The Tower of Endless Worlds (4 page)

“Why would Marugon attack you?” said Liam. “The tribes were no threat to him. His enemies, the Knights and the Wizards, are south in the High Kingdoms.” 

Targath’s lips twisted. “The last of the Warlocks did not come to wage a war on us. He came for revenge. He came to annihilate. We were long a thorn in the Black Council’s side, and we fought alongside the Knights and Wizards to overthrow the Black Council. Marugon did not come to conquer. He came to destroy.” 

“How did you wind up here?” said Liam. 

 Targath sighed. “We fled the battle once we saw there was no hope against the power of the guns. We came here to take refuge in the Mire.”

Liam shook his head. “This is no place for women and children. Come south to Carlisan. I will prevail upon the King to provide you with lands.”

Targath shook his head. “No. We will not beg.” He waved his arm over the expanse of the Old Mire. “This land is not so different from the bogs near the Wastes. It is a hard land, but we are a hard people.” 

“I hope you are right, my friend,” said Liam. 

“Marugon comes for the High Kingdoms now,” said Targath. “How goes the war?”

Liam grimaced. “Badly. Narramore has fallen.”

Targath’s breath hissed through his stained teeth. “That is ill. Marugon will do to Narramore what he did to us.”

“The war is not yet over,” said Liam. “Six of the High Kingdoms yet stand, as does the White Council and the Order of the Sacred Blade. The hosts of the High Kingdoms march, and the White Council has gathered for war. We will strike back at Marugon, and drive him back into the Wastes.” 

“Your hopes cheer me,” said Targath, “but I fear they are empty. You have seen the power of the guns. I can see that in your eyes.” Liam nodded. “I do not think the Wizards and the Knights will prevail against Marugon.”

Liam scowled. “Would you have us surrender, then?”

“No. For Marugon desires not surrender, but destruction,” said Targath. He shook his head, strands of silver hair brushing his blue-painted face. “I think Marugon will do to the High Kingdoms what he did to the tribes. He wishes to destroy them. And with the guns and bombs and liquid fire, he can do it.”

“Come with me,” said Liam. “There is yet hope. Your warriors can do much against Marugon’s rabble…”

Targath laughed, his voice bitter. “Did you not listen to all that I said, Sir Liam? We are defeated. Most of our tribe lies dead, their bodies shredded by bullets. There is nothing left for us in this war. We came to the Old Mire as a last resort. Marugon’s wrath will destroy the world. We shall stay here, and hope Marugon’s fury passes us by, for we cannot stand against it.” 

“That is despair,” said Liam.

“And we have despaired,” said Targath. His eyes were distant. “You will understand, once Marugon destroys Carlisan, as he will.”  

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Very well,” said Liam. “I think your choice is folly, but I cannot choose for you. I ask only this of you. Show me the way out of this swamp. I must move with great haste, and have been delayed too much as it is.”

Targath gave him a brief nod. “I will aid you, Liam Mastere, for you have always been loyal friend to the tribes. What is your errand?”

“I came to the Border Woods to collect a force of five hundred footmen and bring them to Castle Bastion,” said Liam. He clenched a fist. “The gunmen found them first and killed them all.”

“A grievous blow,” said Targath.

“My companion, Sir Adrian, tried to ambush a courier,” said Liam. “He was slain, but I managed to kill the courier. I read his letters. Marugon expects Castle Bastion to fall within three days.” 

Targath looked troubled, but shrugged. “Castle Bastion is a strong fortress. But Marugon’s bombs will rip down the walls, and his guns will slay the men within. Castle Bastion cannot stop him.” 

Liam gripped Targath’s arm. “The entire White Council has gathered at Castle Bastion under Alastarius himself. If he thinks Marugon can take Castle Bastion…”

Targath’s lips thinned. “Then he has a way to kill the Wizards. The guns, of course.”

“But how?” Liam shook his head. “The Wizards have their magic. They can protect themselves from the bullets.” Though Wizard in the meadow had been slain. Perhaps the bullets had finally overwhelmed his magic. “And their spells could sense Marugon’s gunmen coming from miles away. Marugon’s only hope is to ambush them…”

Targath flinched. “He may have the means to do so.”

“How?”

