A Knight of the Sacred Blade (25 page)

“Shall I kill him?” said Goth. 

“No,” said Wycliffe. “Tempted as I am, no. I need him yet.” He shook his head. “Unreliable as he is.”

“He will grow more unreliable,” said Goth. 

“Why?” said Wycliffe. 

“The Voice bends his will over and over again. Eventually his mind will shatter entirely,” said Goth. 

“How do you know?” said Wycliffe. “Did Marugon tell you this?”

“No,” said Goth. “But I have seen it. Lord Marugon used it to punish enemies. He would shatter their minds and leave them drooling madmen.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Wycliffe frowned. “You’re not usually this forthcoming.”

Goth grinned. “I want to kill him.” The assassin shrieked through his gag. 

“Ah.” Wycliffe walked over to the assassin. “No further explanation needed. Or wanted, for that matter.” He reached down and tore away the gag.

The assassin sputtered. “Let me go! Please, let me go!” He began to sob. 

“Let you go?” Wycliffe spread his hands. “Now, why should I do that?” 

The assassin shuddered. “I did what you told me. Your voice was in my head, man.” He licked his lips. “I shot at you. I missed on purpose, like you said. And then I let…these…things drag me here! I did what you wanted! Let me go.”

Wycliffe stared at the sobbing man. The homeless bum had made the mistake of asking for handouts near the gate just when Wycliffe had been seeking a “volunteer” for the little publicity stunt. 

For just an instant, he felt a twinge of pity.

Goth growled. “You promised him to us.” 

“Yes.” Wycliffe straightened. “I did, didn’t I?” And the failed assassin knew too much. “Very well.” Wycliffe grimaced. “Just…wait until I’m out of sight.”

Goth chuckled, yellow fangs jutting over his lip. Blood-blackened iron claws slid from his fingertips. The homeless man screamed and thrashed at his bonds. 

Wycliffe turned, marched away, and did not look back. 

###

The gray van roared down the South Dakota highway.

Kyle Allard gripped the shoulder strap of his seat belt with both hands. Outside the windows the Great Plains shot by in an indistinguishable blur. “Um…Mr. Regent?” 

“Don’t interrupt me, son,” said Regent, one hand resting on the wheel. He reached up with his other hand and scratched at his tangled beard. Allard darted a glance of the speedometer. The needle hovered around ninety-five. 

“Um…it’s just, you know, I think it might be a good idea to slow down,” said Allard. 

Regent snorted with laughter. “Bullshit! This is South Dakota. How many cars have you seen in the last three hours?” 

“Two,” said Allard. “But that police cruiser…” 

“Idiot,” said Regent. “That was a State Trooper, not a police cruiser. I taught you to tell the difference. They were driving a Ford Taurus. A Ford Taurus. Son, let me tell you what. I’ll bet they’re still sucking our dust and wondering where the hell we went.” 

He was right. The State Trooper had put on his lights and followed them. Regent had just pushed a little harder on the pedal. The van had roared up to about one hundred and eighty miles an hour, and the State Trooper had vanished behind them a short time later. Allard had never seen anything like it.

He shook his head. “What kind of van does a hundred and eighty?” 

“My van,” said Regent. “Built the engine myself.” Allard knew little about cars, but the engine in the van looked like a mechanic’s nightmare. “No one’s ever seen anything like it, let me tell you.”

“But the State Trooper,” said Allard. “He probably got our license plates.”

“Big deal,” said Regent. “I’m planning on changing the plates when we got to New Ulm.”

Allard frowned. “New Ulm? Where’s that?”

“Little town halfway into Minnesota,” said Regent. “Full of Lutherans. Nice folks. Good beer. And get this. They got a giant bronze statue of somebody named Hermann the German.” 

Allard stared at him. Regent’s conversation often rambled over a bewildering array of topics. “You’re kidding me. Hermann the German? What idiot thought of that?” 

“How the hell should I know?” said Regent. “Probably a logo for a beer company or something.”

 “Why are we talking about this?” said Allard.

Regent glared. “You interrupted me. What was I talking about?”

Allard took a deep breath. “You were telling me about Lord Marugon and Senator Wycliffe.”

Regent blinked. “Yeah. Lord Marugon was the last of the Warlocks, you know. The White Council and the Knights of the Sacred Blades had killed all the rest of them. It was a great battle, at the Warlocks’ citadel of Castamar on the edge of the Wastes.” Regent described Marugon’s pact with Wycliffe, black magic in exchange for guns and bombs.

