insane,” said Wycliffe. The AK-47 felt cold and alien in his hands. He had never fired a gun in his life. “They’re obviously here for Marugon, not us.” He watched as they stepped past the crates, glanced at the ruined security room. “We wait, they might just pass us by, and we can get the hell out of here.” He glanced at Jones. “And there’s no way I’m giving him a gun. No way.”

Kurkov snarled. “They’re even standing in a clump. One grenade could get them, if we do it quickly. You miserable coward! I will not wait here for them to find me.” He climbed up a stack of crates, AK-47 slung over his back.

“What are you doing?” said Wycliffe. “Get back here.”

Kurkov ignored him. Wycliffe spat a stream of muttered curses and pushed himself deeper into the shadows.

###

Arran scanned the room. The warehouse offered ten thousand places for a man to hide, and Marugon could be waiting in any of them, preparing some mighty spell of the black magic …

“There it is,” said Ally. “In a way, it’s the source of all our troubles.”

A metal platform stood against the far wall, connected to two staircases and a small elevator. On the platform rested a door of black, rune-carved marble. The door stood open, and beyond it Arran saw the vast gallery where he had fled from the children of the void.

“You remember it, don’t you?” said Ally, her voice soft. “I do as well. Sir Liam died there. I ran, holding Lithon…” She shook her head. “Look around. Marugon’s likely waiting for us.”

Arran turned just as a leather-clad man appeared at the top of a massive stack of crates. He recognized the man from the Ildramyn’s visions, the man that had brought the nuclear bomb to Wycliffe. The leather-clad man raised a Kalashnikov in one hand, an armed grenade in the other hand. Arran yelled and raised his pistol…

But Ally whirled and barked a word. White light flashed, and the leather-clad man shrieked and staggered back, almost losing his balance. Arran squeezed the trigger and sent three bullets through the gunman’s chest, and the leather-clad man fell and hit the ground with the sound of shattering bones. An instant later the grenade exploded, blasting the man to bits.

Arran winced as bits of gore-stained bone slid across the ground.

“Who the hell was that?” said Mary.

Conmager strode to what remained of the corpse. “Vasily Kurkov. The arms smuggler, the man who sold the guns that destroyed my world. If we could do the same to Wycliffe, I would be content.”

###

Kurkov’s gory remnants twitched once and went still.

Wrath rose up in Wycliffe’s mind and shoved aside his terror. He had not clawed his way to the top, become the most powerful man in America, only to let these interlopers ruin everything.

“I will not die at the hands of Marugon’s enemies,” hissed Wycliffe.

He looked at Jones. Perhaps Wycliffe could give him a gun, order him to attack, and escape in the confusion? He shook his head and dismissed the idea. The Knight would kill Jones in three seconds. Wycliffe watched as his enemies fanned out, searching the warehouse.

They would find him soon.

Kyle Allard wandered past, assault rifle cradled in his arms.

Wycliffe blinked in surprise, and then grinned. Maybe he could win free and have his revenge at the same time.

A plan came together in his mind.

“Perhaps I’ll give you a gun, after all,” said Wycliffe, picking up a pistol.

Jones said nothing.

“Allard,” Wycliffe whispered, summoning the Voice. “Kyle Allard. Come here.”

Allard jerked, turned his head, and began to shake.

He would make the perfect distraction. And Wycliffe was a politician, not a warrior. Fighting was not his strength, but bargaining...ah, he knew how to drive a hard bargain.

And he needed only to offer Ally Wester a bargain she dare not refuse.

###

“Perhaps he withdrew into the Tower at our coming,” said Arran. “He could have sent the changelings and the winged demons out to fight us, and then fled.”

Ally nodded. “You may be right. Let’s go…”

A gunshot rang out, and Ally staggered

More shots slammed into her, and she shrieked and toppled to the floor.

Arran roared and spun, seeking the gunman.

“Allard!” screamed Mary. “You bastard! What the hell are you doing?”

Kyle Allard strode towards them, taking aim. Arran fired first, his shots tearing the assault rifle from Allard’s hands and slamming into his Kevlar vest, knocking him over. Allard scrambled to his knees, reaching for his pistol, and Arran slammed the butt of his gun across Allard’s face. Allard’s head snapped back, and Arran caught his collar dragged him up.

“I…I can’t,” sobbed Allard. “I can’t…he’s in my head, he’s making me do it…”

“Stop!” It was Ally. White light flashed, and Allard shuddered and went limp. Arran dropped him and turned as Ally staggered toward him, her face locked in a grimace.

“You’re hurt,” said Arran.

“I’m fine,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Bruised a bit, but the vest stopped the worst. It was the Voice, Arran, someone used the Voice on him…”

“Don’t move!” A shrill voice rang out. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

A short, stout man in a dark suit stood with his back to the crates. He held a pistol to Lithon’s head, his other hand clamped around the boy’s mouth. Somehow he had gotten to Lithon while Arran had been distracted with Allard.

Ally lifted her hand.

The stout man ground his pistol into Lithon’s temple. The boy’s eyes widened with fury. “Don’t even think about it, Miss Wester. I’ll kill him.”

“Hurt him and I’ll tear you to pieces,” said Arran.

The stout man smirked, his glasses flashing beneath the lights. “No doubt. But your precious King will be just as dead. You need him, don’t you? You can’t kill Marugon without him. The mad fool was always so afraid of that. Lower those guns by the time I count to three, or I’ll shoot. One, two…”

“Do it!” said Ally. Mary and Conmager lowered their weapons. Conmager glared daggers at the stout man, his jaw working.

“You will regret this, Thomas Wycliffe, more than any of your other crimes,” spat Conmager.

Wycliffe smirked. “Oh, so, you’ve heard of me? How wonderful that terrorists such as you find time to watch TV. Isn’t America great?” The gun in Arran’s hand was empty. He could not draw another one before Wycliffe killed Lithon.

“What do you want, Wycliffe?” said Ally.

“I want you to leave,” said Wycliffe. “Marugon’s your enemy, not me.”

“Is that so?” said Ally. “You killed our parents. And God only knows how many other people you’ve killed.”

Wycliffe sneered. “Is that what this is about? Revenge? Bah! Marugon killed your parents, not me.” He smiled. “Perhaps we can negotiate, Miss Wester. You want Marugon dead. I want him out of my affairs. Perhaps I can tell you where he is…in exchange for a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Drop your weapons, all of them,” said Wycliffe.

“He’s stalling,” said Arran. “He has nothing.”

Wycliffe laughed. “I have Lithon! And I have Miss Wester covered!” He jerked his chin at the far wall.

An old man in dark suit leaned against a crate, a gun clutched in both hands. Sweat streamed down the old man’s face, his eyes wide and terrified. “I say the word and President Jones will kill her. And I’ll kill the boy. How will you fight Marugon then? Shoot him? I hardly think so.”

Arran looked at the trembling old man. Was this another of Wycliffe’s slaves, a man dominated with the Voice? Their eyes met, and Arran felt a touch of pity for the old wretch.

Someone tugged at his boot Allard lay sprawled at Arran’s feet, but still held his pistol clutched in his hand.

Something like a plan formed in Arran’s mind.

He looked at the Jones and tapped his stomach.

Jones hesitated, and then made a slight nod. Arran hoped he understood.

“Last chance, Miss Wester!” called Wycliffe, smirking. “Lay down your weapons, or else the boy dies…”

Arran stepped forward and leveled his empty pistol at Wycliffe. “No, you die, you miserable…”

“Jones!” shrieked Wycliffe.

The old man fired, and the bullet slammed into Arran’s stomach and flattened against the Kevlar. He groaned and collapsed atop Allard.

His hand clamped around Allard’s pistol.

“Do you want another one to die?” said Wycliffe. “Your guns are down. I could have Jones kill you all. I could kill Lithon before you react. Do you want to lose everything? I’ll…”

Arran rose to one knee, his stomach aching, and fired. His bullet slammed through Wycliffe’s right shoulder. Wycliffe screamed, his back arching in pain, his body jerking. His pistol dropped away from Lithon’s temple, and Lithon spun and punched Wycliffe in the stomach. The stout man slammed against the crates, snarling, his pistol coming up. Arran fired again, his shot smashing into Wycliffe’s other shoulder. Wycliffe howled, and his pistol clattered against the ground.

“Jones!” screamed Wycliffe. “Kill…”

Ally raised her hand, white light flaring around her, and Wycliffe shrieked. Ally made a fist, and Wycliffe floated into the air, his legs thrashing.

“Where is Marugon?” said Ally.

“He…he went into the Tower,” sobbed Wycliffe. “He took the bomb with him.”

Ally hissed in alarm. “How long ago? Speak!”

Wycliffe’s head rolled back and forth. “Just after the gate blew up. He ran through the door. I…I don’t know where he went after that. Let me go, please, please let me go…”

“We must go,” said Ally.

“It hurts,” babbled Wycliffe, “it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…” Urine dribbled down his leg and spattered against the floor.

“Should I kill him?” said Arran.

“No,” gasped Wycliffe, “no, oh God, please don’t, please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything…”

“No,” said Ally, voice cold. “I should kill you, for what you’ve done. But I won’t. I do not have it in me.” She smiled. “Instead, I’ll help you.”

She drew herself up, the white light flaring brighter as Wycliffe's screams grew louder. Ally took a deep breath, shouted a word, and thrust out her arms. Wycliffe flew across the room and smashed against the floor. The white light faded, and Ally sighed and lowered her arms.

Wycliffe crawled to his knees. “Wuh…” His voice sounded thick and slurred. His eyes opened, and they had become white and sightless. “Wuh…I…I… can’t see. I can’t see!” He began to crawl around like a dying animal. “I…can’t… see! I can’t…”

Arran watched him. “What did you do to him?”

“I did nothing more than drive the black magic from his mind and spirit,” said Ally. “I exorcised him, if you will.” She shrugged. “The exorcism may have damaged his mind.” Wycliffe crawled across the floor, sightless and babbling. Ally turned to face Jones.

“Don’t kill me,” the old man whispered, throwing the gun on the floor. “Please don’t kill me.”

Ally squinted at him. “William Jones, I presume?” Jones nodded. “You were his slave, I think. Choose well how you will use your freedom.”

The old man sank to his knees and began to sob.

“Lithon! Are you okay?”

Lithon hurried over, rubbing his temple. “Yeah, I think so. It bruised a bit.”

Arran reached down and helped Allard up. Allard spat blood from his bruised lips. “Ah…sorry.”

Allard grinned. “I’m just glad you didn’t kill me.”

Ally winced and put a hand over her stomach.

“Ally. Are you injured?” said Arran, looking at the bullet holes in her coat. The sight of her in pain distressed him more than he could say.

“I can go on,” said Ally. “We must stop Marugon. Hurry.” She ran across the warehouse floor, moving with a slight limp. They climbed up the stairs, the metal grill clanking. “Arran. Do you remember the way to the Chamber of the Great Seal?” Ally stared at the door, eyebrows creased in a small frown.

Arran nodded. “I do. Though it was filled with great perils. What it is like now, I do not wish to imagine.”

“Nor I.” Ally lifted her hand, still staring at the door. “Something’s amiss, though I can’t say what. I’ll go first.” She stepped through the door and into the Tower.

The the air grwe cold, and a shadow fell over the door.

It began to grind shut with terrifying speed.

Ally spun, light flaring around her fingers. The door stopped, still open halfway. Ally thrust out a hand, and the door trembled with a deep grinding sound, its runes flashing with wild green light.

“What is it?” said Arran.

“The door!” gasped Ally, raising her hands, “Marugon put a spell over the door, it’s going to shut, I can’t keep it open! Get through! Now!”

“Move!” Arran grabbed Lithon by the shoulder and propelled him through the door, Conmager, Mary, and Allard a half-step behind him. He leaped into the Tower’s gallery, white light flashing over his vision. He turned, reaching out for Conmager…

Ally groaned, and the door slammed shut with a crash. She flew backwards and slid across the gleaming stone floor.

###

The door crashed shut, blocking Ally and Arran and Lithon from sight.

“Ally!” shrieked Mary, running forward. The door’s runes flickered and went dark. Conmager lifted his cane and focused his magical senses on the door.

“Open it!” said Mary. “Conmager, open it. We can’t leave them in there alone.”

Conmager sighed and lowered his cane. “I cannot.”

Mary growled. “What the hell do you mean you can’t?”

“A spell of the black magic has been laid over the door. Marugon’s work, I think. The spell sealed the door when someone stepped through it and into the Tower. It’s a wonder Ally kept the door open as long as she did.”

“Can’t you break the spell?” said Mary.

Conmager shook his head. “Mary. I’m sorry. I have not the power.” A curious sense of peace settled over Conmager. He had guarded Ally and Lithon for so long. Now they were beyond his reach. And, in truth, they no longer needed him to guard them. Ally possessed many times Conmager’s power, and Lithon would grow to become a wise king.

