A Knight of the Sacred Blade (20 page)

Marugon laughed. “They are energetic, are they not?”

“Not quite the word I’d use,” said Wycliffe.

Marugon gestured at the donkeys. “Perhaps I have a proper reward for them.” Wycliffe frowned. Eleven people stood amidst the caravan. They wore only rags. Hoods had been pulled over their faces, and rough cords bound their hands and ankles. “But, that is a matter for later. I hear you have undertaken a campaign to seize the presidency?”

“Well, not quite,” said Wycliffe, smiling. “The vice presidency, actually.”

“Indeed?” said Marugon. “Then I assume you have the future president well leashed and chained with the Voice?”

Wycliffe blinked. “Yes. How did you know?” 

“It was a common strategy of the Warlocks, in ancient days,” said Marugon. “They would control a king with the Voice, and rule all from behind the throne. A wise choice. Now, to business.”

“Yes, the cigarettes,” said Wycliffe. “I’ve…”

“Later,” said Marugon. “The bomb. The nuclear device. Has your pet arms merchant made any progress?”

“Yes,” said Wycliffe, trying not to blink under Marugon’s intense stare. “A bomb has been located. Kurkov is in the process of bringing it here.”

Marugon’s eyes bored into his face. “How long?”

Wycliffe shrugged. “You must understand. It is not easy smuggling a nuclear weapon into this country. Smugglers must be paid, customs officials must be bribed, authorities must be evaded.”

“I am well aware of the difficulties,” said Marugon, “having listened to you recite them over and over. How long?”

Wycliffe tried to push aside his fear. “Four months. Possibly six or seven. And thirty million dollars are needed.”

“Four months,” said Marugon, his voice a murmur. “After all these years. Four months. I can wait.”

“If I might ask,” said Wycliffe, trying to sound annoyed, “what use could you possibly have for a nuclear bomb?”

Marugon blinked. “Oh?”

“You’ve conquered your world, you’ve said so yourself,” said Wycliffe.

Marugon laughed. “My dear Senator. The conquest itself is immaterial. What matters is that no one on my world can possibly stop me.”

“Yes,” said Wycliffe. “Then why do you need a nuclear bomb, if all your enemies are crushed?”

Marugon blinked, weariness flickering over his face. “The last stronghold of my enemies.” His voice was a quiet rasp. “It has been there for so long. So very long. Inaccessible to me. I cannot touch it. I have tried. But the bomb, Senator Wycliffe…the bomb would give me the power to destroy it. Then at last I could rest.” He shook his head, and his face returned to its usual cold, smirking mask. “But, then, why should you care, my good Senator? It is not as if I plan to detonate the bomb on your world, after all. And you would make a tremendous profit from the purchase.” He gestured at the donkeys’ sacks. “More gold than this is on its way to the Tower as we speak. You will be wealthier than ever. A useful asset when running for the presidency, I would imagine.”

“Well, yes,” said Wycliffe. The uneasiness would not leave him. “At any rate, you shall have your bomb by October by the earliest, November by the latest.” 

“Good,” said Marugon. “You were speaking of the cigarettes?”

Wycliffe nodded. “I set up the front company, Stanford Matthews Tobacco, and I hired some desperate fool to distribute the sample cigarettes, per your instructions. But I still fail to see the point.”

“You shall see soon enough,” said Marugon. “Do you have the test subject?”

Wycliffe nodded. “This way.” He led Marugon away from the caravan and to the canvas-covered wheeled table. He reached for the canvas and pulled it away.

A metal operating table gleamed under the humming warehouse lights. Steel cuffs and heavy chains pinned a naked young man to the table. Tattoos marked the man’s muscled chest and arms, and a piece of duct tape sealed his mouth. Wycliffe heard him screaming through the tape.

“Christopher J. Colebrook,” said Wycliffe. “One of the people my lackey gave a free cigarette.” He glanced at Goth. “At least it should be Colebrook.” Goth remained impassive. This was too risky. If someone had seen Goth and his kin snatch Colebrook out of his bedroom, or followed the truck…

“Ah,” said Marugon. “Well done.” He cocked his head. “Remove the tape. I wish for him to speak.” 

Goth leaned downed and ripped away the tape. 

Colebrook gaped in pain. “You bastards!” he screamed. “My girlfriend will call the police when she wakes up, she’ll…” His eyes fell on Wycliffe. “What the hell is this? I voted for you, man! My girlfriend made me!”