“How do you know all this?” said Allard. “Who are you, really?”

Regent coughed. “Son, I told you. I’m someone Wycliffe and Marugon ruined.” His voice regained its rough edge. “Now quit whining and go to sleep. We’re not getting to Chicago until tomorrow, at least.”

Allard almost jumped out of his seat. “Chicago! Why the hell are we going to Chicago?”

“School’s starting in a week,” said Allard. 

“So what?” said Allard, starting to panic. “Wycliffe’s there, those winged monsters are there…”

Regent rolled his eyes. “Quit whining. After we trashed your apartment and blew up your car, they think you’re dead. And just do as I say and you’ll be fine. Have to make some stops in northern Wisconsin, pick up some stuff before we head south. We’ll have lunch in New Ulm, I think. Get there in another three and a half hours.”

Allard sighed and sank back into his seat. “Three and a half hours? But we’re only halfway across South Dakota.”

Regent grinned and tapped the gas pedal. The van’s engine roared, and the speedometer shot up to a hundred and twenty.

“Oh my God,” mumbled Allard. He closed his eyes. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Regent snorted. “The cigarettes, dumbass.”

“Oh. Right.”  

###

A few days later, the van pulled to a stop a few blocks from a high school in Chicago.

“Here we are.” Regent shut off the engine. Allard licked his lips. He kept expecting one of those winged devils to materialize out of the gloom, fires burning in its eyes…

Regent whacked him on the side of the head.

“Ow!” Allard sputtered and glared at the old man. “Why the hell do you keep doing that?”

“Because you don’t listen,” said Regent. “When you start listening, I’ll stop trying to beat sense into your thick skull. Did you even listen to a word I said?”

“Um,” said Allard. “Um…you said we were here.” 

Regent nodded. “Go on.”

Allard sighed and spread his hands. “Fine. All right. I wasn’t listening. I’m a bit nervous, okay?” He wiped his sweating hands on his jeans. 

Regent’s glare lost its edge. “Don’t blame you, son.” He looked out the windshield. “Lot of bad things have happened to me in Chicago.” His left hand trembled until he balled it into a fist. “To both of us. But that’s in the past. Now shut up and listen to me.”

Allard crossed his arms and nodded. “Okay.”

“First, this high school,” said Regent. “Then a grade school, then the central offices of the Chicago school system. We’re going to steal some records and then destroy them.”

Allard frowned. “Why?” Regent glared. “Hey! I am listening. See? I heard you just say we’re risking our lives by coming back to Chicago and stealing some school records? Did I just hear that right?”

“That’s right,” said Regent. “School records for two kids. Brother and sister. Ally and Lithon Wester. You know why we’re bothering, Allard?”

“No,” said Allard, “but I suppose you’re going to enlighten me.”

Regent grinned. “Damn right. They’re special kids, son, and I don’t mean they’re geniuses or something like that. Lord Marugon wants them dead.”

Allard blinked. “What does that monster want with a pair of Chicago school kids?”

Regent waved a finger. “Because Lithon Wester’s real name is Lithon Scepteris. He’s the heir to the crown and throne of Carlisan.” He blinked. “Hell, the old king’s been dead for ten years. Lithon is the king of Carlisan.”

Allard stared at him. “That Prophecy you told me about, that old Wizard who could tell the future, what’s his name…Al-something…”

Regent’s eyes glinted. “Alastarius. His name was Alastarius.”

Allard snapped his finger. “That’s it! You told me he Prophesied that Lithon would kill Marugon or.” After seeing the winged demons and Colebrook’s transformation, Allard had found Regent’s story of the Prophecy easy to believe. “No wonder Marugon wants him dead. But…but why hasn’t Marugon killed him already?” 

Regent rubbed the scar beneath his beard. “I didn’t quite say it right. Marugon was tricked into thinking Lithon was killed. It’s my job…and your job now, too…to make sure Marugon doesn’t find out that Lithon’s alive.”

Allard nodded. “So we’re stealing school records. To make sure he doesn’t find out.”

“Damn straight,” said Regent. 

“What so special about the other kid, the girl?” said Allard.

“Ally?” said Regent. “Damned if I know. Course, she’s no kid any more. Eighteen now. A young woman. Hell of a beauty. And brilliant. I don’t know, son. There’s something special about her. Something I don’t understand yet.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Marugon won’t find out about her if I have anything to say about it.” He reached back into the van and pulled out a bundle. “This is for you.”