“Three hours before we found you. We saw dark shapes over the Mire, flying to the west. That is why we moved the camp. We feared Marugon had found us, and sent his minions of the black magic to destroy us.” Targath rubbed his bow. “It seems he had another target in mind.”

“Then I must get to Castle Bastion as quickly as possible,” said Liam. 

Targath grimaced. “I can lead you to the edge of the Old Mire, but no further. I dare not risk bringing Marugon’s attention to my tribe. We have suffered too much already.”

“I understand.” Liam climbed back into the saddle. “But we must make haste! If Castle Bastion falls, if Marugon slays the Wizards…” He did not want to think of the consequences.

Targath nodded. “We shall move with all speed. This way!” 

Chapter 4 - The Interview

Anno Domini 2002

Simon walked through the university’s parking lot, a bundle of papers tucked under his arm. He unlocked his van’s door and settled inside, spreading the papers over the passenger seat.

Simon looked at the first paper, an estimate from a body shop, and grinned. The mechanics thought they could fix it up the van for only six hundred and fifty dollars. That would leave Simon with $4,300 from the check. He considered returning the excess money to Senator Wycliffe and dismissed the idea. 

Simon had bills he needed to pay. 

He turned over the next paper, his smile fading. Simon had voted for Senator Wycliffe, but he knew practically nothing about the man. Simon’s studies and his employment difficulties had kept him occupied and oblivious to current events. If Wycliffe offered offer him a job, Simon wanted to know more about his potential employer. So he had booked a library computer and done some quick searches on a news server. 

The results had been unsettling. 

According to the articles, Wycliffe headed a firm known as Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping. He had made a fortune seven years ago in commodities with Demeko-Kurkov, a Russian company. Wycliffe bought meat and cloth in bulk, and sold gold in tremendous quantities. No one quite knew how he made his money. The EEC, the FDA, and the FBI had all launched investigations into Wycliffe’s businesses, and all three agencies had come away empty handed. Simon paged through the article and shrugged. So what if Wycliffe had found an unusual way to make money?

Simon turned to the next article, which detailed Wycliffe’s rising political career. He had been elected to the House of Representatives in 1998, after his opponent committed suicide two weeks before the election. Wycliffe had then run against Senator James Fulbright in the 2001 election. Simon remembered that. It had been all over the news. One of Fulbright’s ex-lovers had gone on a rampage before killing himself. Fulbright lost the election, shot himself in the head, and Wycliffe took office pledging to undue the damage caused by the scandal.  

Wycliffe had won two elections by his opponent’s suicide. Very weird. It sounded like something out of a gangster movie. And Wycliffe had made most of his fortune trading with Demeko-Kurkov. A few of Simon’s articles argued that the Russian mafia, actual gangsters, dominated Demeko-Kurkov. 

So just what had Wycliffe done to make his money?

Perhaps Simon should just take the money and forget about Wycliffe. Simon stared at the check, sweat dripping down his face. 

“Why not?” Simon started the van, put it in gear, and drove for the address on Wycliffe’s card.

###

Forty minutes later, Simon looked at the card. “This can’t be right.”

He drove down a street lined with abandoned warehouses on either side. Broken glass gleamed in the windows, and weathered stacks of pallets and rusting forklifts stood behind chain-link fences. Colorful graffiti layered the warehouses’ walls. Simon looked back and forth. This did not seem like a good neighborhood, or a safe one. A bit of fear tugged at his stomach. Had Wycliffe’s business card been some sort of a scam? 

He turned a corner. The ruined warehouses continued on one side of the street, but a huge walled compound stretched along the other side. Simon saw warehouses, silos, and trailers rising over the roll of barbed wire topping the wall. 

It matched the address on Wycliffe’s card.

“This can’t be it,” muttered Simon. He pulled over to the curb and squinted. A dusty sign marked “Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping” hung over the compound’s gate. Simon shrugged, shut off the engine, and locked his doors. He hoped no one would try to steal his van.

He snorted. Only a truly desperate thief would try to steal his van. 

He walked to the chain-link gate. Barbed wire glinted over the gate and walls, and a pair of wire cages enclosed security cameras. Simon looked around. Maybe the public entrance was on the other side.

“Hey!” 

A hulking man in sunglasses and a security uniform leaned out of a booth next to the gate. “What are you doing here?”

“Um.” Simon made a hesitant wave at the gate. “I’m here to see Senator Wycliffe.”

“Name?” 