If they survived the next few hours.

But Conmager had done what he could.

“We have to help them,” said Mary, kicking at the door. “We can’t just leave them in there, alone, to fight Marugon…”

“Mary,” said Conmager, “we have no other choice. That spell will not wear off for at least a day, and I have not the power to remove it. The other doors to the Tower are sealed. The only one we can reach in time is in Cicero, and it would take me hours to open it. By then, it will be too late for our help to make any difference, one way or another.”

“But,” said Mary, “but we have to help them!”

“We have,” said Conmager. “As much as we are able.” He blinked. “It was my task to guard them, I think, until they were ready. And now they are ready. Do you really think we could aid Ally in a battle against Marugon? We would prove more of a hindrance, I fear. No, the issue is beyond our reach. We have done what we can. Now it us up to Ally and Lithon and Sir Arran. It is in their hands, one way or another.”

Mary spat a curse, but fell silent. Allard looked around, rubbed his bleeding jaw, and coughed.

“So, um…then,” he said. “What do we do now?”

Conmager smiled. “You don’t know? We stand in the stronghold of our enemies, surrounded by tons of bombs, and you don’t know what to do next?”

Mary gaped at him. Allard looked over the endless stacks of crates, swore, and looked back at Conmager. “You’re nuts, Regent. You’re absolutely goddamn nuts.”

Conmager smiled. “I know.”

###

Wycliffe crawled along the cold ground, gasping in pain. Every movement sent bolts of agony tearing through his ruined shoulders. He had fouled himself, his trousers slapping hot and mushy against his leg.

His mind felt like ashes and ruin, broken beyond repair. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t reach the black magic through the ruin of his thoughts. He sobbed, crawling along, trying to find his way out. He had to get help. That one thought played through his mind, over and over again.

He pawed for his smartphone, arms throbbing. His fingers felt like wedges of putty. The phone fumbled and slid in his hand. Not that it mattered, since he couldn’t see the touchscreen or anything else. He shrieked in frustration and flung the phone away.

A footstep tapped against the ground.

Wycliffe flipped onto his back, trying to crawl away. Lances of pain stabbed through his arms. “Wuh?” he said, lips flapping. His face and tongue felt like quivering jelly. He couldn’t shape words. “Who?” he managed.

“Thomas,” said a soft voice.

That voice tugged memories deep in his crushed mind. “William?” he croaked. “William. Help me, please help me…”

The gunshot rang like thunder, and something slammed into Wycliffe’s chest. He wailed as more shots stabbed into him with quick succession. The last plunged into his head, slamming it against the concrete floor, and the darkness before his sightless eyes deepened.

###

William Jones, President Elect of the United States of America, dropped the smoking gun and watched Wycliffe’s brains ooze across the floor.

Jones stared at his tormentor’s corpse for a long time. Something deep inside him snapped, and he began to laugh. He laughed for a long time, hysterics racking his body.

He kicked the gun aside, stepped into the sunlight, and ran as fast as he could.

###

A tremendous explosion ripped apart warehouse 13A a moment later. The roof disintegrated in a towering pillar of flame, and cinder blocks and twisted steel girders rained in all directions. The ground shook as a tower of inky black smoke rose high into the winter sky.

When the police and the firefighters arrived, they could not make sense of the explosion, nor the strange obsidian bones, nor of the hundreds of naked, cold, and very confused people, young and old, men and women alike, wandering the compound.

Nor did they notice three dark figures slip out of the compound, climb into a van, and drive away.

Chapter 13 - The Caretaker's Charge

Between the Worlds

“Ally!”

Ally groaned and managed to sit up. Green light gleamed against the floor and distant ceiling of the Tower's gallery. Her body ached from the backlash of Marugon’s spell. She heard boots pounding against the marble floor as Arran and Lithon ran to her side. They took her arms and helped her to her feet.

“You’re injured,” said Arran.

Ally shook her head. “No, no.” She brushed them away. “I’m fine. At least as well as I can be, under the circumstances.”

“What happened?” said Lithon.

Ally stared at the sealed door. Marugon’s sigil of burning eye clutched in a clawed hand stared back at her. With a shock she realized it was not a burning eye. It never had been a burning eye.

It was a burning world.

“Ally?” said Arran.

She shook her attention from the sigil. “Marugon left a trap for us. A spell to seal the door after someone stepped through.” She scowled. “No doubt he thought I would send someone else through first.”

“Can you open it?” said Arran. “We will need the aid of the others.”

She squinted at the door, seeing the web of dark power Marugon had laid over it. “No. I cannot break the spell. He anchored it to the runes upon the door, to the magic of the Tower itself. The spell will fade in time, but not soon enough to help us. No, we must go on. We can return this way later. If we survive.” She leaned up and kissed Arran on the cheek, stubble brushing against her lips. “Thank you for saving Lithon.”

Arran gave her one of his rare smiles. “Thank Conmager for his Kevlar.”

“I’m just glad I’m not dead,” said Lithon.

Ally laughed. “As am I. Arran, show us the way.”

Arran nodded and drew his Sacred Blades. “Follow me.”

###

Black holes seemed to pockmark every inch of wall and ceiling. Gaping holes stretched across the floor, with only narrow paths of stone left between them. A cold wind blew down the corridor, tugging at Arran’s cloak and clothes. He picked his way over the rubble, every muscle tense. He could almost feel the children of the void watching him through the holes. Any moment they would boil out, swarming him as they had done to Sir Liam…

“Where do those holes go?” said Lithon, kicking aside a chunk of rubble. It slipped into a hole and vanished.

“They are breaches in the spells that bind the Tower,” said Ally. “Holes into the endless void between the worlds.” She pointed. “That stone you dropped? It will float for ten million times ten million years before it even comes within sight of a world.”

Arran glanced at the nothingness behind the walls, shivered, and kept going.

“What are those pictures on the walls?” said Lithon.

“Bas-reliefs,” said Ally. “I don’t know what they show. They may be depictions of the war that bound the children of the void. Or someone else may have put them there; the Tower is very old, and many other races have trod its halls. Some have even built cities within the Tower.”

Arran grunted. “I’ve never seen them.”

“The Tower is infinite,” said Ally. “If you did not know the way, you could wander for ten thousand years and never find them.”

“Did you hear something?” said Lithon.

Arran looked at him, then at the ruined walls. “No. Nothing.”

Ally frowned. “I thought I did.”

Lithon shrugged. “It sounded like…well, never mind. It sounded familiar, that’s all.”

“Keep listening.” Arran started forward. In places the damaged floor seemed suspended over the void, held in place by nothingness. He hoped the pitted stone would not crumble beneath his weight.

His hands tightened around the hilts of his Sacred Blades, his eyes watching the swords for any signs of light.

And his ears strained for any trace of a whisper.

It had happened that way before. He had first heard the distant voice, and then the voice started calling his name. Then he had rounded a corner, and there stood the child of the void masquerading as Siduri, beckoning him to the void…

“Wait,” said Lithon, frowning.

“We don’t have time to wait,” said Ally.

“I heard someone say my name,” said Lithon. He looked sad. “It sounded familiar, I think. Like someone I knew.”

Arran waved his sword, trying to quell his growing alarm. “It’s a deception from the children of the void. That is how it began, how they tried to trick me. First they call your name. Then they take the form of someone dead. Someone who had a hold over you. Queen Annemarie for Sir Liam, Siduri for me. After that, they try to trick you into stepping through the holes.” He shook his head. “It is deception. Do not listen.”

“Okay,” said Lithon. “But…it just sounds so familiar.”

They rounded a corner. The corridor ahead lay undamaged, its walls and ceiling gleaming in the green glow, save for one large hole in the floor. A dark-haired woman stood near the hole, her green eyes glinting. Arran froze, his Sacred Blades moving to a guard position. For a terrible moment he though the woman was Siduri. But this woman wore jeans and a T-shirt, with a paler face than Siduri’s.

“Who are you?” said Arran, even though he knew.

“Mom?” whispered Lithon, his face sagging with disbelief and joy. “Mom?”

Katrina Wester smiled. “Yes, yes, it’s me, honey. Run to me now, run to me, quickly!”

Lithon started to bolt forward.

“No!” Arran grabbed his shoulder.

Lithon scowled at him. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

“No!” growled Arran. “That black spirit is not your mother. It is a deception Do not!”

“Lithon,” said the woman, her voice heavy with sadness. “I’ve missed you so much. I don’t know what happened. You…you were gone, the house was on fire, and I couldn’t find you or Ally. Dad and I were worried to death.”

“You are not his mother,” said Arran, Lithon struggling against his grip. Arran rammed one of his Sacred Blades into its scabbard, reached down, and pinned Lithon’s arms in place. “Go back to the black nothingness.”

“You are right, whoever you are,” said the woman. “Lithon is not my son, not by blood, at least. But I raised him. I may not be his mother, but he is my son. He is mine. Let him come to me. Please. He’ll be happier.”

“Let me go!” said Lithon, tears streaming down his face. “Let me go, let me go, let me go!”

“I will not,” said Arran, tightening his grip. “That fiend is not your mother. I know their black trickery. Tell him, Ally. Ally? Ally!”

Ally stood transfixed, staring at her mother as if hypnotized.

She took a step forward.

“No!” Arran pinned the struggling Lithon around the waist and stepped before Ally. “Listen to me! That is not your mother.”

“Ally!” wailed the voidspawn masquerading as Katrina Wester, her voice lost. “Where have you been? What happened?”

Ally’s eyes narrowed, and she drew herself. For a moment she looked very much like Alastarius, her face grim and terrible. “I know what you are.”

The woman fell silent.

“It’s Mom, Ally,” said Lithon. “It’s Mom! Can’t you see that?”

“I can see clearly,” said Ally.

“Give me the boy,” said the woman, her tone chilling. “He is mine. Give him to me, and I shall let you pass through the Tower, to whatever world you wish.”

Lithon stopped struggling. Arran let him go and drew Luthar’s Sacred Blade.

“No,” said Ally. “Go back to the black voids now, while you still can.”

The woman laughed, eyes bulging with glee. “The boy shall be ours anyway, as shall you and the Knight who escaped us once before. The Tower will be thrown down. You cannot stop the Marr’Ugaoun. Lie down and die while you still can.” Arran’s Sacred Blades jolted, glimmering with azure and white flames.

“If that were true,” said Ally, “then you would not be trying to stop us, would you?”

The woman shrieked, claws of shadow bursting from her fingers, her eyes becoming pits into a bottomless void. Wings of shadow rose around her, and the creature flung itself at Ally.

Arran was faster, his Sacred Blades moving in a burning blur. His swords ripped through the creature, and the child of the void wailed and vanished into a scattering of black smoke. A cold wind blew through the passageway, and a chorus of enraged whispers drifted from the walls.

Dozens of the children of the void boiled out of rifts that opened in the walls and floors. They burst from the holes in the ceiling, swarming in a tide of shadows and echoing whispers. A section of floor in the corridor ahead crumbled, and more creatures swarmed out, moving in a dark wave.

“Run!” said Arran. “Run! We must…”

Ally stepped past him, her teeth bared in a snarl. “No.”

She shouted a word and clapped her hands, and cold white flames erupted from the floor around her. The children of the void lunged for them, claws reaching. Arran yelled and raised his blades in parry.

Ally snarled and spread her hands. White fire blasted out from her palms and lanced into the children of the void. A chorus of whispered shrieks echoed off the ceiling. The fire blasted through their ranks like an avalanche of light, and clouds of black smoke billowed up.

“Profane my mother’s image?” said Ally. “Then perish, all of you. Perish!” The white fire blazed brighter and then winked out. Only a few of the children of the void remained, fleeing into the holes and down the corridors.

Silence returned to the Tower of Endless World.

Ally closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath.

“That was astonishing,” said Arran. “You destroyed them with such ease.”

Ally snorted. “That was hardly easy. And it matters not. I could destroy a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand. Countless billions more are waiting to take their place.”

“They will return,” said Arran.

Ally shook her head. “They will not, unless Marugon calls them. Why face annihilation at my hands, when they need only wait for the Tower to fall?”

“I’m sorry,” said Lithon, looking at the cracked floor. “I almost got us all killed.” He sniffled. “It’s just…she…it looked just like Mom.”

“There is no reason for guilt,” said Arran. “It is a cruel deception.”

“And I, too, thought it was Mom,” said Ally. “Only for a second, since the white magic let me see past the illusion. But…I had dreamed of seeing her or Dad one last time…” She shook her head. “No. We can speak of this later. We must keep going.”

They hurried on through the corridors of the Tower.