“What is it?” Allard unwrapped it. “Jesus.” It was an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster, small enough to fit beneath his jacket. “It’s a gun.”

“No shit,” said Regent. “Why do you think I wasted all those weeks teaching you to shoot when we were in the Badlands?” 

“But…but…we’re just stealing school records. We’re not going to have to kill anyone!”

“I hope not,” said Regent. “But this is Chicago. The winged demons are here. That black-hearted bastard Wycliffe has been letting them run loose in the city.” He spat out the window. “People have been disappearing. Mostly prostitutes and women from the poorer neighborhoods. Police don’t have a clue. So there’s a chance, a very small chance, we might run into a winged demon.” He pointed at the weapon. “That gun’s been loaded with special bullets. Made them myself. Bullets don’t do much to a winged demon, but these will slow one down a bit. If we see one, you pump it full of bullets. I’ll run back to the van and get one of these,” he pointed at the black, battery-wired spears in the rack, “and finish off the bastard. Built those myself, too. Ram one of those babies through a winged demon’s black heart when the power’s on, and it’ll go screaming back to hell faster than you can watch.”

Allard swallowed. “Boy. You sure give a good pep talk. I’m about ready to crap my pants.”

Regent grinned. “Not in my van, you don’t.” He produced a gun and tucked it under his baggy blue coverall. Allard strapped on his shoulder holster and hid it beneath his jacket. “Let’s go.”

They got out. Regent had painted the van blue in New Ulm, in addition to swapping the license plates. A sign advertising the services of Jim and Bill’s Quality Aluminum Siding hung from the side of the vehicle, alongside a phone number.

“That number actually work?” said Allard. 

Regent nodded, his steel-handled cane tapping against the sidewalk. “Yup. A phone sex place in New Jersey.”

“God,” mumbled Allard. The man had a bizarre sense of humor. “Can’t we take one of those spear things with us?” 

Regent gave him an amused look. “That’ll be a great way to avoid attention. Let’s walk around a school at night with a black spear.”

Allard rolled his eyes. “It was just an idea.”

They walked in silence for a few blocks. Despite his cane and limp, Regent set a quick pace. Soon the blocky bulk of a public high school came into sight. Faint security lights gleamed in the windows.

“This brings back memories,” said Allard. “Prison for kids.”

“Shut up,” said Regent. He hobbled up the stairs and hit the intercom. “You can read, can’t you? A school taught you to read. Not one in twenty people on Marugon’s world can read. And let me do the talking.”

The intercom crackled. “Yes?”

“Yeah, hi,” said Regent. “This is Phil from Meyerson’s Exterminators. We have an appointment to check the basement. I hear you’ve got something of a rat problem.”

“Just a second.” The intercom clicked off.

“Exterminators.” Allard rolled his eyes. “Is that our cover story? What the hell kind of exterminators work at night? That’s the stupidest…”

Regent whacked him on the side of the head. “Shut up. They’ve got summer school here during the day. You want to scare a bunch of parents with exterminators chasing rats? And I told you, let me do the talking.”

A college-age kid in a rent-a-cop uniform appeared at the doors, holding a flashlight in one hand and a textbook of some sort in the other. He had a scraggly goatee and needed a haircut. “Oh. Hey. The exterminators. Dr. Burton told me you’d be by.” He opened the door.

“Yeah.” Regent clumped inside. “Looks like we both got stuck with the night shift, eh?”

“It’s not so bad,” said the kid. He walked towards the front desk. “Plenty of time to catch up on my homework.”

Regent glanced up at the ceiling. “At least you don’t have my job, digging around in garbage to kill a bunch of bugs. Ah, shit.”

The kid frowned. “What?”

Regent waved a hand at the ceiling. “This building has one of those old-style heating systems. We’re going to have to check the vents in every room for any rat droppings. Do you have a key I can borrow? Or do you want to follow me around all night?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” The kid fumbled in his pocket and handed over a key. “This’ll get you in all the rooms. Just drop it off at the desk when you’re done.”

“Damn Cold War schools,” said Regent.

“Yeah,” said kid. “I mean, they even have a bomb shelter in the basement. A bomb shelter. Isn’t that so retro?”

“Sure. Retro. Thanks. Well, we’ll start in the basement,” said Regent.

The kid nodded. “Yell if you need anything.” He returned to the front desk and his textbook. Regent and Allard walked down the dim hallway, rows of lockers standing on either side.