A Knight of the Sacred Blade (29 page)

Kurkov stormed into the recreation room, fists clenched at his side. He muttered a curse and dropped into one of the overstuffed leather chairs.

“Problem?” said Wycliffe. 

Kurkov grumbled a long string of curses in Russian. “A problem? Yes, there is a problem.” He looked around. “Do you have any booze in here?”

Wycliffe pointed. “The refrigerator. In the corner, third shelf.” Kurkov stalked to the refrigerator, seized a bottle of dark brandy, and drained a third of it one swig. “You mind telling me about this problem?”

Kurkov wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You sound like a psychologist. Shall we get in touch with our feelings?” He took another drink. 

“Very funny,” said Wycliffe. “What’s prompted you to drink like that? Asides from the sun coming up, of course.” Krastiny snickered.

Kurkov scowled. “There is a problem with the bomb.”

Wycliffe sat up straighter. “What?” He could not keep the alarm out of his voice. “Is it a dud?”

Kurkov drained off some more brandy. “I said before, the bomb works. That mad Pakistani knew how to build nuclear bombs.” He gestured with the bottle. “No. The bomb is fine. But we have a problem with the new freighter I obtained.”

Wycliffe slapped the table. “Out with it already! What kind of problem?”

“The ship’s captain and crew have been arrested,” said Kurkov.

Krastiny blinked. “But why? They came to Vladivostok with an empty hold.” He scowled. “Or so they told us.”

Kurkov took a long drink. “I paid them enough for an exclusive run. But, no, that fool captain thinks he needs to smuggle some narcotics on the side. Some overzealous customs official got lucky and found the stash. And it gets worse. The captain was already wanted for running guns to some Islamic terrorist group in the Philippines. So now the damned CIA has gotten involved. My organization in Vladivostok has to keep a low profile for a while. One of my merchandise warehouses has already been raided. There’s a chance they might find the warehouse with the bomb.”

“Damn it,” said Wycliffe. “That is not good news.”

Kurkov smirked. “Not so funny now, yes?”

Wycliffe struck the table again. “Marugon’s going to be furious. How long before you can risk getting another ship?”

Kurkov shrugged. “It depends. I do not know how long the authorities will search. But it will be a month before I can arrange for another ship, at the very least.”

Wycliffe gaped at him. “A month! That would put the bomb in Los Angeles in late August or early September. That means we have to drive a nuclear weapon across the country during the height of election season!”

Kurkov shrugged. “So what? Nothing links the bomb to you.”

“Trucks crash, Vasily,” said Wycliffe. “Or they get pulled over by policemen. God. This is a disaster that could turn into a catastrophe. And now I have to tell Marugon…”

“He already knows, Senator Wycliffe.”

Marugon stood in the doorway, his expression as black as his dark robes. Krastiny’s hand jerked towards his gun. Kurkov somehow went paler. 

“Lord Marugon,” said Wycliffe. “My apologizes. You startled us.” 

Marugon stalked into the recreation room, his sheer dark power surrounding him like smoke rising from an inferno. “I came to inquire of your progress in locating my nuclear device.” He smirked. “But, it seems I no longer need ask, do I?” He leveled at finger at Kurkov. “Merchant. How long will it take you to overcome these difficulties?”

Kurkov swallowed. “It…is as I have told Wycliffe. A month. A few weeks, maybe. If…things go better than I hope.” His bravado melted beneath Marugon’s glare. 

Marugon turned and paced across the room. “Utterly damnable. I have destroyed everything that stood in my way,” he turned to face Wycliffe, dark eyes narrowed, “and now I stand but one more step, one more step from my goal, and I risk losing it because of the bumbling of a half-wit drunken smuggler and his band of rabble!”

“But what goal is that?” said Wycliffe. “The conquest of your world? You said you destroyed all your enemies.” Did Marugon want the bomb for a reason other than conquest? 