“Silence,” said Marugon, his command ringing with the Voice. Colebrook’s jaw clapped shut. “You are in serious trouble, young man. And you have brought it upon yourself. Ironic, no?” He chuckled.

“You…” Colebrook’s jaw worked. “What are…you?”

“Do you truly wish to know?” said Marugon. He smiled and turned to Goth. “Show yourself to our disrespectful young friend. Perhaps he will come to understand his peril.”

Goth chuckled and took off his sunglasses. His crimson eyes burned like dying coals. He yanked off the fake beard, revealing his yellowing fangs. He tore off his jacket with a fluid motion, and his huge black leathery wings unfolded, beating at the air. 

“Few on your world ever see the slouching thugs lose their slouch,” said Marugon. “Those who do, my young friend, wish they had never been born.”

Colebrook screamed and screamed, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his limbs jerking against the restraints. He flopped against the steel table like a dying fish.

“Do be silent,” said Marugon, the Voice crackling. Colebrook shut up, his bulging eyes fixed on Goth. “Did this young fool smoke one of the cigarettes?”

“He did,” said Wycliffe. “If not, Allard and I are going to have a long talk.”

“Good,” said Marugon. He turned back to the trembling Colebrook. “Your world is a strange one, my young friend. When Senator Wycliffe first told me of these cigarettes, I thought him a fool.” He fluttered his fingers and muttered a spell. “Ah. I sense the black magic within you already. You see, there are nothing like cigarettes on my world. What man would willingly fill his body with such poisons?” Wycliffe rolled his eyes. The last of the Warlocks sounded like a Democrat. “The wise men of my world say that drink is the poison of a foolish man, but this world’s cigarettes, it would seem, are by far a deadlier poison.”

Wycliffe nodded. “I fail to see the point. Don’t tell me you went to all this effort to give me a lecture on health.”

Marugon chuckled. “What is in a cigarette? Herbs grown on your world, true? But in my cigarettes, I have added an herb from my world, one called the Warlocks’ rose. It is a slow poison, similar to nicotine. But properly prepared, it can become a mighty magical catalyst.” Wycliffe felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Of course, for it to be effective, the victim must consume the Warlocks’ rose of his own free will.” He grinned down at Colebrook. “You, my young friend, have consumed the Warlocks’ rose of your own free will. It will act as a catalyst of transformation within you.” 

Wycliffe blinked. “Transformation?” The prickling on the back of his neck got worse. 

Marugon nodded. “Now, my friend, you will see a mighty spell of the black magic.” He raised his hands and began to chant in a ringing voice. A chill swept up Wycliffe’s limbs. A cold wind blew through the warehouse, and Goth laughed. 

Colebrook’s mouth burst open in a howling scream, and he began to transform.

His skin turned gray and leathery. His eyes burned red and became wider, and his ears grew points. Greasy, matted back hair burst from his naked skin. His muscled limbs thinned and became spindly, and claws sprouted from his lengthening toes and fingers. His tongue thickened, lashing at his twisted black teeth. And his scream changed, turning from the howl of a terrified man to the insane gibbering of a rabid animal. 

Wycliffe stared at the spectacle in awe and terror.

Marugon dropped his arms, a rapt expression on his face. Colebrook’s transformation seemed complete. 

“What…what did you to him?” said Wycliffe.

Marugon laughed. “A magical transformation.” The thing that had been Colebrook hissed and snapped his jaws. “My spell used the Warlocks’ rose as a catalyst. I have made this man into a changeling of the black magic, utterly bound to my will. A deadly fighter, and one impervious to most weapons.” Marugon’s smile brightened. “Goth-Mar-Dan. Shoot it.”

Goth retrieved his jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol. He leveled the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The shots echoed like thunder through the warehouse, and the bullets slammed into thing that had been Colebrook. It howled and screamed, slime frothing at its jaws. Goth emptied his weapon and lowered it. 

Wycliffe crept closer. “Dear God.” The bullets had not left a mark on the changeling. “Marugon. Can…can this spell be cast on anyone who has smoked the cigarettes?”

Marugon nodded.

“Well,” breathed Wycliffe. A mixture of amazement and terror battled for control of his emotions. “Ten thousand people smoked those cigarettes in the last few weeks.” His mind reeled with the possibilities. “And once Stanford Matthews begins full production, millions more…”

Marugon nodded again. “And the poison waits in their blood. They shall make a useful reserve, my friend, if your attempt to win the vice presidency is unsuccessful. And may have a use or two for them, as well.”