###

Ally kept jogging, Arran and Lithon besides her. She had been running for hours, or days, or weeks. She could not have said. Time meant very nothing in the Tower of Endless Worlds. And because of that, she did not grow tired, nor did her muscles ache from the exertion. The vast vaulted corridor stretched ever on before her, an unreachable green glow shining deep its depths. Endless bas-reliefs rolled past, scenes of distant and alien worlds. Pillars the size of small skyscrapers stood like silent stone giants.

“We aren’t going to catch him, are we?” said Lithon.

“We may yet,” said Ally. “He was only a few moments ahead of us.”

“And how long does it take to set off a nuclear device?” Arran’s scabbards tapped against his legs with every running step.

“I do not know,” said Ally. “Not long.”

“Wycliffe may have been lying,” said Arran.

“He wasn’t,” said Ally, amazed at how her heartbeat remained slow and steady. “He was filled with deception. But he dared not lie to me.”

But she could not shake her growing fear. Even with only a few minutes, Marugon could have gained a long lead. And suppose he knew a shorter path to the Chamber of the Great Seal? He might even stand atop the Great Seal even now, the destruction of all the mortal worlds in his hands.

“We shall catch him,” said Ally.

Gray mist swirled before them.

Ally skidded to a halt, her hand coming up in the beginnings of a spell. The gray mist thickened, a shape growing. It resolved into an enormous skeleton draped in ragged gray robes, green light glimmering in its empty eyes. Ally stared at the figure, probing it with her magical senses. It seemed a manifestation of the magical power that bound the Tower…

“No.” Arran took her arm. “It’s…it’s not a friend, not exactly, but it will not hurt us, unless we give it cause.”

“Arran Belphon.” The robed form’s whispery voice echoed through Ally’s skull. “Lithon Scepteris.” Even as she watched it seemed to flow between the forms of gray mist, a robed shape, and a giant skeleton. “And you who are three.”

“This is the caretaker you told me about, isn’t it?” said Ally. Arran nodded. “The caretaker of the Chamber of the Dead.” She faced the specter. “Why do you call me three?”

“Your nature is now clear to me,” said the caretaker. It pointed a skeletal finger at her. “For you bear a threefold name. You are Allara Marentine. You are Ally Wester. You are Alastarius. It is given to me to know the names of all the mortals within the Tower. Yet your nature was hidden from me, for it was hidden from you.”

“What do you wish of us?” said Ally. “We do not have time to linger. We must find…”

“The Marr’Ugaoun,” said the caretaker. “The Destroyer of Worlds. You seek him.”

“He has entered the Tower to destroy it,” said Ally. A notion occurred to her. “Can you aid us against him? For if the Tower falls, than you shall surely perish as well.”

“Your concerns are meaningless to me. It is not my task to defend the Tower,” said the caretaker, shifting into gray mist. “It is my task to gather the mortal dead who fall within the Tower, to lay them to rest within the Chamber of the Dead. That is the task given me by the Divine, long before mortals ever walked the corridors of the Tower.”

“Then are there others of your kind, your order?” said Ally. “Spirits tasked to defend the Tower?”

Something like a sigh rippled from the caretaker’s robes. “There were, long ago, longer than mortals can count. Some were given the power to guard. Others to rebuild. They faded away, slowly. Others were derelict in their duty, the sacred task given them by the Divine. Now am I all that remains. But that is meaningless. It is my task to gather the dead.”

Ally stepped forward, gazing up at the specter. “I don’t think you find it meaningless. We are not dead, yet you sought us out. You know what will happen if the Tower falls. The dead shall be lost, their bodies consumed in Marugon’s nuclear fire, their bones hurled into the void between the worlds.” The caretaker remained silent. “Arran told me of you, of your Chamber. You have been a faithful custodian for longer than I can imagine. Yet now the true test comes.”

“It is my task to gather the dead and guard them,” said the spirit, becoming a giant skeleton once more. “It is not my task to defend. Yet the Marr’Ugaoun shall throw down the Tower. He shall disturb the dead. I cannot permit that.”

“Then stop him,” said Arran, “surely you have the power.”

“The Marr’Ugaoun is wise in the ways of the Tower. He has not disturbed the dead.”

“Then aid us,” said Ally, “and we shall stop him.”

The caretaker fell silent for a long moment. “Yes. You speak truly. It was told to me, long ago. A Destroyer of Worlds would come to threaten the Tower. But a Defender of Worlds would come to challenge the Marr’Ugaoun. Yes. I must not fail in my task. I must aid you.”

“Can you take us to him?” said Ally. “Quickly?”

“It is given to me to take the dead to the Chamber,” said the caretaker.

“Can you take us there?” said Arran. “After all, we shall be dead one day.”

“As you wish.” The caretaker raised its skeletal arms. The gray mist washed over them, and a deathly chill swept through Ally like a winter gale.

When the gray mist cleared, they stood in the midst of a colossal hypostyle hall, tower-like columns stretching away as far as the eye could see. Thousands of sarcophagi stood in rows, their lids covered with carved effigies of red stone. Red stone panels, each the size of a sarcophagus, blanketed the columns, covered in countless more effigies. Arran let out a ragged breath and leaned against a sarcophagus.

“The Chamber of the Dead,” Ally whispered.

The caretaker stood behind a nearby tomb. “Through that door is the Chamber of the Great Seal. The Marr’Ugaoun awaits.”

“Thank you,” said Ally. The caretaker did not respond. She turned and ran for the door, Arran and Lithon behind her.

Chapter 14 - The Destroyer of Worlds

Between the Worlds

The colossal archway loomed before Arran once more, flanked with its statues of winged skeletons. Beyond he saw the silver glimmer of the Great Seal.

“Hold a moment,” said Ally. She turned and raised her hands. “Let me work a few spells.” White light flashed from her fingers and sank into Arran, leaving him feeling both warmer and safer. She did the same to Lithon.

“What did you do?” said Lithon.

“I placed spells of protection over you,” said Ally, “to ward you from Marugon’s powers. The first spell shall guard you from the raw power of entropy, one of the greatest of the Warlocks’ spells. The second spell shall guard against the Voice, though you will have to make a conscious effort to resist its calls. And be very careful. Marugon may try to trick us, or he might simply unleash the full wrath of his powers against us. But hopefully I can speak with him first.”

“Why?” said Arran. “What more is there to say with that monster?”

“Very little, I fear,” said Ally, “though I may dissuade him. But we shall likely come to battle. When it does, stay out of my way. I can protect myself from his spells, but not both of you.”

“All right,” Arran agreed.

Nonetheless he vowed that he would kill the Warlock should the chance arise.

“Then let us go face Marugon,” said Ally.

They strode through the arch and into the Chamber of the Great Seal. Gaping holes had appeared in the walls, and one of the vast pillars stood askew. A yawning chasm stretched even to the edge of the Seal itself.

A dark figure stood at the edge of the Seal, a few feet from the chasm, bent over a large box of black metal. Even at distance, Arran saw a red light flashing within the box. The dark figure turned, black robes swirling.

Lord Marugon, last of the Warlocks, stared at them.

“Hurry,” said Ally.

They hastened across the marble floor, taking care to avoid the holes, and towards Marugon. The Warlock watched them, making no movements, his eyes staring into Ally. Arran trod once more on the Seal’s slippery, cold metal, boots scraping against the deep-cut runes. Again he had the fleeting sense of colossal pressure balanced above him, bearing down onto the Seal. Ally stopped about forty feet from Marugon.

Still the Warlock remained motionless.

Arran yanked a gun from its holster and fired, moving with the speed of long and bitter experience. The gun roared, and puffs of gray smoke swirled around Marugon’s black robes.

Marugon didn’t even flinch.

The smoke settled to the silvery Seal like falling ash, and Arran’s gun clicked empty.

“The bullets can’t touch him,” said Ally. “His spell drained their energy away, turned them to ash.”

“Yes.” Marugon stepped around the bomb, fingering something metallic in his right hand. He looked older than Arran expected, face lined with care and weariness. Silver streaks marked his black hair, and his eyes were blank windows. “I commend your observation.” His cold eyes focused on Arran and darkened. “Slay her. Now.”

Marugon’s Voice thundered through Arran’s skull. His hand jerked towards another gun, and he gritted his teeth, fighting the impulse. His hand jerked, trembled, and stilled as he mastered it.

“Slay her!” said Marugon, Voice growling.

Arran snarled and folded his arms. “No.”

Marugon made a small gesture with his free hand. “So. She has warded you against the Voice. Most wise.” Marugon stared at Arran for a long moment. The Warlock’s eyes were cold and empty and deep, like the breaches in the walls of the Tower, windows into the dark places between the worlds. “A Knight. You must be the infamous Ghost of Carlisan. Even after the price I put upon your head, you stand here before me. Most commendable.” He smiled like a wolf. “And you, young woman. You stand with the King of Carlisan at your side.” Lithon glared at him, but said nothing. “Despite all my efforts and labor over the years, you both live. Remarkable indeed. I assume Goth-Mar-Dan failed, yes?”

Arran stared at the bomb. He had expected Marugon to attack with the full force of his power. Why was the Warlock bothering to talk?

“Goth-Mar-Dan is dead,” said Ally, “as he should have been centuries past.”

Marugon laughed. “On that we can agree. He thought to supplant me, one day.” He paused. “And Senator Wycliffe? You slew him?”

“No,” said Ally. “I drove the black magic from him, but nothing more.”

Marugon laughed again. “You should have slain him. It would have been more merciful. His enemies will devour him alive.”

Ally gave him a cold smile. “I did not spare him out of mercy.”

“I suppose not,” said Marugon. He stared at her, eyes narrowed. “Tell me. Who are you, really, Ally Wester? You are no more of Earth than I am. I have known as much since we beheld each other in that parking lot, the night Wycliffe gave his speech to the schoolmasters and their pupils. No scion of Earth could posses such power in the white magic.” His lip curled. “There should have been no one left to teach you to wield such might. I ensured that. Come now. One of us shall die in the next few moments, or perhaps both of us. There is no harm in telling me now. Who are you?”

Ally stared back at him. “I am Alastarius’s granddaughter.”

Marugon’s smirk vanished. “Impossible. Alastarius’s kin were slain. I saw their bodies with my own eyes.”

“Lord Marentine had a daughter,” said Ally, “newly born. A servant hid her…hid me…as you slew his family.”

“I did not slay Alastarius’s family!” snarled Marugon, his voice twisting. “That was Goth-Mar-Dan’s doing. I came to kill the old man. But he was not there. By the time I learned that, Goth-Mar-Dan and his vassals had rampaged through the castle.”

“Nonsense. You slew Alastarius’s family for revenge,” said Ally.

“I did not!” To Arran’s astonishment, something akin to grief flashed across Marugon’s face for an instant. “I did not. I killed Alastarius because he could have stopped me.” Marugon’s cold mask returned. “So. Alastarius’s granddaughter. Yes, I see now. You were of the same blood. He prepared you, made you his heir, and his power passed into your blood. I knew such a thing was possible, but I did not fear it, for I thought all Alastarius’s kin slain.” He snarled. “It seems Goth-Mar-Dan failed me in even this.”

“Not just Alastarius’s power passed to me,” said Ally. “His memories, as well.”

Again Marugon’s cold mask quivered. “Indeed? Ah. That elusive renegade could not have taught you such skill. Else the spell I left upon the door would have crushed you, as I intended. So Alastarius’s Prophecy was true. He did return again. In you, Alastarius reborn. Damn him. Damn him! I slew him, yet his memory haunted me, and now he has been reborn to trouble me once more.”

“His memory gave me more than just skill,” said Ally. “I know the truth about you. The Marr’Ugaoun.”

Marugon flinched at the name.

“I know who you really are,” said Ally. “I know why you sought out a nuclear bomb. And I know why you’ve brought it here.”

Marugon’s laugh was cold and bitter. “Indeed? And I thought you fought against me for revenge. I thought Lithon’s guardians had some ridiculous scheme for restoring the High Kingdoms. So instead you have come to save the mortal worlds. How noble.”

“Yes,” said Ally. “Or, perhaps, to save you.”

Marugon frowned. “What?”

“There is no need for you to do this,” said Ally.

His cold laughter redoubled. “Indeed? I have labored all my life for this moment. Am I to stop now, so near the end, at the word of a stripling girl? Even if you do have the power of Alastarius, that is a foolish thing to ask.”

Arran gritted his teeth, his hands wrapping around the hilts of his Sacred Blades. Why did Ally not strike? He had no doubt that Marugon was playing some kind of game, planning treachery or trickery.

“You do not want this,” said Ally. Marugon opened his mouth to laugh again. But Ally cut him off. “They do. The children of the void. You hear them inside your skull, always commanding, always cajoling.”

Marugon’s jaw jerked. “You know nothing. Nothing!”

“I know the truth about you, Marugon, son of Adelemoch.” Marugon flinched. “The children of the void are inside your mind. They have driven you on, tormenting you, demanding that you free them.”