Rage and doubt played over the Warlock’s face for a moment. Then his iron mask returned. “My goals are my own. They matter not to you. For you have your own goals, do you not?” A sly smile touched his lips. “The Presidency. Rule of your nation, the mightiest on your world, the mightiest I have ever seen. For over eighteen years you have pursued that goal. I have a goal I have pursued for even longer.” A bit of fury slipped through his mask. “I am so close. And now it as all at risk! All of it, because of that girl, that woman…”

Wycliffe frowned. “Surely you don’t mean that woman you saw at the dinner.”

“Yes, I mean her,” said Marugon. “She has tremendous potential in the white magic. And yet, I do not think that she knows of her ability. It must be latent…”

“Then what is the difficulty?” said Wycliffe. “If the ability is latent, she would need to learn to use it. You will have your bomb next year at the latest. Perhaps even in five months. Can she really learn enough of the white magic to challenge you in five months? Even if there were anyone left to teach her?”

“I do not know,” said Marugon. “But it matters not. She is a threat. I have not survived this long by ignoring threats.”

Wycliffe leaned forward. “Nor have you survived this long by overreacting to threats, or using a hammer when a needle would better serve.”

Marugon blinked. “No. Indeed not. Have you made any progress towards finding her?” 

“None,” said Wycliffe. He had ordered a few of his campaign research workers do a perfunctory search. Nothing had come up. 

Marugon laughed, his black eyes like pits into nothingness. “So. You do not take me seriously.” The cold energy of gathering black magic thrummed in the air. “It does not matter. You have never encountered a Wizard, never encountered a wielder of the white magic. You could not understand the danger. I shall find her myself.” He looked around. “Ah. I shall need more space.” He turned and swept out of the recreation room.

Silence reigned for a moment.

Kurkov lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. “What the hell is that madman doing?” 

Wycliffe climbed to his feet. “I don’t know.” He hurried into the hallway after Marugon, Krastiny and Kurkov at his heels. Marugon had taken the elevator up to the warehouse. Wycliffe ran to the emergency door, entered the security code into the keypad, and hurried up the stairs, his heart racing. He could feel the black magic gathering. 

What was Marugon doing?  

He entered warehouse 13A’s main floor. Marugon stood in the center of a cleared area before the door to the Tower, head down, arms spread. Muttered syllables rose from his lips. A faint, cold breeze without a source blew through the warehouse. 

Wycliffe stared. “What is he doing?”

Krastiny reached into his coat. “Perhaps we should leave.”

Marugon clapped his hands. “Come to me! I command it!” His words rang like deafening thunder, and the cold breeze rose to a gale. Kurkov’s cigarette went out. Shadows swirled around Marugon in a raging storm.

Krastiny swore. “By God’s teeth!”

Then they cleared, and five people stood in their place.

Wycliffe’s jaw fell open in astonishment. Somehow Marugon had used the black magic to bring them here.

There was a man in a mechanic’s coverall, a fat woman in sweatpants, an old woman, and two teenage boys. All looked confused and dazed.

“What the hell is going on?” whispered the mechanic.

Marugon gestured. “Silence!” The Voice rang with irresistible force. “You have partaken of the Warlocks’ rose. By that power I have summoned you here. You will perform a service for me.” Marugon raised his arms and started to chant. 

Wycliffe recognized the spell. He grabbed Krastiny’s arm. “You might want to go…” Krastiny and Kurkov stood still as statues, their eyes fixed on the spectacle.

Marugon finished the spell. 

The people started to scream, their clothes crumbling to dust. Wycliffe watched as the transformation came over them, their limbs thinning, their skin turning gray and leathery, claws sprouting from their fingers and toes. Krastiny muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Wycliffe could not believe the sheer power of black magic Marugon had displayed. 

Soon five gibbering, snarling changelings huddled at Marugon’s feet.

