A Knight of the Sacred Blade (23 page)

“I’m hungry,” said Lithon.

“We can stop for burgers on the way,” said Katrina. They all stared at her. “What? It’s been a rough night. I don’t want to do any cooking.”

They started towards the car. Ally shot a glance over her shoulder. The man in the dark suit was following them at a distance, his eyes fixed on her. It had to be at least eighty degrees out, yet the air felt so cold. A terrible sense of danger began to chew at her. 

She had seen the man in the suit somewhere before, she was sure of it, but she could not remember where.

Simon started the engine and threw it into drive. Ally stared out the window, still watching the man in the dark suit. A look of mixed surprise and rage came over his face. He lifted his hand and began to say something, his lips moving. Simon tapped the gas and pulled out into traffic, but before he did, Ally locked eyes with the dark man for an instant.

A shock of absolute terror shot down her spine. She wanted to throw open the door and run screaming. Ally felt the dark man’s eyes on the car until they turned the corner.

“Ally?” said Lithon. “You okay?”

Ally folded her arms and huddled into herself. “I don’t know.”

###

Wycliffe back to his limo, smiling. The night had gone rather well. A pity there hadn’t been more time to talk to Dr. Wester – the man was quite intelligent. But all in all, the evening would generate excellent publicity. Wycliffe had worried Marugon would disrupt things, but the Warlock had remained quiet, even muffling the aura of icy power that surrounded him. He had seemed content to remain by himself …

Wycliffe looked around the vast empty parking lot. Where was Marugon? He strode to the limo and tapped the window. 

Fletcher stuck his head out. “Sir?”

“Have you seen Mr. Marugon?” said Wycliffe.

Fletcher frowned, the lines in his face deepening. “No. Not since we arrived.”

Wycliffe sighed. “Where …”

“Senator Wycliffe!” 

Wycliffe almost jumped out his skin. Marugon strode out the darkness, his face a hard mask. The Warlock looked angrier than Wycliffe had even seen him, and his aura of dark power roiled like a storm.

“Lord Marugon,” said Wycliffe, “you scared me half…”

“Who is she?” said Marugon. His hands shook with rage. 

“Who?” said Wycliffe, trying to battle the fear that had sprung loose in his mind. He had never seen Marugon this enraged. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“A girl. A young woman,” said Marugon, his voice a snarl. “Fair skinned, with red hair. Somewhat shorter than yourself. She wore a blue dress in the fashion of your world, with the arms and the lower legs left bare.”

Wycliffe shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. I must have spoken to a thousand people tonight. Interested in her as a paramour?”

Marugon’s gaze fell on him with almost physical force. “I care not for her body. Her aura, her…essence…it sparked about her like white flame. I have never seen such power locked away within a mortal. She has the potential to become mighty, greater than even Alastarius at his height. Or myself.”

Wycliffe gaped. “You mean this girl has the potential to learn the white magic?”

Marugon growled. “Potential? It is already in her, waiting for release. I do not understand. How is this even possible? No one on this world has the white or black magic, save for us. And I taught you.” He stared into the night. “She must have come from my world. Damnation. But how? I slew all the Wizards, I hunted them down and I killed every last one of them.” He seemed to sag, weariness coming over his face. “Why now? I am so close.”

“Close to what?” said Wycliffe.

Marugon’s iron mask returned. “It matters not. You are occupied with other concerns. I shall find this girl, whoever she is. But you. My time may run short. You will bring the nuclear bomb to me, and you will do it as soon as possible.” Shadows had gathered in his eyes, transforming them into gates into an endless void.

Wycliffe swallowed. “I’ll call Kurkov as soon as we get back.”

Chapter 17 - Interrogation

Year of the Councils 972

Distant thunder boomed. 

Arran stopped and squinted at the horizon. Sandy dirt and dried grasses gritted beneath his boots, and clouds broiled in the western sky. Insects buzzed and droned over the dry plains of Antarese’s southern marches. Arran rubbed his hand over his dry lips and continued northwest, his eyes on the clouds. Flashes of brilliant light lit the sky, followed by low rumbles. 

He smelled rain. He had neither seen nor smelled any rain for a very long time. 