Marugon said something inarticulate.

“They want you to free them, but you have never been free of them,” said Ally.

Marugon looked beyond weary, exhaustion and despair ground into every line of his face and posture. “You could not possibly understand.”

“I can,” said Ally. “I had Alastarius in my mind…”

Marugon roared in fury. “You understand nothing! Alastarius was one old mortal man. Just one man, who loved you as his kin. The children of the void are without limit. What did you experience? A few dreams, some voices, a scattering of visions from time to time? Their voices are always in my skull, always, never stopping, never a moment of silence or rest, just rest.” His voice cracked. “Just rest. And I see them in my dreams. I cannot bear to sleep more than a few hours. I see them in the void, so many of them, so hungry, waiting for me to free them.” His voice dropped to a shaking whisper. “How I hate them. Even now, they are screaming at me, demanding that I slay you, commanding that I free them.”

“Then free yourself from them!” said Ally.

Marugon made sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Alastarius said much the same thing. And he paid the price. Ah, how he paid.”

“But he was still right,” said Ally. “You can free yourself. It is still not too late.

Marugon shook his head. “I slew your adoptive family, I tried to slay you, and yet you still try to help me? How like Alastarius you are. How merciful, how foolish.” Something human seemed to come into his eyes, though sad and bitter. “No. No, there is no other way. I can never be free of them, save in one way.”

“The bomb,” said Ally. “But you will perish.”

“I care not,” said Marugon. “Perhaps it will destroy my flesh, free me of the weakness of this human body. Or perhaps it will annihilate my spirit and body both, give me blessed nothingness. No, granddaughter of Alastarius, you cannot understand. I would free myself, as Alastarius urged, if I could. But I cannot. This is the only way.”

Arran stared at the bomb. Its case stood open, a display of lights flashing. The lights were glowing numbers. He watched as the displayed flashed smaller and smaller numbers. Conmager had shown him a similar device in the barn…

The device was a timer. Conmager had used one on his bomb at the gate.

The nuclear bomb was counting down.

Arran drew his Sacred Blades. “It is a trick! He is stalling for time. The bomb is counting down.”

Ally looked at the bomb, and her eyes grew wide with alarm.

Marugon grinned. “Kindness was Alastarius’s great weakness.” Grief and mockery rolled off his words in equal measure. “As is yours, Ally Wester. You should have done as the Ghost wished.” He held up a metal key. “Perhaps then you could have obtained this, the thing that could have shut down the bomb.”

He spun and flung the key into the bottomless darkness of the nearby chasm.

Ally shook her head. “You despairing fool.”

“Stop it, if you can,” said Marugon, stepping before the bomb. “The last of the Wizards, the last King of the High Kingdoms, the last Knight, and the last of the Warlocks. So! Let us see who shall prevail.”

He spread his arms and shouted a word. The floor trembled, and a great mass of shadowy shapes broiled in the darkness behind the walls. Arran saw thousands upon thousands of children of the void begin to bulge up through the holes…

Ally raised her hands, her fingers flaring with white light. Marugon growled and turned to face her, his hands clenching into fists. Their faces trembled with strain, and Marugon shuddered and stepped back. A sheet of white light shimmered over the holes. The teeming children of the void vanished into the darkness.

“Do not think to summon aid,” said Ally, wiping sweat from her brow.

Marugon snarled another spell. Once more dark masses strained at the holes in the walls and the gashes in the floor. Ally’s fingers hooked into claws, her arms trembling. The white light over the holes shimmered, strained, and seemed to bulge…

Something huge and dark burst into the Chamber of the Great Seal. It hissed and reared up, taller than a large house, great wings of shadow looming up behind it. Shadows swirled about it like smoke, and Arran caught a glimpse of a gleaming, armored hide and claws like jagged swords. The nightmare snarled, turned its horn-crowned head back and forth, and took a step forward.

“A prince of the void!” said Ally. “One of the lesser ones, its powers limited by the Great Seal, but still a prince of the void.”

“Slay her!” said Marugon. The gigantic voidspawn lurched forward.

“Arran. Keep it away from me.” Ally’s eyelids fluttered, and she began to glow with a gentle light. Shadows swirled around Marugon, seeming to armor him in darkness.

Arran nodded and drew his Sacred Blades.

###

Ally muttered spells of protection and warding over herself, their power sparking up and down her body. Marugon did the same, black magic encasing him like armor. She did not stop but cast another spell, the white magic spreading like warmth through her mind. White flames burst up from the floor and struck at Marugon, tearing at the otherworldly half of his soul.

Marugon staggered, but his wards turned the strike.

He struck back with a spell of entropy, a shadowy spear that lanced through the air. She leapt aside, and the edge of the spell clipped her. Her wards blunted its draining power, though an icy chill swept through her. Frost spread over the Seal’s silvery metal as Marugon’s spell drained the energy from the very air.

“Futile,” said Marugon. “I slew Alastarius, and I shall slay you.”

Ally laughed at him. “You did not slay Alastarius.” She had to find a way past him and to the bomb. “Rembiar stabbed him in the back. Goth-Mar-Dan tore out his heart. You had nothing to do with it.”

Marugon loosed another spell, a wall of shadows that moaned with howling whispers. The wall twisted into a ring, shrinking to enclose her. Ally conjured the spear of frozen light and spun. It slashed through the dark ring, the shadows scattering into harmless tatters. She threw back her arm and flung the spear at Marugon. He conjured a shield of blackness, and spear shattered into fading shards of light.

Marugon laughed. “I need not defeat you. I need only wait.”

He was right. How much time remained on the bomb’s timer? Her spirit called the white magic to her, and a column of white light blazed up around her. She threw the full power at him, white fire spitting off the column.

But Marugon’s wards turned her attacks, the white fire sputtering into nothingness.

###

Arran gripped his swords, azure and white fire shimmering around the blades. The prince of the void lumbered towards Ally, sword-like talons clanging against the Seal. Lithon stood behind him, watching the ghastly creature.

“It’s going to get her!” Lithon said

“Lithon,” said Arran. “Take the guns from my shoulder holsters.”

“I’ve still got my own,” said Lithon.

“You’ll need more.” Arran slid forward, keeping the voidspawn in his sight. Lithon tugged the guns from Arran’s shoulder holsters. “And some ammo clips from my belt.” Lithon snatched the clips free. “You know how to load them?”

“Yeah,” said Lithon. “You showed me.”

“Good,” said Arran, watching the monstrous shape. “Wait until I’m clear. And for the sake of the gods don’t shoot me in the back.”

Lithon almost smiled. “Okay.”

The prince of the void lumbered past, paying them no heed, its attention focused on Ally. Arran sprang forward, raised both his swords, and slashed them in parallel lines. The burning blades tore deep into the voidspawn’s flesh, opening a deep wound. Blood like liquid darkness spattered across the floor. The shadows concealing its flesh parted for a moment, revealing skin like an insect’s armored hide. The voidspawn threw back its head and loosed a keening wail of pain. Arran spun, his swords working in a flurry, cutting through shadow and flesh alike. The voidspawn whirled, a clawed pincer reaching for Arran. He jumped back, hoping to give a clear field of fire to Lithon.

Guns roared, and a volley of Conmager’s enchanted bullets slammed into the creature. The voidspawn staggered, though the bullets did little damage to its armored hide. It turned towards Lithon, still loosing that unearthly shriek.

Arran darted forwards, swords swirling in a high chop. A gleaming pincer reached for him, and Arran sliced it off. Another plunged down for him, moving with terrible speed. Arran raised his swords in a cross parry, and the pincer shredded into black smoke against the blades. But the force of the blow sent Arran flying, and he struck the floor and slid across the Seal’s slippery metal.

The prince of the void lunged for him, hissing a whispery shriek.

Lithon charged forward, yelling, the guns roaring his fists. The huge voidspawn staggered, its wings lashing at the air as Lithon emptied both of his cartridges into the creature. It stalked towards him, a dozen pincers rearing out of its veiling shadows. Lithon fumbled with the guns, trying to shove new clips into the weapons.

Arran growled, shaking free of the pain in his limbs, and staggered up. The prince of the void swept towards Lithon like a tide of shadow, and Arran would not reach him in time.

So he flung Luthar’s sword at the creature.

The blade sunk into the voidspawn with a flash of azure flame. The prince of the void skidded to a halt, clawing at its side, and a blue glow appeared in the depths of its shadows, spreading over its hide.

“Lithon!” Arran undid his Kalashnikov and slid it across the floor. Lithon seized the gun, took aim, and fired. The weapon’s kick knocked him off balance, but enchanted bullets sprayed into the voidspawn. Liquid shadow splashed across the Seal, and the prince of the void wailed and staggered back, still clawing at the blade buried in its side.

Arran risked a glance at Ally. She stood before Marugon, a column of white light blazing around her, while shadows surrounded Marugon in a dark ring.

Arran turned away, white flames roaring from his crimson Sacred Blade.

“Are you okay?” called Lithon, reloading his pistols.

“Well enough,” answered Arran.

The prince of the void howled in fury and lurched forward. Something like a scorpion’s tail rose over its shoulder, tipped with three long barbs.

Arran spread his feet and braced himself for the attack.

###

Ally’s spell ended, the column of light winking out. Marugon’s wards sparked and crackled from the attack, but had turned aside Ally's spell. He snarled another incantation, black magic whispering around him like cold death, and fresh frost spread over the Great Seal, thickening into ice in a few patches. A ghastly specter, shaped like a winged black wolf, swooped towards her. Ally conjured an undulating ribbon of light and flung out her hand. The winged wolf struck the ribbon, destroying it in a clash of conflicting forces. The dissipating power knocked her back, her boots skidding over the ice and slick metal. She flailed her arms, trying to recover her balance.

Marugon laughed, the abyss at the Seal’s edge yawning behind him like a giant mouth. Her magical strength matched his own, but he was older, quicker, more experienced. She had inherited mastery of the white magic from Alastarius, but had little real experience using it. They might batter each other with spells of power for hours, but in the end, Marugon would wear her down.

She looked at the bomb. She didn’t have hours. She might not even have five minutes.

Marugon loosed another spell, a shadow shaped like a great spinning sword. Ally conjured a glowing sword of her own, and the blades met and shattered into nothingness. Again the backlash of clashing magic knocked Ally back. This time she fell and landed hard on her back, the breath bursting from her lungs in a painful whoosh. She groaned and clambered to one knee, preparing some defense against the black magic Marugon would unleash.

Instead Marugon stood with eyes closed, hands clenched, his lips moving in rapid phrases. He was casting another spell, but not at her. She lurched to her feet and tried to ready herself.

Marugon spun, thrust out his hand, and tried to call forth some of the children of the void. A portion of the floor exploded, increasing the size of the chasm behind him. Ally’s ward stopped the summoning, but chunks of broken stone sprayed into the air. Marugon made a cupping motion, and the rocks hovered for a moment, spun, and then hurtled at Ally with terrific speed. She just had time to cast a spell, and her magic deflected the rubble, sent it crashing against the Seal, against the walls, and into the void.

Marugon cast the summoning again, and a storm of rubble blasted free from the wall and shot at Ally. She tried to deflect it, reaching out with the white magic. Most of the rocks missed, but a spray of pebbles lashed against her face, and an apple-sized chunk struck her hip and spun her around. She landed on her side with a painful thump, the Great Seal’s metal cold even through her clothes.

Ally rolled onto her back just as Marugon sent a boulder-sized piece of wall hurtling at her. She did not have time to deflect it. She called the white magic and pushed her body into the spiritual realm. The boulder passed through her ethereal form and shattered against the Seal with a great clang.

Ally leapt to her feet. In the spiritual realm, she saw the titanic energies binding the Tower with far greater clarity. She saw the darkness and power in Marugon, power that made Goth-Mar-Dan seem puny by comparison. And beyond him in the chasm she glimpsed the uncounted multitude of the children of the void, watching her and waiting…

Marugon pointed, and the dark power within him deepened. Great winged serpents of shadow burst from him and flew towards her. Ally shifted back to the material realm and called forth the spear of frozen light once more. She impaled the first serpent, blocked the second, and slashed the third. All three shredded into smoke. Marugon ripped more rubble free from the walls, stone cracking and trembling, and Ally shifted to the spirit world and flung herself to the side. One stone shot through her ethereal body, but the others shattered into dust against the Seal. Ally burst back into the material world and blinked in astonishment.

Two steps in the spirit plane had carried her thirty feet in the material world.

An idea came to her.

More sections of wall exploded, the children of the void lashing at her restraining ward. Tons of rubble shot through the air, spinning in circles over Marugon’s head, and he loosed a barrage of stone at her. She ran at him, shifted to the spiritual realm at the last second, and the rocks passed through her. Marugon cast another spell, the stones still spinning over his head. A lance fashioned of something like black flame shot at her, and Ally could not hope to deflect it in the spirit world. The white magic pulled her back to the world of flesh in time to conjure a shield of light. The lance shattered against it, destroying the shield.