“Heed my command!” said Marugon. “You will find a woman. My spells have placed her image into your minds. It will burn there, tormenting you, until you find her. And you will know her when you see her. You have senses beyond the mortal, beyond the physical. The white magic burns within her like a slow flame. You are gifted with stealth and the ability to blend with shadows, and you will remain unseen. Find her. Find her!” Marugon’s Voice rose to a roar. A dozen light bulbs exploded overhead.

The changelings turned, gibbering, and raced for the exit, claws clacking against the concrete. 

“Dear God,” muttered Krastiny. His face had gone a soggy white. “Dear God.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Wycliffe, but his voice shook. “It’s not really our concern.” Both Krastiny and Kurkov looked squeamish, and Wycliffe felt a burst of concern. Suppose Kurkov decided to back out of their deal? 

“I think,” said Kurkov, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands, “that I shall call my associates in Vladivostok. Immediately. If that…if that man wants a nuclear bomb from me, then he will have a nuclear bomb.”

Wycliffe agreed. He still could not believe the level of power Marugon had displayed. The sooner Marugon was back on his own world, the better. 

Marugon turned and paced away, head bowed in thought.

“I think,” whispered Krastiny, “that I’m about ready to retire.”

###

Ally shot up, stifling a shriek. A storm of images washed through her mind. For a moment she saw a dark man, robed in black, shadows dancing around his fingertips. Hideous things of nightmare, their eyes burning red, groveled at his feet. The robed man pointed at her and shouted a command.

The monsters leapt at her, claws reaching for her face. 

Then the vision faded into darkness.

Ally shuddered and bit her lip. She looked around the cramped room. The sounds of traffic on the streets of Rome washed through the window. She could hear someone talking in Italian on one of the hotel’s balconies. 

Mary shifted besides her, muttering into her pillow. “Ally?”

Ally rubbed her face. “Yeah?” 

Mary sat up. “Are you okay?” Her eyes opened wider. “You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?”

Ally shook her head. “No. I…just want a drink of water, that’s all.” 

“Oh.” Mary huddled into the blankets. “Really?”

“Really,” said Ally. “Go back to sleep. Dad’s going to show us the Coliseum tomorrow.” 

Mary closed her eyes. “Probably will lecture the entire time.” 

Ally laughed. She climbed out of the bed and padded to the tiny little bathroom. She glanced in the mirror and almost jumped. For a moment she saw a gray-skinned leathery thing lurking behind her, black tongue lolling over its razor teeth. 

Ally shook her head. “A dream.” She poured a glass of water, drank it, and went back to bed. “Just a dream.” 

Chapter 21 - Return to the Tower

Year of the Councils 972

Silence hung over the Forest of Rindl.

Arran inched forward and peered around the mossy boulder. Faint shafts of golden sunlight stabbed through the giant trees, covering the forest floor in alternating patterns of light and shadow. A rough road crawled between the massive trunks. Ten years ago the road had been raw and new. Now weeds and wildflowers poked up from the dirt, and Arran suspected the forest would consume the road in another few years. 

He needed a horse.

Arran crept forward another inch. He had a clear view of the black-uniformed soldiers’ encampment at the base of a huge oak. Four of them sat around a fire, eating their evening rations. Another leaned against a trunk, half-dozing, a Kalashnikov across his lap. 

Five horses stood tethered a short distance from the camp.

Arran waited as the forest got darker and the shadows grew longer. The gunmen finished their meal and went to sleep, while the guard got to his feet, grumbling and pacing. Arran wrapped himself in his cloak and crawled forward an inch at a time.  

The guard never glanced in his direction. 

Arran reached the horses and pulled his knife from its sheath. He crept through the horses, slashing ropes as he went. He reached the last horse, cut its ties, and vaulted into the saddle. The beast stamped at the earth but did not cry out or run. Arran drew a gun from his holster, pointed it at the earth, and squeezed the trigger.