The sky grew darker. Arran kept going, puffs of brown dust rising up around his heels. The clouds raced overhead, and the thunder grew louder. Something warm and wet struck his cheek. He lifted his face to the sky just as the heavens opened. Sheets of rain fell, and Arran spread his arms and let the rain soak into his dusty clothes and his dry skin. It felt good. He pulled his waterskin from his belt and drank his fill, something he had never been able to do in the Desert of Scorpions. 

He had returned to the High Kingdoms.

Or what remained of them. 

Finding water was now the least of his problems. 

The rain soon passed, the storm sweeping south across the Antardrim plains. The stars began to come out in the darkening sky. 

“Antardrim storm,” muttered Arran, trudging on. “That’s how the riders of Antarese got their name. The squalls.” He made himself stop talking. Since Siduri’s death, he had developed the bad habit of talking to himself. Without the survival knowledge Siduri had taught him during their journey, he would have perished a hundred times in the Desert.

How many times had she saved his life?

Night fell. Arran looked around for a place to camp. He saw nothing likely. 

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” he whispered. 

He could walk for a few more miles before he rested.

###

Arran continued his journey across Antarese. The plains lay empty and quiet, so different from the days when Antardrim riders had thundered across the earth. Arran took a twenty mile loop to avoid the Emerald Field and the charred ruins of Antarese. 

He could not have borne the sight. 

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” he said over and over again as he traveled through the high grasses, sometimes walking, sometimes jogging. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He could not rest much. He spent most of his time walking ever farther to the north and the west.

And the Tower of Endless Worlds drew ever closer.

###

Twelve days after leaving the Desert of Scorpions, he entered the rolling hills and woods of Carlisan. 

The countryside had fallen into waste and neglect. Most of the kingdom’s peasants had been slain or enslaved in Marugon’s conquest, and few had survived. Those Arran encountered fled inside at his approach, barred the doors to their ragged huts, and did not reemerge until he had passed. He could not blame them. Bands of Marugon’s soldiers ranged through the High Kingdoms, stealing and killing at will. The winged demons hunted for food and mates in the dark of the night. Women and children disappeared and were never seen again. 

With his victory complete, Lord Marugon seemed content to let his conquests slide into chaos and barbarism. 

The old rage rekindled in Arran’s heart. He almost became the Ghost of Carlisan once more, hunting Marugon’s soldiers and monsters. But he did not. He had done so once before and failed. He could not prevail, and the old despair lay that way. And Siduri’s last words played in his mind, driving him towards the Tower and Earth. 

He passed the gleaming marble ruins of Carlisan itself one day, still white despite the explosions and the carnage of the city’s fall. The ruins had become a stronghold for Marugon’s men, the city’s population reduced to slave labor in the surrounding fields. Arran slipped unseen through the soldiers and their slaves alike. He did not want to return to Carlisan, to the streets where his brother Luthar’s bones lay. He passed the road where Princess Anna had died, her body torn to shreds by the bullets. 

He remembered how her brother Lithon had fallen from her arms. Arran had saved him, snatching the child from the air while the Knights had been slaughtered all around him…

He walked on through the entire day and most of the night until the ruins vanished behind him.

Carlisan held too many memories for him. 

The next day he saw a group of about twenty soldiers marching north. Arran waited until they stopped to camp, and then slipped in to listen to their conversation. They had received orders from Prince Styr-Mar-Dan, King Goth-Mar-Dan’s brother, to march to Ramshackle, a ragged town of Marugon’s soldiers that had arisen in the Border Woods of Narramore. 

A man named Kaemarz had been put in command of the town. 

That caught Arran’s attention. Kaemarz had once been a notorious bandit of Carlisan’s Ruin Hills. When Marugon had returned with guns and fire, Kaemarz and his band had joined the Warlock. In reward Kaemarz had become Marugon’s caravan master, in charge of the shipments of guns and weapons that had come through the Tower of Endless Worlds from Earth. 

Arran debated with himself, and then made up his mind. 

He knew how to reach the Tower of Endless Worlds. Yet he had never seen the Tower, and did not know the way to Earth itself.

The soldiers broke camp and continued their march north. Arran trailed unseen behind them. 

Kaemarz knew things Arran needed to know. 