Marugon stood much closer. Ally’s few steps in the spiritual world had closed half the distance between them.

Ally shifted back to the spiritual realm, the magical energies of the Tower snapping into clearer focus. Marugon drew himself up, body quivering with effort. The darkness of his spirit deepened, then seemed to detach itself from his body, growing great wings.

Ally blinked in confusion. For a moment it seemed two Warlocks, one material and one spiritual, stood besides each other.

Then Marugon’s spirit flew at her.

###

Arran yelled and caught the voidspawn’s descending stinger. It struck his sword’s burning blade and rebounded, arcing over the prince of the void’s horn-crowned head. The creature shrieked and struck again, and its stinger-tipped tail wrapped around Arran’s blade with terrible strength, threatening to tear the weapon from his grasp. Arran strained for a moment, and then twisted the sword. The burning blade shredded into the tail, armored segments raining to the floor. The prince of the void leapt back, its ruined stinger lashing at the air. Lithon darted to Arran’s side and fired, pumping a storm of bullets into the creature. The voidspawn’s cries of pain grew ever louder, cutting into Arran’s ears like knives.

The blue glow in its side burned brighter. The prince clawed at it at it with a pincer, the glow spreading up the claws. Luthar’s sword fell and clattered against the Seal, and the glow faded from the voidspawn’s side. It reeled, shook itself, and charged at Arran. New pincers rose from the shadows veiling its chest and stomach, as well as wriggling, slime-coated tentacles.

“Gods,” said Arran, adjusting his grip on his sword, “why doesn’t this damned thing die?”

He twisted and lopped off one of the tentacles. Another brushed his shoulder, and its touch sent an icy chill through his arm. A pincer reached for him, and Arran jerked back, the claws snapping shut a few inches before his face. He hacked through the pincer, the ruined claws falling away. Three more thrust at him, and Arran retreated with as much speed as he could manage, his sword waving back and forth to ward away the pincers.

Then the prince of the void reared back and shrieked.

Arran looked past its swirling shadows and saw Lithon standing behind the creature, plunging Luthar’s Sacred Blade deep into its leg. He yanked the sword back and stabbed again. The prince of the void howled and began to turn, and Arran darted past the snapping pincers and slashed a deep gash down its chest. The veil of shadows parted, revealing a deep wound. The voidspawn shrieked and turned back to Arran, giving Lithon an opening to stab the blue-flaming sword into the creature’s leg. It roared and collapsed to one knee, its spiked head bowing. Arran raced forward and hammered at its head with two-handed blows. The creature wailed, and Arran felt his sword slash through its neck.

The lord of the void’s head struck the floor and bounced away. Its veil of shadows vanished, and Arran caught a brief glimpse of a hideous, nine-eyed head, horns jutting from its skull. Then the head dissolved into smoke. Its body jerked back, pincers snapping, tentacles waving. For a horrible moment Arran through the body would fight on, even without its head.

Then it crumpled, curled up into a twitching ball, and vanished into black smoke.

“Gods,” said Arran, rubbing his sleeve over his forehead. Lithon trotted up, Luthar’s sword clenched in his hand. He reversed the weapon and offered Arran the hilt. “Thank you. It would have torn me to pieces.”

Lithon shrugged and reloaded his guns. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“It was,” said Arran, his eyes seeking for Ally and Marugon. “Let’s…”

Ally’s shriek of pain cut into his ears.

###

Marugon’s spirit raced for her, a nightmarish mixture of human soul and Ugaoun. Ally shifted back into the material realm. Marugon stood motionless behind his bomb. Perhaps she could reach the bomb before his spirit returned to his body…

A terrible, chill pain spread through her.

Ally screamed, pawing at herself. Icy fingers of black magic racked into her brain, filling her mind with agony. She felt Marugon’s spirit forcing its way into her body, his claws digging into her soul. For a moment she thought the pain would overwhelm her.

Then the white magic flooded into her mind, drawn by her spirit.

She closed her eyes and stepped free from her body, just as her spirit had done of its own accord during some of her dreams. The force dislodged Marugon from her body. Ally lunged at him, beating aside the snapping pincers, her hands reaching for his throat. The spirit world trembled around them as they grappled. Marugon snarled with rage, pincers clamping around her. The sheer force of his will and fury pushed her back, almost shoving her spirit back into her body. Ally growled, steeling herself, refusing to move back any further. White light blazed from her spirit, tearing at Marugon’s darkness. He roared and attacked her, lashing at her with his will, his mind stronger than iron, buttressed with madness and power.

But Ally held him back. She struck at him for her family, both adoptive and blood, but more than that lent her blows power. She fought him for Earth, for Arran’s world, for Arran and Lithon and Mary and the uncountable others who would perish if Marugon succeeded.

She pushed him back, their battling spirits moving closer to his body.

Marugon roared, a new desperation entering his attacks. Pincers and claws burst from his spirit, tearing and stabbing, the full force of his black magic ripping at her. But Ally endured, beating aside his attacks, striking back at him. Again and again her hand plunged deep into his chest, glowing with the white magic.

Marugon flailed at her, trying to pierce her defenses. Ally shoved him past the bomb, to the edge of the chasm, and hurled his spirit back into his body.

The straining magical energies exploded.

The backlash hurled Ally back into her body. She reeled as she felt her flesh settle around her once more. The same backlash hurled Marugon backwards, sending him sliding backwards across the Great Seal, almost into the vast chasm at the Seal’s edge. For a moment Ally thought Marugon would tumble into the abyss. He grasped at the edge, groaned, and pushed himself back. He tried to sit up and fell back, shuddering in pain.

Ally swayed, the Chamber spinning around her. Exhaustion weighed her down, her bones feeling as if they had been transmuted into lead. She started to fall, and a strong hand seized her arm and kept her from falling. Arran stood besides her, Lithon holding a pair of guns.

“Arran,” she said, blinking sweat from her eyes. She felt weak, drained to the core of her being. And she had won the spiritual fight.

She could only imagine what defeat had done to Marugon.

“Are you wounded?” he said. Sweat dripped down his face, his eyes hard and grim, but he seemed uninjured.

Ally shook her head. “No, no. I’m…shaken, that’s all.”

Arran looked to where Marugon lay twitching at the Seal’s edge. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Ally. “Not yet, anyway. But he doesn’t matter. Watch him for me.” She broke free from him, hurried to the bomb, and flipped the lid open. A display of blinking lights stared up at her beneath four switches. The timer flashed, ticking away the seconds. Two minutes and thirty-nine seconds remained on the clock. Ally tugged at the switches and found them locked, remembering the key Marugon had hurled into the void. She thought for a second, then pried open the bomb’s control panel. A tangled nest of wires hung inside. She began tracing the wires to the timer.

“No,” croaked Marugon. He tried to sit up and fell back to the Seal. “Stop. You must…not…” He began to mouth a spell, his fingers tracing trembling designs into the air.

Ally turned and said a word. White light flashed over Marugon, flinging him back against the Great Seal. “It’s over.” She traced the wires to the charge that would set off the bomb, hoping radiation was not leaking through the metal. If she cut those wires, the timer would go off, but its signal would not reach the detonator.

“Stop,” said Marugon, rolling onto one elbow. “Stop this.” He lifted one hand and tried to chant, his voice shaking.

“You don’t have the power left to stop us,” said Ally, pulling a long knife from her belt. “It’s over, Marugon. This is finished.” She lifted the knife to the wires.

“It is finished. So despair,” whispered Marugon.

Ally began to saw at the wires. The time flashed one minute and fifty-nine seconds. She had to hurry.

“Despair,” said Marugon. He began to laugh.

“Be silent!” said Arran, stepping towards the fallen Warlock with a sword in one hand and a gun in the other.

“Destroy the bomb,” said Marugon, his voice echoing. “I care not. I may have failed, but you have lost everything. All your kin on Earth are slain. All your blood kin are slain. You have won! But it has cost you everything.” He laughed again. “What have you left? Victory has brought you naught but ashes and ruin. Despair!”

Ally blinked, staring at him, the bomb forgotten. A small corner of her mind screamed for her to turn away, to ignore his words. But she knew he was right. Her adoptive family had perished. How much blood had been spilled? The High Kingdoms were destroyed, and her home in Chicago had been burned to ashes.

She had no place to call home.

She had nothing left.

“Ignore him, it’s a trick,” said Arran, lifting his weapons, “he’s using the Voice…”

“And you two?” said Marugon. “The last Knight and the last King? King of what? Ruins and dry bones. Both your families are slain. And you, bold Knight! You are nothing more than a Ghost! Your brethren are slain. Your kin are slain. You have nothing left, either of you. You have defeated me, but you shall lie down and die.”

Arran groaned and slumped to his knees, his weapons clattering against the Seal. Ally tried to rise, but could not. Sobs choked in her throat. To what avail? They had defeated Marugon, but at lost everything.

The bomb’s clock ticked away, unnoticed.

###

Lithon gasped, clutching his temples.

Grief flooded through him in sickening waves. He remembered Katrina and Simon, lying in pieces on the dining room floor, their blood splashed across the walls, the floors, his face…

He sobbed and looked down at the ice-coated Seal. Marugon was right. There was nothing left. They might have been victorious, but had lost everything…

Lithon blinked and looked up. Ally knelt by the bomb, shaking, and Arran had fallen to his knees. The bomb’s timer kept flashing.

The bomb was still on. They hadn’t won after all.

Lithon shook his head. His parents were dead, yes. But he still had Ally. He still had Arran. He had grieved for weeks, and he knew what grief felt like. But this grief felt…strange, alien, as if someone had put it into his mind.

He tried to push it away.

Suddenly the grief melted from his thoughts like snow in the sun.

Marugon had put it into his mind, he realized with a shock.

Lithon turned around and saw Marugon shuffling across the Seal, moving like an exhausted old man. He scooped up Arran’s gun, limped to the bomb, and leveled the weapon down at Ally. His lips spread in a hideous grin.

“No!” said Lithon. He raised his guns and fired. Puffs of black smoke burst around Marugon as the bullets crumbled into ash. Marugon cursed and stepped back, moving behind the bomb.

“Damn you!” said Marugon. “You miserable child! Why, why, will you not die?”

He took aim and fired. Lithon dodged sideways, still firing. Most of his shots missed, plunging into the void behind Marugon. The few that struck the Warlock burst into ash. Lithon’s guns clicked empty, and he shoved them back into their holsters. Marugon fired again, and the bullet whizzed past Lithon’s ear. His feet slipped and skidded on the cold metal.

“Damn you!” said Marugon.

The timer flashed twenty seconds.

Panic rose up in Lithon’s mind. Marugon didn’t matter. Lithon didn’t matter. If that bomb went off, then nothing would matter ever again. He had to get to that bomb. He took a step and almost slipped on the icy metal.

Slipped…

And Alastarius’s Prophecy had said that he would overthrow Marugon.

An absurd idea took hold.

He yelled and sprinted for Marugon.

Marugon snarled and fired. His first shot went wild, and his second almost hit. His third would have hit, but Lithon flung himself down, legs smacking into the seal, and the bullet whined over his head.

He slid across the icy metal like a thunderbolt.

His boots slammed into the bomb and threw it forward. It smacked into Marugon’s shins, and the Warlock yelled and lost his balance, staggering back several steps. His heel slipped over the edge of the Seal. Marugon’s arms spun, fighting for balance, eyes pouring hate and rage into Lithon.

Lithon kicked.

The bomb slid into Marugon’s knees.

Marugon howled and tumbled into the great chasm, vanishing into the darkness.

Whispered shrieks of despair rose from the chasm, so terrible that Lithon covered his ears.

The bomb tottered at the edge for a moment, then fell after Marugon.

###

The despair vanished from Ally’s mind.

The bomb! She had to disarm the bomb!

But the bomb was gone.

So was Marugon.

Lithon lay at the edge of the Seal, staring into the void. Arran staggered to his feet, hurried to Lithon, and pulled him back.

“What happened?” said Ally. “Where’s Marugon? The bomb?”

Lithon blinked. “I pushed the bomb into him. They fell.”

Arran shook his head. “So it was true.”

“What?” said Ally.

“Alastarius’s Prophecy. He was right after all. Lithon did overthrow Marugon.”

“Or push him…”

The bomb went off.

It seemed like a star burst into the void. Blinding white light blazed from the chasm and the holes in the walls. Ally shrieked and covered her eyes as walls of blue fire lashed out. For a moment she thought the fire would leap up and devour them. But it stopped at the edge of the void, splashing as it struck some invisible barrier. The very stone of the Tower howled with strain. The floor shook and trembled, and the runes in the Great Seal blazed with emerald light. The roar and the light seemed to go on forever.