Wycliffe blinked. “I can command these things?”

“Of course.” Marugon traced a half-circle with his right hand. The cuffs holding the changeling undid themselves. The creature hissed and gathered its legs beneath itself, as if ready to spring. 

Wycliffe tensed. “Marugon, it’s going to…”

“Changeling!” Marugon’s command rang with the Voice. “Come to me! Come!” The changeling crept to Marugon’s side, tongue lolling from its jaw. “Hold!” The creature went still. “Senator Wycliffe. Command the creature.”

Wycliffe rubbed sweat from his forehead and gathered the Voice to him. “Changeling!” The monster hissed and turned to face Wycliffe. “Stand!” The changeling stood, hatred and pain gleaming in its red eyes. “Kneel!” The thing hissed and fell to its knees. 

“See?” said Marugon. “They are vulnerable to the Voice. A man may resist the Voice, if his will and spirit are strong enough. But the changelings cannot.”

“A…a great achievement, Marugon,” said Wycliffe, his throat dry. The possibilities both thrilled and terrified him. Suppose he could raise an army of these things? Suppose he trained them to use guns? 

“Indeed,” said Marugon. “Tell me. What do you usually feed the winged demons?”

Wycliffe gestured at a row of freezers against one wall. “I have raw meat stored here. They seemed pleased well enough with that.” He thought of Goth’s recent indiscretions. “Though not always.”

“Ah,” said Marugon. “Goth-Mar-Dan. Tell me. Do you think your kin would enjoy some fresh meat?” Goth emitted a rumbling chuckle. 

“Why?” said Wycliffe. 

Marugon pointed at the bound and hooded people standing among the mules. “I brought some prisoners with me. A few Antardrim who survived the Emerald Field. Some of their wives and children. The winged demons have served me well. Good service deserves repayment, does it not?” The changeling shuffled to crouch besides Marugon. 

“If you wish,” said Wycliffe. 

Marugon beckoned to his soldiers. They grabbed the bound prisoners and wrestled them towards the glassed-in room in the warehouse’s corner. Wycliffe watched as the soldiers stripped the prisoners naked. Soon four men, three women, and five children hung in chains from the ceiling. Rags gagged their mouths. Their wide eyes rolled back and forth in fear. 

The door on the far wall opened. Goth strode into the room, followed by dozens of the slouching thugs. One by one they peeled off their motorcycle jackets, sunglasses, and false beards. One by one the glass cage filled with grinning demons.

And as one, the winged demons leapt upon their prey.

“You’ll excuse me, I hope,” said Wycliffe. Blood splashed against the glass wall. “I don’t wish to deny your revenge, of course, but I’d prefer not to watch it.” One of the children screamed. Wycliffe felt his stomach lurch. 

Marugon waved a hand, his eyes fixed on the spectacle. “Go,” he whispered, his face unreadable. “I shall speak with you later.” 

Wycliffe turned and headed for his office.

He had much to consider.

###

“Oh my God,” whispered Kyle Allard, peering around the crate. The last of the chained prisoners stopped thrashing. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” His hands would not stop shaking. 

He had been curious about Senator. Wycliffe’s secret warehouse for weeks. Then he had come to his morning appointment with Wycliffe and seen Mr. Marson change, for just a minute, into a snarling nightmare. 

The curiosity had become a morbid obsession. 

Allard had been walking to his car when he had seen the white truck pull into 13A’s dock. He couldn’t resist the opportunity. He had climbed over the lip of the truck dock and slipped inside, unseen, and hid behind a crate.

Now Allard wished he had stayed outside. He wished he had never accepted Wycliffe’s offer. 

Guilt hammered at him in mighty waves. 

What had he done? He had given those damned cigarettes to thousands and thousands of people over the last few months. How many people would become monsters because of what he had done? 

He stood frozen through the long minutes as the winged nightmares devoured the chained men, women, and children. He didn’t dare move. The winged creatures would see him. Or, worse, the man in the black robes, the man Wycliffe had called Marugon, would see him. The winged things were hideous, and the creature Colebrook had become was a nightmare. But nothing had ever terrified Allard like the black-robed man. 

He wanted to run until his heart burst.

The winged monsters finished their meal. Marugon chuckled and turned, the changeling shadowing his steps. 

It stopped and sniffed at the air, red eyes narrowed.

“What?” said Marugon. “Do you smell something?”