###

A haze of smoke hung over the clearing, mingling with the smells of blood and sweat and human waste. 

Arran crouched behind a fallen log and stared at the filthy little town in the clearing. Ramshackle lived up to its name. Years ago, twenty of Marugon’s soldiers had slaughtered five hundred Carlisene footmen, six Knights, and a Wizard in this clearing. Since then a combination barracks, trading post, tavern, and brothel had grown up on the site, all surrounded by a palisade. Now Marugon’s soldiers often stopped at Ramshackle to resupply and rest on their journeys to and from the ancient stronghold of the Warlocks at Castamar in the Wastes. 

Arran remained still, flexing his muscles to keep them from stiffening. The troop of twenty soldiers marched into Ramshackle, dispersing into the taverns and brothels. He waited as darkness crept over the earth and bonfires blazed to life within the town. When the sun had vanished Arran rose, slid out of his cloak, and removed both his Sacred Blade and Luthar’s. He wrapped both swords in his cloak, tied it into a bundle, and slung it over his shoulder. The Sacred Blades would reveal his identity, since none of Marugon’s soldiers dared to carry them. 

He strode towards the town, moving without sound. With his worn clothes, his guns, and the bundle over his shoulder, Arran looked like one of Marugon’s soldiers. A sleepy gunman with a Kalashnikov stood guard at the palisade’s gate. He jerked, swore, and leveled his weapon as Arran approached. 

“Halt!” he said. “The password.” His finger tightened over the trigger. “Password!”

“Conquest,” said Arran. He’d heard the officer of the twenty soldiers speak it. “Let me pass. I have urgent messages for Master Kaemarz.”

The gunman laughed. “Master Kaemarz? That arse-licking toad isn’t fit to wash my boots, let alone be a master. ‘Master’ Kaemarz never gets urgent messages.”

Arran tapped the bundle over his shoulder. “Nevertheless, I have urgent messages for him.” 

The soldier’s hard eyes narrowed. “Do you, now? All our couriers have horses. If you’re a courier, where’s your horse?”

Arran glared back. “My horse broke a leg. I’ve had to walk half the distance to this stinking hole.” 

The gunman laughed. “Pity. Well, I’ll make you a deal. A bit of copper, and I’ll let you in. Some silver would be better. Or maybe you’d let me look through that package on your back, aye?”

“No,” said Arran. “You’ll let me in now.”

The gunman sneered and hefted his weapon. “You’d best run along, unless you’re willing to pay.” His sneer twisted into a smirk. “Who’d question another corpse in the morning, aye?”

“Prince Styr-Mar-Dan would,” said Arran.

The gunman blinked. “Who?”

“Prince Styr-Mar-Dan,” said Arran. “Master of the winged ones since King Goth-Mar-Dan departed for Earth. The Prince would be most displeased if his messages to Master Kaemarz did not arrive.”

The soldier went bone white. He pushed the gate open and stepped aside, sputtering apologies. Arran strode past without sparing him another glance. 

Torchlight cast laughing shadows over Ramshackle’s narrow streets, and mud and filth squished beneath Arran’s boots. Wild laughter, singing, and screams rose from the taverns and the brothels. Arran smelled a strange mixture of gunpowder, blood, and smoke in the air. 

A squat building of dried mud and rough-cut logs sat in the center of town. A gunman sat sleeping on a nearby stool, failing to guard a door hidden behind a curtain. Arran stepped to the curtain and listened. He heard someone moving around inside, footsteps thumping against floorboards. 

Arran pushed aside the curtain and slipped aside. 

The only light came from a lantern hanging from the ceiling. Boxes of bullets and grenades stood stacked alongside one wall, alongside sacks of gunpowder. A plank table stood in the center of the room, its surface covered by maps and papers. A man in a ragged black uniform stood over the table, leaning on a crutch, his back to Arran. His raspy breathing scraped against Arran’s ears. 

“I said I was not to be bothered,” said the man, his voice raspy. “Go to the brothel and drink yourself into a stupor with the other rabble.”

“Master Kaemarz,” said Arran, stepping forward.

