A Knight of the Sacred Blade (2 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The winged demon screamed and dropped his scimitar. 

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

Arran stumbled onward, too numb even to weep.

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

There was nothing left. Marugon had triumphed.

And Arran had nothing left to live for.

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

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

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

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

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

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

But what good what it serve? He had failed.

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

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

It was over. 

Arran staggered into the Desert of Scorpions to die.

Chapter 2 - First Day

Anno Domini 2012

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

A shadow darkened the sky. 

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

Ally screamed as the monster pulled…

###

Whispers of madness filled the air.

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

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

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

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

They wanted her. 

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

###

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

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

Then the images faded away into nothingness.

Dreams. Just dreams. 

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

“Just dreams,” muttered Ally 

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

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

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

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

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

No. Just dreams.  

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

But not too old to have them, it seemed.

“Just dreams,” whispered Ally.

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

“Stupid,” muttered Ally.

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

Then the feeling vanished. 

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

###

At 6:30 the alarm clock started wailing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ally smiled. “I might.” 

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

“Or you’ll ground me?” said Ally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Someone’s morbid today,” said Ally. 

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

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

“A T-shirt. It’s too short.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ally brightened. “Really? How come?” 

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

“Can I have Mom’s car?” said Ally.

“No,” said Simon.

Ally frowned. “Your car’s lame.”

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

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

“I dropped him off already,” said Simon. 

“Why so early?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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