Then it faded away. The shaking stopped, and the light dwindled. Ally shuddered and let out a long breath.

“We’re alive,” said Arran.

“I think so, yes,” said Ally.

Arran shook his head. “How?”

Ally thought for a moment. “The bomb…it detonated in the void. The Tower was not built to withstand attack from within. That’s why Marugon brought the bomb here. But the Tower was designed to withstand attack from without, to keep the children of the void imprisoned. It’s impervious to external attack. Not even the bomb could bring the Tower down from the outside…”

The floor began trembling. Green light crawled from the edges of the holes, and the Seal thrummed. New stone seemed to grow from the edges of the holes, crawling up to seal them shut.

“What’s happening?” said Lithon, staring at the shrinking holes.

“The bomb,” said Ally. “It was an attack on the Tower. It’s sealing itself, repairing the damage.” Her eyes widened. “With us still inside.”

“We’ve got to get out,” said Arran.

“Which way?” said Ally. The great chasm that had swallowed Marugon began to close itself.

“The doors to Earth?” said Arran. “The way to my world, our world, is closer.”

Ally made up her mind. “Then let’s go that way.”

“Run!” said Arran.

They sprinted across the Seal, through the Chamber of the Dead, and into the corridors of the Tower once more. The Tower trembled around them, green lightning crackling up and down the walls. Rubble leapt from the floor, attaching itself to walls. In other places fresh stone grew from the breaches as the Tower’s spells bound themselves once more. Growing fear filled Ally. Would the Tower seal itself, leave them trapped within for ten thousand years?

Time passed.

They ran into a great chamber, thousands of balconies ringing its sides, the ceiling vanishing into darkness. A yawning gallery stretched ahead of them, and a vast archway opened onto a bleak gray waste.

Massive stone doors began to swing shut over the archway.

“Go!” yelled Ally. Lithon outran them and slipped through the doors. Ally lifted her hands and cast a spell. White light sputtered around her fingers, and the doors hesitated, shuddering, the groan of stressed stone filling her ears.

“Go!” said Ally. “Get through the doors, now!”

“No!” said Arran. He shoved her, his arm wrapping around her waist. They tumbled out the door, down the steps, flipping over and over each other.

Ally gasped and came to a halt, the cold sunlight of the Crimson Plain falling over her face.

Behind them, the doors to the Tower of Endless Worlds slammed shut.

Chapter 15 - Scandal

Anno Domini 2013

No one ever quite unraveled the mystery surrounding the late Senator Thomas Wycliffe.

Initially, the police found themselves baffled as they searched his ruined compound. No one had ever seen bones of such strange color and material before, and the presence of five hundred naked men and women only clouded matters further. Not a one remembered how they had come there, or what had happened, or what had happened to their clothes. A few had dark memories of chains and lightless chambers, but refused to speak any more of it.

To make matters worse, both the President-Elect and Vice President-Elect of the United States of America had disappeared. Agents from the FBI, the CIA, and the Secret Service combed over the rubble. Wycliffe’s corpse, or what remained of it, was discovered in a pile of rubble outside 13A. Eventually forensic examination of the charred bones proved that he had been shot to death. William Jones was found a few blocks from the disaster, wandering the streets and babbling to himself. The investigative agencies gained no further information from his nonsensical ravings.

The beginnings of a national tragedy formed. Newscasts ran programs on the brave and heroic life of the martyred Senator Wycliffe, while pro-Gracchan blogs wrote long posts hinting that perhaps the power establishment had caused his death.

Then someone tested the dozens of powerful and illegal weapons lying strewn about the compound.

Ballistics tests proved that at least a dozen of them had been used in the November rampage. Analysis of the warehouse rubble showed that a colossal amount of firearms and explosives had been stored there. Furthermore, teeth and chunks of bone found in the rubble belonged to Vasily Kurkov, a notorious Russian criminal chief. Kurkov was wanted by the Russian police, British MI5, the French police, Interpol, the Japanese military, the CIA, and at least a dozen other investigative agencies, not to mention more than a few private individuals. Total bounties on his head totaled about ninety-seven million dollars.

Agents put the pieces together. Documents founded in Wycliffe’s damaged office buildings confirmed their suspicions.

What began as a national tragedy soon transformed into the biggest scandal in American history.

The FBI arrested Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping’s board of directors and the Gracchan Party’s leadership in one fell swoop, catching several of them as they attempted to flee the country. Their testimony matched the findings in the compound’s debris. Soon it became clear that Senator Wycliffe had made his fortune in arms smuggling, kidnapping, and some sort of illegal scientific experimentation.

Overnight, Wycliffe went from a hero of the people to a scheming fraud. Both old media and new portrayed Wycliffe as a tyrant in disguise, a lying demagogue, a blacker villain than Benedict Arnold, John Wilkes Booth, and Lee Harvey Oswald rolled together. Some even claimed that Wycliffe would have become the next Hitler.

William Jones resigned the Presidency, gave most of his personal fortune to charity, and spent the rest of his life in an assisted-living care facility in California. The FBI concluded that he had been tortured into compliance with Wycliffe and let him be. The Presidency passed to a much-surprised and delighted Speaker of the House.

The Gracchan Party itself disintegrated in less than a month. With Wycliffe dead, Jones insane, and the top leadership in federal prison, the Gracchan Party collapsed. The few die-hards that remained splintered into a dozen radical fringe parties; the neo-Gracchans, the Anti-Wealth Front, the True Gracchans, the Wycliffe Memorial Party, and others. The scandal took a long time to die away, but the controversy never did. Wycliffe had sold guns and arms in massive amounts, but no one ever quite figured out who had been buying. In addition, the mystery of the five hundred naked people never received satisfactory explanation. The FBI concluded that they had been kidnapped for the purposes of weapon experimentation, an explanation that satisfied no one. Beyond that, the strange deaths of Simon Wester, Katrina Wester, and Heloise Francis were never solved, and no one ever did find Ally and Lithon Wester. Even stranger mysteries surrounded Wycliffe; the black bones, his failed venture in tobacco, the sightings of hideous winged beings.

Within a year, a host of books, made-for-TV movies, and websites appeared, each arguing a different explanation. Some said Wycliffe had planned an armed coup. A few more radical documentaries claimed Wycliffe had been contacted by beings from another planet. Some claimed that a chain of disappearances in the Rocky Mountain states were proof that some of the strange winged creatures still prowled the nation.

Congressional committees were appointed. Historians and journalists alike received awards and doctorates for their studies and writings on the matter. The five hundred people rescued from Wycliffe’s compound found themselves pestered for incessant interviews. But despite the investigations, the books, the movies, the journals, no one ever quite figured out what happened, much to the amusement of those who knew the truth.

###

“I still don’t trust you,” said Conmager, starting at the man across the fire.

They sat on a wooded hill somewhere in western Montana. The forest smelled of wet earth and the coming spring. Thousands of stars blazed in the night sky, along with a half-moon. In the distance Conmager saw the craggy silhouette of the Rockies.

“Quite wise,” said Dr. Krastiny, “quite wise indeed. And you haven’t even played cards with me yet.” He wore an ugly flannel shirt tucked into dirty jeans.

Kyle Allard grumbled and sat down by the fire.

“Is Mary ready?” said Conmager.

Allard nodded.

Conmager grunted, satisfied, and poked the fire with his cane. “I don’t trust you, fine. But I don’t understand why you wanted to help us.

Krastiny shrugged. “I don’t entirely understand, myself. Call it repentance, of a sort.”

Conmager snorted. “I doubt you’ve ever repented of anything in your life.”

“I still think we should have shot him,” said Allard.

Krastiny yawned, stuck a bratwurst on a camp fork, and held it over the fire. “And I’m quite pleased you didn’t. I told the same thing to that Arran Belphon fellow.” He sighed. “This, I must say, is the life. Quiet air, open country, splendid scenery. It reminds me of the Urals down by the Ukraine.” He shrugged. “But I’ve been helpful, you must admit. That winged demon in Wyoming would have killed you, if I had not helped.”

“True enough,” said Conmager. They sat in silence for a moment. Conmager pulled some burgers from the cooler, dropped them on a pan, and put it on the fire.

“How many of them do you think are left?” said Allard.

“The burgers? Couple dozen, so long as we keep them frozen in the cooler…”

“No, no,” said Allard. “Them. You know. The winged ones.”

Conmager looked into the trees. A shadow moved. “Just one. I only think a half-dozen got away from the compound. We’ve taken five. So one left, unless they fathered offspring, which I don’t think happened.”

Allard nodded. Krastiny took a bite of his bratwurst and sighed in contentment.

“Do you think they’re alive?” said Allard.

“Who?” said Conmager. “The winged ones…”

“No, no,” said Allard. “Ally and Arran and Lithon.”

“Oh.” Conmager grunted. His bad leg ached in the damp. “They succeeded, we know that. Earth’s still here. If they’re alive…” He thought about it. “I think so. Of course, I can’t know that. The seals on the Tower doors will last for ten thousand years.” He would never see the world of his birth again. That troubled him, but not much. He had come to love Earth, in all its horror and magnificence. “But I think they’re alive. Arran would have taken them back to the High Kingdoms.”

“So what do we do when there’s no more winged demons?” said Allard.

“Real estate,” said Krastiny.

They looked at him.

“That’s where the long-term money is, I think,” said Krastiny. “Tangible assets.”

“No way,” said Allard. “It’s in stocks…”

The shadow in the trees moved closer. Red eyes burned in the darkness. Conmager yawned, picked up his spatula, and flipped the burgers. A winged demon stepped out of the darkness, standing at the edge of the firelight. Conmager made no sign he had noticed the beast. Neither did Krastiny and Allard. The demon came closer, blood-blackened claws rising from its fingers.

Mary stepped out from behind a tree, a black spear in her hands. Before the beast could react, she flipped the switch and plunged the spear into its chest. Blue lightning crackled up the shaft, and the winged demon howled and dropped to the ground, twitching.

“Good job,” said Conmager, rising with the aid of his cane.

“Bravo,” said Krastiny, drawing his gun. “A thrust worthy of Athena herself.”

“Thanks.” Mary frowned. “I think.”

“Shall I finish him?” said Krastiny.

“I think Conmager should do the honors,” said Allard.

The winged demon tried to stand. Mary reached over and twisted the spear.

“Very well.” Conmager lifted his cane and closed his eyes, white light flaring over the cane. Conmager stepped over to the winged demon, positioned himself, and swung the cane like a golf club.

It landed with a satisfying crack.

Chapter 16 - Homecoming

Year of the Councils 973

“There,” said Arran, pointing. A weathered milestone stood beside the road, its inscription long-since faded away. Beyond it Ally saw a vast expanse of green forest, stretching to the distant horizon and beyond. “Rindl. You’ve been here before, Lithon, though I doubt you remember it.”

Lithon shrugged. “I don’t.”

Ally touched Arran’s elbow. “You’ve been here before.”

“Thrice.” Arran walked to the milestone and rubbed its worn surface. “This is the fourth time.”

Lithon squinted and pointed at something further down the slope. “Is that a pond?”

“Aye, it is,” said Arran. “It’s fed with the streams from the snowmelt. It flows down into the Forest of Rindl, eventually. I’ve caught mountain trout there. A blessed change from dry meat and old bread.”

“Can I go fishing?” said Lithon.

“No,” said Arran, “you should not wander alone. Later there’s a stream that crosses the road. You can…”

“You can go,” said Ally, giving Arran a look. “We’ll catch up with you later. Go catch something for supper.”

Lithon grinned. “Okay.” He retrieved his makeshift fishing pole from his gear and hurried away towards the pond.

Arran scowled. “That was not wise…”

Ally wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. “We’ve not been alone together since we left Earth. Lithon can take care of himself for an hour or so.”

“Oh,” said Arran.

She led him to a sheltered outcropping of boulders. He laid his cloak down on the ground, and she slid out of her clothes. The mountain air felt cool against her skin, even in the late spring, but the thought soon fled her mind.

After they had finished, she leaned up and whispered in his ear. “Don’t move. You make a fine blanket.”

Arran snorted, blinking sweat from his eyes. “It’s good to know you have some use for me.”

She closed her eyes, feeling warm and safe and content.

“We ought to check on Lithon,” said Arran, after they had dozed for a few hours.

Ally opened an eye. “Now? He can look after himself for a few minutes. And I don’t think he wants us to check on him. He’s not stupid. He knows what we’re doing.”

Arran hesitated. “What should we do now?”

Ally opened both eyes and grinned. “You have some suggestions?”

“I mean, where should we go now?” said Arran.

Ally sighed. “I don’t know.” They could not go back to Earth, and there was nothing but ghouls and ruins in the Crimson Plain and the Forgotten Vales. “The High Kingdoms, to Carlisan. Lithon has been King of Carlisan for over a decade. He should be crowned.”