The man laughed and turned. His face was a patchwork of scars, his eyes concealed behind greasy locks of brown-gray hair. A Glock hung in a holster at his belt. “Master Kaemarz?” He spat. “No one calls me master, though I am in command of this miserable sty. What in hell do you wish of me?”

“I have been sent with a message,” said Arran. 

Kaemarz growled and glanced at his maps. “You’re a courier, then? Bah. I have no use for couriers. Whoever sent you, I cannot answer his demands. My men are vermin, and I have no extra supplies.”

Arran folded his arms. “I was sent by Prince Styr-Mar-Dan.” 

Kaemarz flinched, his crutch rapping against the floor. “Styr-Mar-Dan? The prince of the winged ones?”

“The same. Do you know of any others?” said Arran. 

Kaemarz hissed. “Don’t get cocky with me, young fool. I know the demon prince. What does he want of me?”

“A simple request and nothing more,” said Arran. “The route to Earth through the Tower of Endless Worlds. Prince Styr-Mar-Dan wants it.”

“Why?” said Kaemarz.

Arran blinked. “He wishes to send a message to his brother on Earth.”

Kaemarz’s tongue ran over his yellow teeth. “Indeed? The prince may send a message via our caravans. One leaves in another month, I believe,” his scowl deepened, “though such matters are no longer my province.”

“He wants to send the message himself,” said Arran.

Kaemarz squinted. “It has always been customary to send messages with the caravans. Even Lord Marugon sent messages this way, during his visits to the other world.”

Arran shrugged. “Do you think I am fool enough to question a prince of the winged ones? He wants the map to Earth. I was sent to get it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Kaemarz. He coughed and turned back to the table. “You know, they despise each other.”

“Who?” said Arran, feigning impatience. 

“Styr-Mar-Dan and Goth-Mar-Dan,” said Kaemarz. “Prince and King of the winged ones. Goth-Mar-Dan killed all his other brothers. Only Styr-Mar-Dan survived. He was smart,” Kaemarz tapped the side of his head with a dirty finger, “and he survived by submitting himself to Goth-Mar-Dan.”

Arran’s unease grew. Kaemarz suspected something. “What do I care for their history? It means nothing to me.”

“Indeed not,” said Kaemarz. He coughed, his free hand dropping to his side. “What does it mean? Styr-Mar-Dan hates his brother. He would have no reason to send a message.” Kaemarz coughed again, his head bowing. “I think you’re not a courier. I think you’re a fraud.”

“You call me a…”

Kaemarz whirled, drawing his Glock so fast Arran barely had time to follow the movement. Arran flung himself to the side as Kaemarz fired. The shots rang like thunder in the room, blasting splinters from the wall. Arran drove his fist into Kaemarz’s wrist, sending the gun flying. Kaemarz growled in pain and stumbled against the table. 

“Mercy,” gasped Kaemarz, raising his free hand. His other clutched his crutch in a death grip. “Mercy on an old man, I beg you.” 

Arran stepped forward. “Tell me…”

Something clicked. The bottom half of the crutch fell away, revealing a gleaming blade. Kaemarz swung the weapon with a yell. Arran tried to spin away, and the blade sheared through his improvised bundle. The Sacred Blades tumbled free with a clatter. Kaemarz thrust, but Arran jumped back, drew one of his pistols, and leveled it at Kaemarz’s face.

“Drop the blade,” said Arran.

Kaemarz sneered. “You wouldn’t dare. The shots would draw the others.”

“Not likely. You shot three holes in that wall. No one came. And even if someone comes,” Arran hefted the gun, “it doesn’t matter. Your brains will still be splattered all over the walls.”

Kaemarz thought it over. He cast aside the crutch-blade with a curse. “Renegade. Damn you. What is it you wish? Gold? I have very little. Ammunition? Weapons?” He gestured at the heap against the wall. “Take all you wish. It means naught to me.” 

“I don’t want either,” said Arran. “I told you before what I want. The route through the Tower of Endless Worlds to Earth.”

Kaemarz squinted at him. “You’re a fool. Or mad. The Tower is a place of perils that crush men’s minds.” His eyes fell on the Sacred Blades lying on the floor. Breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “You. It has to be you. You’re him, aren’t you? Damnation! You’re supposed to be dead!” 

“What are you babbling about?” said Arran.