The bang shattered the silence. The horses screamed and bolted in all directions, and the soldiers bolted awake with shouted curses. Arran got his mount under control and galloped towards the soldiers’ camp. The gunmen scrambled for their weapons. One shouted and leveled his weapon at Arran.

Arran galloped through them like a wind, his Sacred Blade a crimson blur in his hand. He struck one soldier down, trampled another, and then broke free, riding like a wind along the road. The soldiers cursed, fired into the air, chased their horses, and did everything except catch him. 

Arran coaxed more speed from his new mount and soon left the terrified gunmen far behind.

###

He rode all through the night and most of the next day, only stopping when his horse’s flanks began to heave with exhaustions. By then the great grim wall of the Mountains of Rindl had come into sight. Arran set the horse loose, and it grunted and trotted away, no doubt glad to be rid of him.

If nothing else, Arran had become a very good horse thief during the last ten years. 

He climbed the foothills for the rest of the day, and passed the weathered milestone where he and Sir Liam had fought the seeking spirit bound into the corpse. Arran shivered with the memory. The thing would have recovered and sought out Lithon. 

He hoped Sir Liam had survived the creature. 

Night came, a cold mountain wind wailing over the barren stone. Arran found a small cave, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went to sleep.

###

Arran stood on the mountain ledge and looked at the Forgotten Vales. 

The Vales stretched for hundreds of miles, their hills and plains mantled in swirling gray mist. The crumbling towers and shattered domes of ruined cities rose out of the fog like islands in a sea. Far beyond the Vales, Arran glimpsed the jagged line of the Broken Mountains. 

Beyond these empty, haunted Vales and those jagged mountains lay the desolate expanse of the Crimson Plain. And on the Crimson Plain stood the Tower of Endless Worlds. Arran had crossed a continent twice to come this far, and now the Tower stood only a little farther out of reach…

“Find Alastarius on Earth,” he muttered. 

The mournful wind swept his words away. 

Arran climbed down the steep path, his boots clicking against the wind-blasted stone. Arran remembered the tales Sir Liam had told of the Forgotten Vales. The Black Council and the White Council both had arisen in these lands, millennia ago, in a forgotten kingdom of mighty towers and glittering domes. The war between the Councils had destroyed the kingdom, and wraiths and restless spirits prowled the ruined cities, bound forever by their regret and guilt. Arran, Sir Liam, and King Lithon had passed through this land years ago. He did not want to remember that journey, nor the way the wraiths had hunted them…

He froze. 

The mountainside leveled out into a small plateau below, before the land broke up into jagged foothills. An encampment of green canvas tents perched on the edge of the plateau, ringed by wooden crates and canvas sacks. A small grenade launcher stood on a tripod near a tent. 

“Soldiers,” muttered Arran. It made sense for the gunmen to have a camp here. Marugon’s caravan route through the Tower passed through these lands. Arran drew one of his guns and continued down the path, taking care to remain unseen behind the worn boulders. 

Soon he reached a boulder not fifty feet from the camp. Arran crouched behind it, his eyes peering over the edge. The flaps of the tents rippled in the wind, but nothing else moved. Arran waited some more, his ears straining against the low moan of the wind. 

The camp looked deserted.

Arran debated with himself for a moment and made up his mind. He drew his other pistol and started forward, eyes darting over the tents and crates. No one appeared to challenge his approach. Arran strode to the center of the camp and looked around.

“Deserted,” he said. 

No one answered him.

Had the wraiths of the ruins claimed the gunmen? Arran sheathed one pistol and pushed open the flap of the nearest tent. A bedroll lay on the earth, alongside a smoking brazier. The embers in the brazier looked recent, no more than a few hours old. 

He turned and entered the other tent. Neat stacks of weapons, ammunition, and provisions stood inside. Arran took the opportunity to claim some bullets and grenades for his arsenal, and helped himself to some rations. He did not know how long the passage through the Tower would take. 