Arran’s mouth twisted. “To be King of what? Ruin and waste?”

Ally put a hand over his lips. “There are still people there, Arran. Kingdoms can be rebuilt. Lands can be resettled.” She thought for a moment. “Marugon said we were the last. The last Wizard, the last Knight, the last King. But I think he was wrong. We shall be the first, instead. The first of the new Wizards, first of the new Knights, the first King of a new Carlisan.”

Arran turned his head, looking at the forests of Rindl far below. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I am right,” said Ally. “But that's still in the future. I’ll tell you what I want to do now.” She hooked her leg over his side, rolled him onto his back, and straddled him.

Some time later she lay atop him, spent and content, her head resting on his shoulder. His breath came in short gasps, his hands still clutching her hips.

“You shall wear me out,” he said. “I will sleep like the dead tonight.”

Ally smiled, stretched, and kissed him. “If I let you.”

Arran groaned, but didn’t stop smiling. “Then you shall wear me out.”

“I haven’t heard you complain yet.” She rolled off him and climbed to her feet. “Let’s go check on Lithon.”

They got dressed and walked down the mountainside. Lithon sat on a flat boulder by the clear pond, his line on the water. A trio of fish sat on the rock besides him.

He smiled. “You’re done?” He blinked. “Talking, that is.”

Ally laughed. “For now.”

“I’ll help you clean those,” said Arran. “I want to get down to the lower foothills ere dark. We can cook them for supper.”

Lithon produced his dagger and began gutting the fish. “Then were shall we go?”

“To Carlisan,” said Ally. “To your kingdom.” Lithon’s eyes got wide. “It’s time Carlisan had a king again. And then, who can say?”

They finished cleaning the fish and continued down the mountainside, taking the road back to the High Kingdoms.

###

The spirit stood on a high crest of rock and watched the three enter the forests of Rindl.

He smiled to himself.

It had gone far better than he had dared to hope. Carlisan would rise again from Marugon’s ashes. Lithon would make a good king. Arran would raise a new Order of Knights. The White Council would grow and flourish anew under Ally’s wise hand.

And the Tower of Endless Worlds was sealed for good or ill, beyond the reach of mortal hands.

The spirit’s work was done.

The ghost of Alastarius smiled and faded away.

THE END

Thank you for reading THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS, the final volume in THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS. Turn the page for exclusive bonus content. For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Bonus Chapter - Child of the Ghosts

Here is a bonus chapter from CHILD OF THE GHOSTS, from THE GHOSTS series of sword-and-sorcery novels.

Caina loved her father’s library.

It had high windows, with a fine view of the town and rippling Bay of Empire beyond. Her father’s desk stood by those windows, covered with papers and books and curiosities he had picked up over the years. Count Sebastian Amalas worked there in the evenings, writing and sealing letters with his heavy gold signet ring. Caina liked to sit on the nearby couch, reading as he wrote.

He had taught her to read when she was three or four years old. First in the High Nighmarian tongue, as befit the daughter of an Imperial Count. Then in Caerish, the commoners' language, and then in the tongues of the eastern Empire; Saddaic, Disali, Kagarish, Cyrican and Anshani. His library held books in all those languages and more, and Caina devoured them, working her way through his oak shelves over and over again, reading new books as her father bought them from printers in the Imperial capital. Sometimes she spent all day in the library, and old Azaia the cook brought her meals, and Caina read as she ate.

“You read too much, daughter,” her father said, with a slight smile.

“No, I don’t,” she answered. “If you’re meeting with the town's decimvirs, you should just tell me to use another room.”

Count Sebastian lifted an eyebrow. “And just how do you know that I’m meeting with the decimvirs?”

“Because,” said Caina. “You always meet with petitioners at your desk. You don’t care if I overhear those. But if you’re meeting with the decimvirs, that means you’re discussing criminal cases, which don’t want to discuss in front of me.” She stood from the couch. “I’ll go read in the solar.”

Sebastian laughed, leaned down, kissed her forehead. “Why do I even try to keep secrets from you, my clever child?”

Caina smiled, picked up her book, and left the library, her skirts whispering against the polished marble floors of the villa's corridors. Busts of long-dead Emperors stood in niches, gazing down with stern marble eyes. Sebastian was a Loyalist, and so he had busts of Emperors like Soterius, who had ended slavery in the Empire, or Helioran, who had forced the magi to abide by Imperial law. Caina had read about them in her father’s books of history.

She opened the solar door and stopped.

Her mother stood at the windows, gazing down at the sea with a scowl.

Caina slipped away before her mother could notice her.

She loved her father’s library. It gave her a place to hide from her mother.

###

Caina was eleven years old, and she could not remember ever hearing a kind word from her mother.

Countess Laeria Amalas was the opposite of her husband, short where he was tall, slender where he was thick. She had long black hair and icy blue eyes that seemed to burn when she was angry.

And she got angry a lot.

Caina’s earliest memory was her mother’s fury. She had been no more than two or three, so young that she had not yet learned to read. Her mother had been alone in the dining hall, practicing simple sorcery - making a goblet float, summoning light from her fingers, conjuring gusts of wind.

Caina blundered into her, disrupting her concentration. The goblet fell from midair and shattered against the floor.

"You stupid girl!" screamed Laeria. Her backhand sent Caina to the floor atop the shattered goblet. "Useless brat!" She started to kick. "I wish I had never borne you! I wish had I never met your father! Get out of my sight! Get out of my sight! If you interrupt my concentration again, I'll beat you so bloody that..."

Caina fled, wailing, and hid herself beneath the table.

Her father came, and Sebastian and Laeria shouted at each other. After Laeria stalked from the room, Sebastian carried Caina, still weeping, to her bed.

"Why does she hate me so much?" whispered Caina.

Sebastian hesitated before he answered.

"I don't know."

She spent much more time with her father after that.

###

But her mother still did things to her.

Laeria knew a spell that let her reach into another's mind. And she used it upon Caina whenever she had the chance, digging through Caina's thoughts and turning her into a puppet. Caina hated it, hated the feeling of her mother's thoughts digging through her mind like wet, groping fingers. She loathed how the spell forced her to do without question whatever Laeria commanded.

And she grew to hate her mother, the rage becoming hard and sharp.

One day when Caina was seven, Laeria held her immobile in the grip of her sorcery.

"Do you know," murmured Laeria, taking Caina's chin in her hand, "why I had you?"

Caina said nothing. She couldn't, not with Laeria's spell wrapped about her mind.

"I wanted to go back," sighed Laeria, black hair sliding over her pale face. "They put me out, only four years into my novitiate. They said I wasn't strong enough, that I could never wield the power of a full magus. But if I had a talented child...then the Magisterium would have to take me back."

She growled and slapped Caina across the face.

"But you're useless," she said. "Not a spark of arcane talent. Utterly useless. How I wish I had never had you. I should have purged my womb of you, spared myself the bother."

Caina's fury writhed inside her like something alive.

"And your father," said Laeria. "I cannot believe I let myself be chained to that sniveling weakling. It is not fair! I was meant for so much more. For greater things than to waste my life with a useless child and a pathetic weakling of a husband..."

Caina's rage flared.

And she felt her mother's spell shiver.

"Don't talk about him like that!" Caina shouted. "He's better than you!"

Laeria flinched as if she had been slapped.

"Don't talk!" she said, making a clenching gesture, the chains of her will tightening against Caina's mind. "I command you not to talk!"

But Caina's anger could not be denied, and she thrust it against her mother's will.

The spell shivered again, and then shattered. Laeria stumbled back, eyes wide with shock, and perhaps a touch of alarm.

"I hate you!" said Caina, clawing at her mother's skirts. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you..."

"Get off me!" said Laeria, shoving, and Caina fell to the floor.

"What is this?"

Sebastian hurried towards them, expression thunderous.

"Husband," said Laeria, voice heavy with contempt. "You've returned early from town. I suppose the rigorous duties of the Count of the Harbor cannot fill your entire day."

"You were casting spells on her again, weren't you?" said Sebastian, placing himself between his daughter and his wife.

Laeria lifted her chin. "What if I was? The little whelp is useless for anything else."

"Enough," said Sebastian, voice quiet. "That is the last time you will cast spells upon her."

Laeria laughed. "Or what?"

"Or I'll report you to the Magisterium for practicing unlicensed sorcery," said Sebastian.

"You wouldn't," said Laeria. "You're a Loyalist, not a Restorationist or a Militarist. You hate the Magisterium, and won't have anything to do with it."

Sebastian took a step towards Laeria. "Cast a spell my daughter again, and you'll find out just what I'll do."

Laeria met his gaze for a moment, and then stalked away.

Sebastian sighed and scooped up Caina. "Did she hurt you?"

"She didn't hit me," said Caina.

He carried her to the library, sat upon the couch. Caina leaned against his shoulder, crying softly.

"Why does she hate me so much?" said Caina at last.

"I suppose you're old enough to understand now," said Sebastian. "Do you know what the Imperial Magisterium is?"

Caina had read about it. "It's...the brotherhood of the magi, the sorcerers. The only ones allowed to use sorcery inside the Empire."

Sebastian nodded. "Before I met your mother, she was a novice of the Magisterium. The novices take a seven-year course of study before they become full magi. The Magisterium expelled your mother in her fourth year. She was simply not strong enough with sorcery to become a full magus. When she married me, I thought she had gotten past that, but I was...I was wrong."

"Why did she marry you," said Caina, "if she hates you as much as she hates me?"

"She thought I was a different kind of man than the one I really am," said Sebastian. "I am the Lord of House Amalas, and a Count, besides. Do you know the difference between a Lord and a Count?"

Caina thought back to her reading. "A Lord is a noble of the Empire," she said, remembering. "But a Count...a Count is a noble appointed to an office by the Emperor himself."

"I was already appointed Harbormaster of Aretia when I met your mother," said Sebastian. "I think she hoped that I would rise higher, become the commander of a Legion, or maybe the Lord Governor of an important province."

"Someone powerful enough to force the Magisterium to take her back?" said Caina.

"Yes," said Sebastian. "Very good. But I am not that sort of man, Caina. I have no stomach for Imperial politics. Aretia is my home, and I am content to stay here."

"And Mother hates it here," said Caina.

"Yes," said Sebastian. "She would rather return to Artifel and the Motherhouse of the magi, but they will not take her. So she takes her frustrations out upon me...and upon you."

"Do you wish you had never married her?" said Caina.

Sebastian smiled. "How could I," he said, touching her hair, "for without her, I never would have gotten you."

Caina smiled.

"But this has gone on for too long," said Sebastian. "I am ashamed that I let it go on for so long. If she strikes you again, tell me and I will put a stop to it. And if she uses her sorcery against you, tell me...and I will go to the Magisterium."

"I don't think she will," said Caina. "I made her stop. I got angry and pushed her out of my head."

"You did?" said Sebastian, surprised. "That takes great mental strength."

"She said bad things about you," said Caina. "I got angry."

"You defend me more than I deserve," said Sebastian. "But if Laeria lifts hand or spell against you, tell me. I will not let it pass."

###

But her mother left them alone after that.

Perhaps Sebastian's threat daunted her, or Caina's unexpected resistance alarmed her. After that day, Laeria ignored them, spending almost all her time shut away in her rooms, practicing her spells, or corresponding with the few magi who did not ignore her. She emerged only to appear with Sebastian and Caina at public functions, and left as soon as possible.

As Caina grew older, more than once she wondered why her father simply did not divorce Laeria. The gods knew he had endured enough. Perhaps he thought Laeria could change. Perhaps part of him still loved her.

Caina did not love her mother, not even a little.

Eventually, she realized that her father preferred reading and thinking and writing to any sort of action, and would put off confronting Laeria as long as possible.

She loved him nonetheless.

But Laeria left them alone, and Sebastian continued with his duties and his scholarship, and Caina worked her way through his library. Sebastian hired new tutors for her, and she began learning new languages.

It was a pleasant enough life.

###

Night had fallen by the time her father finished meeting with the decimvirs, the ten magistrates who governed the town of Aretia.

Caina let herself into the library after they left. A bright fire crackled in the fireplace, covered by a bronze screen to protect the books and the carpet from any sparks. Sebastian sat at his desk below the windows, fiddling with a pen, his expression distant.

He smiled as she approached.

"How was your meeting with the decimvirs?" she said.

"Simple enough," said Sebastian. "Not a major criminal matter, thankfully. A smugglers' ship ran ashore a few miles south of here, and the smugglers fled before the militia could take them in hand."

"What were they smuggling?" said Caina. "Not slaves?" Slavery had been banned in the Empire for a century and a half, since the War of the Fourth Empire, but Istarish slavers still sometimes raided the coasts.

"No, nothing so grim," said Sebastian. "Spices, mostly, from the Cyrican plantations. Some Anshani silks. And scrolls."