He ducked back outside, his gun raised and ready. What had happened to the gunmen? Had Marugon or Styr-Mar-Dan ordered this camp abandoned? Arran had seen signs of neglect throughout the High Kingdoms. Perhaps Marugon had only wanted revenge, not conquest…

A strange, low rumbling tugged at his ears. 

It sounded like nothing he had ever heard before. 

It came from the path leading down into the Vales. The sound was coming closer. Arran cursed, looked around, and ducked behind the crates. As the sound drew closer it sounded more like a droning whine mixed with angry rumbles.

A strange green vehicle with black wheels rolled into the camp, windows of glass gleaming on its sides. It looked somewhat like the four-wheeled carriages the high nobility of Carlisan had once used. But this carriage had no horses. Arran watched as the vehicle rolled into the center of the camp, the strange noise coming from its front half. The vehicle lurched to a stop, and the grumbling noise faded away. A door on the side of the carriage opened, and a ragged young man in the black uniform of Marugon’s soldiers climbed out, a pistol at his hip. He looked around and walked to one of the tents. 

Arran hard at the strange vehicle. Could it move under its own power? How fast could it go? 

An idea began to form in his mind. 

Arran stepped into the open and leveled his gun at the tent.

The soldier soon reappeared, munching on a piece of jerky. He coughed when he saw Arran, bits of half-chewed meat spewing from his lips, and scrambled for his weapon.

“Hold!” yelled Arran.

The soldier started to draw his weapon.

Arran fired. The bullet ricocheted off the ground, spraying rock chips across the soldier’s boots. “I said hold, damn you!”

The soldier nodded, still clutching the half-chewed piece of jerky. “What…what do you want of me?” 

“Take off your gun belt and drop it to the ground,” said Arran. The soldier obeyed. “Step away from it.” The soldier raised his hands and took a step back. 

“Listen,” said the soldier, his voice a terrified croak. “If you’re a deserter, I care not. Things have gone to hell since Antarese fell. I…I was thinking of deserting myself. If you let me go, if you don’t kill me, I will keep my silence.”

“I’m not a deserter,” said Arran. “You’ll answer some questions for me, and then I’ll be on my way.” 

“Not…a deserter?” The soldier’s eyes focused on the Sacred Blade hanging from Arran’s belt. “Then who…oh, gods save me. That’s a Knight’s sword. You’re a Knight.” Arran nodded. “But…but you can’t be a Knight, we killed, we killed all the Knights…”

Arran grunted. “Stop babbling. I want some questions answered.” 

The soldier nodded, lank hair falling over his face. “Very well. Just…just don’t shoot. What do you wish to know?”

“How many of you are here?” said Arran.

“I am alone,” said the soldier. Arran raised an eyebrow. “I speak truly! There were four of us. But Belvaerz and his brother found a gold coin outside one of the ruined cities. They went treasure-hunting in the ruins and never returned. Damned wraiths got them, I deem. And a ghoul on the Crimson Plain got Martaen.” He shuddered and went paler beneath his beard stubble. “I suppose he’s joined their number now.” 

Arran tried not to think of it. Suppose Sir Liam and Lithon had met a similar fate? “What is your purpose here? What are your orders?”

“We’re…I’m to watch for caravans from the Rindl Mountains and ones coming from the Crimson Plain. We’re to guide them through the Vales, showing the safe paths.” He spat. “But there are no safe paths in this land. The gods forsook this country a long time ago, I think.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” said Arran, remembering his own journey through the Forgotten Vales. He jerked his head at the green carriage. “And that. What is that?”

The soldier blinked. “That? Oh. That’s my jeep.” 

Arran frowned. “A…jeep, you said? What is a jeep?” 

The soldier coughed. “Um…well…I’m not entirely sure.”

Arran scowled. “Then describe it to me.”