"Scrolls?" said Caina.

He beckoned her closer. "Come look at this."

A tattered scroll lay across his desk, the thick papyrus yellow with age. An intricate diagram filled most of the scroll, an elaborate sigil of swirling lines and crossing circles. Lines of strange characters filled the rest of the scroll, the symbols resembling birds and animals and men.

"I think it is a Maatish scroll," said Sebastian. "What can you tell me about the land of Maat?"

Caina smiled. Her father was a scholar at heart. Had he not wed, she supposed, he would have been quite happy as a priest in the Temple of Minaerys, tending to the collections of books and scrolls the priests kept in Minaerys' honor.

"Maat was called the Kingdom of the Rising Sun," said Caina, thinking. "Its pharaohs ruled a great empire long before our Empire arose. The Maatish priests were all powerful sorcerers and necromancers, but grew too proud, and destroyed the Kingdom of the Rising Sun in their folly."

Sebastian nodded. "Much as our Empire's own magi almost did, during the War of the Fourth Empire. Caina, I think this is a genuine Maatish scroll."

Caina blinked. "But...I read that the Kingdom of the Rising Sun fell thousands of years ago. All that remains are stone ruins in the desert. For a scroll to have survived..."

"It is rare," said Sebastian. "And incredibly valuable. The smugglers must have looted it from a Maatish ruin and hoped to find a buyer for it within the Empire."

"What will you do with it?" said Caina.

"I will study it, make certain it is authentic," said Sebastian. "If it is...I think I shall make a trip to the capital, to the priests of Minaerys at the Imperial Library."

Caina's eyes widened. The Imperial Library was the Emperor's own library, the largest collection of books in the Nighmarian Empire.

The thought of all those books made her hands tremble.

Sebastian laughed. "Would you like to accompany me?"

"Yes," whispered Caina. "Yes, I would."

"Then it is settled," said Sebastian. "If the scroll proves authentic, we shall go to the capital and the Imperial Library. Now get some sleep, daughter. You're still too young to stay up half the night reading."

"You do, father."

"Yes, but I'm old enough that it doesn't matter. Now, off to bed."

Caina smiled, kissed his cheek, and left for her bedroom. Though she doubted she would be able to sleep. The Imperial Library!

She entered the hallway, and stopped.

Laeria stood at the end of the hallway, staring at her.

Caina stopped and stared back, readying herself to fight, if her mother tried to invade her mind.

But Laeria only smirked, and walked away without another word.

You can get the rest of Child of the Ghosts for free here.

Bonus Essay - The Writing of THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS

It has taken just about ten years to write these books.

In 2002, I took a class on the History of Rome. One part that stuck keenly in my mind was the account of the Roman Civil War. Of course, ancient Rome went through any number of civil wars, but this was THE Roman Civil War, the big one that turned Rome from a decaying Republic to an Empire ruled by the Caesar Augustus, who issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. It is a fascinating and dramatic historical period, and so it is not hard to see why so many works of fiction are set in the period - William Shakespeare's plays about Julius Caesar and Antony & Cleopatra, HBO's graphic ROME series, and innumerable historical novels.

Inspired by that class, I bought a book by Stephen Dando-Collins called CAESAR'S LEGION, about Caesar's elite 10th Legion. I was reading it when I came home to my parents for the summer, and I had gotten to the chapter on the Battle of Pharsalus in 48 BC, specifically the part when Caesar's army almost starved to death due to want of supplies before facing Pompey's legions.

While I had been gone, the local town's Wal-Mart had been upgraded to a Super Wal-Mart, the kind that carries groceries and food in additional to the usual dry goods. I remember, very distinctly, walking into that Super Wal-Mart for the first time and being stunned at the sheer quantity of food available. What would Caesar have done, I wondered, if he had had access to that kind of food? Or to canned food - he needn't have worried about spoilage on the march, and he could have fed all his men.

Then I wandered past the sporting goods section, and wondered half-jokingly what Caesar would have done with a shotgun. Or with fifty shotguns. Or AK-47s. With fifty AK-47s, his men could have mowed down all of Pompey's army.

The idea percolated.

That weekend one of my brothers had a graduation party, and as the festivities wound down, I slipped away to my computer and wrote a story about the idea. In the story, a Chicago politician running for Congress makes a pact with a renegade from another world, a world with a medieval level of technology. The politician will provide guns the renegade can use to take over his world. And what would the politician get in return? Well, I like fantasy novels, so the medieval world had magic, and the renegade was actually an evil wizard. And in exchange for the guns, the wizard taught the politician magic he could use to win his Congressional race, and maybe use to reach even higher office.

So Lord Marugon, last of the Warlocks, and Thomas Wycliffe, Congressman from Illinois, were born.

At the time, I belonged to an online writers' group, and they really liked the story. So I began to write more short stories using the setting and the characters, and by the end of 2002, I had a chain of them coming to about 30,000 words or so.

I decided I would turn those short stories into a novel. I realized it would be a really, really big novel. But that it was okay - it would be a huge epic story, and wouldn't that be easier to sell? I started writing it on January 1st, 2003, confident I would finish by early summer or so.

I typed the final sentence on September 1, 2003, finishing this huge monster book of 339,000 words. Now, of course, writing 70,000 or 80,000 words in a month seems trivial, but back then it was the most I had ever written in so short a time, and it had been such an effort that I didn't write anything new for almost four and a half months after.

I wasn't entirely sure what to do with the thing - most publishers wanted books around the 100,000 word range. After thinking it over, I realized that there was a natural stopping point at about 95,000 words in, after Conmager fakes his death to save Lithon, Ally, Simon, and Katrina from Marugon. I would edit, revise, and proofread that section and submit it as a book. Then I could sell the rest of it as one or more books to the same publisher. And if that first 95,000 words sold well on their own, well, that would make it all the easier to sell the rest, wouldn't it?

Though I didn't know it at the time, this was remarkably naive.

But the first part of the plan went well, and the first 95,000 words, which I had entitled WORLDS TO CONQUER, found a small publisher in August of 2004. Triumph! I sold my novel DEMONSOULED in April of 2004, and it came out in May of 2005, so I figured I could expect roughly the same turnaround with WORLDS TO CONQUER.

Time passed. From time to time I emailed the publisher, wondering when I should plan to do edits.

Soon, they said.

More time passed. I wrote a sequel to DEMONSOULED, called SOUL OF TYRANTS, and abjectly failed to sell it. Eventually I quit graduate school, moved to a different state, and got a different job. I kept writing novels, but none of them sold. Eventually I realized I could make more money blogging about computers than by writing fiction, so I started to do that.

Then, out of the blue in May of 2008, a galley proof arrived for WORLDS TO CONQUER. Sweet! I dutifully filled out the proofs and sent them in, and the book appeared for sale on Amazon and Barnes & Noble in August of 2008. I did my best to promote it. I gave away review copies and babbled about it incessantly on my blog for weeks.

And it sold...well, let's just say it sold well enough that I could afford a Whopper and fries. Specifically, one Whopper. With cheese.

It was delicious.

And after I ate it, that was that. That was all the money I saw from WORLDS TO CONQUER. The book faded away, and I moved on.

More time passed. I wrote other books, and did other things. I sold short stories every year to Marion Zimmer Bradley's SWORD & SORCERESS anthology, occasional short stories to small presses, and had some success tech blogging, but that was it. I never again sold a novel or got another book contract. Bit by bit, I began to reconsider writing books. If I couldn't sell them to publishers, was I wasting my time? Had I been wasting time, all those years, trying to write and sell novels? Maybe it was time to let go, to move on to other things.

Then in November of 2010, I got a third-generation Kindle ereader.

"There has got to be a way to make money using this thing," I thought to myself.

Accurately, as it turned out.

I didn't realize it at the time, but 2010 was the year that ebooks started to make their way into the mainstream, and I was in the right place at the right time with all these unpublished novels I could turn into ebooks. In April of 2011, I came across a post by thriller writer Lee Goldberg, describing his experiences self-publishing one of his books as an ebook. What caught my attention was that his book (THE WALK) had originally be published by Five Star, which had published DEMONSOULED back in 2005. Following Mr. Goldberg's advice, I got the rights to DEMONSOULED back and turned it into an ebook in April of 2011.

Just as an experiment.

To see what would happen.

Fast forward to April of 2012, and I had sold just under 23,000 copies of 19 different ebook titles. I realized that a whole new paradigm for writing and reading had been created. No longer was it necessary to find a publisher to sell a printed book. Now, with ebooks, I could write as many books as I wanted. The readers, not the publishers, would be the final judge of quality.

I pulled out my old contract (now 8 years old) for WORLDS TO CONQUER from my file cabinet, and saw that as of May 2011, I could claim the rights back to the book, allowing me to self-publish it as an ebook.

And in 2012, I got the rights to WORLDS TO CONQUER back from the publisher.

So I buckled down to doing massive edits and revisions on the book, both of the 95,000 words that had been published, and the remaining 250,000 or so that had never been seen by anyone else. It was a strange experience to return to those familiar characters after so long - Simon and his fears and doubts, Thomas Wycliffe and his imperial ambitions, Liam Mastere's desperate effort to save King Lithon, and Arran Belphon's long quest to reach the Tower of Endless Worlds, crossing a continent (twice) in order to reach it. (Needless to say, after ten years of trying to find a home for this book, I rather emphasized with Arran's quest!)

In the end, I divided the book into four full-length novels: THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS, A KNIGHT OF THE SACRED BLADE, A WIZARD OF THE WHITE COUNCIL, and THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS. Together they total about 315,000 words, and I put them up for sale in the first week of June 2012.

It is very strange to think that the books are now available using technologies that did not exist when I began writing what would become the first chapter of THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS in May of 2002.

So it has been a long journey, but the destination has been reached at last, and I hope you have enjoyed these books.

-Jonathan Moeller

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.

Other books by the author

The Frostborn Series

Frostborn: The Gray Knight

The Orc's Tale (Tales of the Frostborn short story)

The Third Soul Series

The Testing

The Assassins

The Blood Shaman

The High Demon

The Burning Child

The Outlaw Adept

The Black Paladin

The Tomb of Baligant

The Third Soul Omnibus One

The Third Soul Omnibus Two

Computer Beginner's Guides

The Ubuntu Beginner's Guide

The Windows Command Line Beginner's Guide

The Linux Command Line Beginner's Guide

The Ubuntu Desktop Beginner's Guide

The Windows 8 Beginner's Guide

The Linux Mint Beginner's Guide

The Ghosts Series

Child of the Ghosts

Ghost in the Flames

Ghost in the Blood

Ghost in the Storm

Ghost in the Stone

Ghost in the Forge

Ghost in the Ashes

Ghost Dagger (World of the Ghosts novella)

Ghost Aria (World of the Ghosts short story)

Ghost Claws (World of the Ghosts short story)

The Demonsouled Series

Demonsouled

Soul of Tyrants

Soul of Serpents

Soul of Dragons

Soul of Sorcery

Soul of Skulls

Soul of Swords

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

The Wandering Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story)

The Tournament Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story)

The Tower of Endless Worlds Series

The Tower of Endless Worlds

A Knight of the Sacred Blade

A Wizard of the White Council

The Destroyer of Worlds

$1.99 Dark Fantasy

Driven and Other Stories

The Devil's Agent

Angel Sword and Other Stories

Table of Contents

Book description

Chapter 1 - Aftermath

Chapter 2 - Safe House

Chapter 3 - Hate and Black Magic

Chapter 4 - Stealth

Chapter 5 - Abduction

Chapter 6 - The Knight and the Assassin

Chapter 7 - Two Swords

Chapter 8 - White Magic

Chapter 9 - I Am Become Death

Chapter 10 - The Plan

Chapter 11 - Liberation

Chapter 12 - Retribution

Chapter 13 - The Caretaker's Charge

Chapter 14 - The Destroyer of Worlds

Chapter 15 - Scandal

Chapter 16 - Homecoming

Bonus Chapter - Child of the Ghosts

Bonus Essay - The Writing of THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS

About the author

Other books by the author

Table of Contents

Book description

Chapter 1 - Aftermath

Chapter 2 - Safe House

Chapter 3 - Hate and Black Magic

Chapter 4 - Stealth

Chapter 5 - Abduction

Chapter 6 - The Knight and the Assassin

Chapter 7 - Two Swords

Chapter 8 - White Magic

Chapter 9 - I Am Become Death

Chapter 10 - The Plan

Chapter 11 - Liberation

Chapter 12 - Retribution

Chapter 13 - The Caretaker's Charge

Chapter 14 - The Destroyer of Worlds

Chapter 15 - Scandal

Chapter 16 - Homecoming

Bonus Chapter - Child of the Ghosts

Bonus Essay - The Writing of THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS

About the author

Other books by the author