“Lord Marugon's caravans brought some over from Earth. It’s…like a carriage, you know, the kind those oh-so-proud lords used to ride about.” The soldier scratched his chin. “But it doesn’t have horses.”

“How does it move, then?” said Arran.

The soldier pointed. “There some sort of machinery in the front compartment. It moves the jeep.” He spat and made a sign to ward off evil. “But I think demons live in the machine and move the jeep. You have to feed them the burning water, else the jeep doesn’t move.”

“Burning water?” 

The soldier pointed at a row of large metal cans. “Burning water. It came from the other world, too. It looks like water, but it is poisonous. It gives off fumes that cloud the mind, and burns like the fires of hell if it touches flame.”

“That’s oil,” said Arran. 

“I still think it’s burning water,” said the soldier.

“I see,” said Arran. “This jeep. How fast can it travel?”

“With great speed,” said the soldier. “Many times faster than the fastest horse.” 

Arran nodded. “How long can it travel this fast?”

The soldier thought for a minute. “Oh…perhaps half the day. Until the tank with the burning water runs out. The demons get very thirsty when they travel that fast, I suppose.” 

“Have you often traveled across the Vales in this jeep?” said Arran, trying to mask his growing excitement. 

“Twice a month. Orders,” said the soldier. “I drive to the pass through the Broken Mountains, watch for caravans for a few days, then drive back to this camp. The jeep can’t make it through the pass, so I don’t go to the Crimson Plain or the Tower.” He shivered. “Not that I would want to go there.”

“How long does it take to reach the pass?”

The soldier shrugged. “About half a day. Sometimes a little more or less.” 

Arran gaped. “Half a day?” It had taken him and Sir Liam two and a half weeks to cross the Forgotten Vales. “By all the gods. Half a day.” He locked gazes with the soldier. “Very well. What is your name?”

“Tarrager.”

“We shall make a deal. I need to reach the pass through the Broken Mountains. You will take me there in the jeep.”

Tarrager frowned. “Why would a Knight want to go there?”

“It’s not your concern,” said Arran.

Tarrager’s eyes widened. “You’re going to the Tower, aren’t you? Gods. You don’t want to go there. Or to Earth. They’re both bad places.”

Arran shifted his grip on his gun. “You’ve been through the Tower? You’ve been to Earth?”

“Once,” said Tarrager, “when that old bastard Kaemarz still ran the caravans. Gods…the Tower. I still have nightmares about it. I don’t ever want to go back there. And the Plain’s just as bad. The ghouls always got somebody, no matter how many guards we put out.”

“You’ve been to Earth,” said Arran. He’d forgotten to ask Kaemarz about the other world. “What’s it like?”

Tarrager frowned. “I was only there once. It’s a big room. Strange lights on the ceiling. And big wooden boxes everywhere.” He shivered. “I saw Lord Marugon there. And his apprentice.”

“Marugon has an apprentice?” said Arran. 

Tarrager flinched. “I think so. A fat man in funny clothes, with strange lenses of glass over his eyes. And the winged devils were there. Dozens of them.”

Marugon had taken the winged ones to Earth? “I’ve passed through worse dangers just to get here. You will take me to the pass in your jeep.”

Tarrager drew himself up. “What’s in it for me?”

Arran laughed and hefted his gun. “I don’t shoot you.” 

Tarrager sputtered. “But…but if you kill me, then who will drive the jeep?”

Arran shrugged. “I can walk. I’ve crossed the Forgotten Vales on foot before.”

Tarrager nodded. “All right.”

Arran gestured with the gun. “Gather food supplies and put them in the jeep. Also ensure that we have enough of this burning water to reach the pass, and enough for you to return.” 

Tarrager got to work, loading food rations into the jeep’s back seat. He then grabbed one of the metal cans and poured it into a hole in the jeep’s side. The liquid within did look a great deal like water, though it put off a bad smell. Tarrager finished filling up the jeep with the burning water, and then loaded another can into the backseat.