“Simon Wester.”

The guard tapped an earpiece and mumbled into a microphone pinned to his collar. “I see.” He looked at Simon. “You’re expected.”  The gate rattled open. “Third building on the right, off the main lane. Don’t go poking around.”

“Ah…sure.”  Simon strode inside. He tried not to wince as he heard the gate clang shut behind him. 

Despite its grim appearance, the compound bustled with activity. Forklifts rattled back and forth, carrying massive crates. Every building had a truck dock, and a flatbed truck laden with barrels rumbled past. He went to the third warehouse on the right and knocked. No one answered. He waited for a moment, then pushed open the door.

To his surprise, he found himself in a pleasant waiting room lined with office doors. A glass coffee table stood in the center of the room, covered with current magazines. Overstuffed leather chairs and couches stood against the walls. Soft classical music played over speakers hidden in the ceiling. 

A lean, middle-aged man in a business suit, his black hair streaked with gray, stood near the table, a coffee mug in hand.

“Can I help you?” 

“Um.” Simon felt underdressed. “I’m here to see Senator Wycliffe.”

The man in the suit smiled. “Of course. Mr. Wester?”  Simon nodded. The man held out his hand, and Simon shook it. “Patrick Markham, Senator Wycliffe’s office manager. The Senator is meeting a potential investor, but we expect him back soon.”  He pointed at counter with a coffeemaker and a mini-fridge on the far wall. “Help yourself to some refreshment while you wait.”

“Thanks,” said Simon, and Markham disappeared through one of the doors. Simon helped himself to a mug of coffee and sank into an overstuffed leather chair. A wave of weariness washed through his muscles. He had stayed up too late last night. He took a long sip of the coffee. He didn’t want to fall asleep during his meeting with Wycliffe. 

One of the doors opened, and Wycliffe strode inside, a laptop case over his shoulder, Markham trailing after him. 

”A Simon Wester is here to see you, Senator,” said Markham

“Thank you, Markham.” Wycliffe stopped and smiled. “Ah. Mr. Wester. So you did take up my offer.”

“Yeah,” said Simon. He blinked. “Whatever it was.”

“We’ll get to that,” said Wycliffe. “Was the check enough to cover the damages to your van?”

“More than enough,” said Simon. He hesitated. “Do you want the rest…”

Wycliffe waved his hand. “Not at all! Consider it compensation for time and trouble. I’ve no doubt you’re a busy man.” He opened a door on the left. “Now, I’d like to continue our discussion.”

“Sure,” said Simon. He followed the Senator down a short hallway, through another door, and into a large office. Potted plants and several filing cabinets rested against the wall. A large mahogany desk dominated the room. A young woman bent over the desk, her eyes focused on the computer monitor. 

Simon could see right down the front of her blouse. 

“Ah, Ms. Coldridge,” said Wycliffe. The woman glanced up. She had green eyes and a pale, stern face. “It’s better, I assume?”

The woman smiled. “All better, Senator. The database server just needed a reboot, that was all. And once we’d updated the web server to handle the new scripts…”

Wycliffe raised a hand. “All over my head, I assure you. Mr. Wester, this is Katrina Coldridge. She keeps the computer systems running.”

“A thankless job, let me tell you.” She shook Simon’s hand. Her grip made his hand hurt, and he tried and failed not to wince. A tiny smile flickered across her lips.

Wycliffe laughed. “Thankless? You don’t need thanks, my dear. I pay you entirely too much as it is.”  She laughed. He handed over his laptop case. “Would you mind having one of your people look this over? I had a bit of an accident the other day, and I want to make sure it wasn’t damaged.”

“Sure.” She slung the case over her shoulder. Simon’s eyes strayed over her legs, displayed to good effect by her black skirt. “Have a good day, Senator.” 

“Nice meeting you,” said Simon. She didn’t notice as she strode out of the office. 

Wycliffe sat behind his desk. “Take a seat.” Simon sat. “A wonder, our Ms. Coldridge. She maintains Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping’s computer systems with an iron fist of efficiency. We’d have a devil of time without her.”  He cracked his knuckles. “I suppose you’re wondering why I invited you here.”

“It did cross my mind,” said Simon.

“After our encounter, I took the liberty of calling your advisor Dr. Francis at the university,” said Wycliffe.

Simon almost fell out of his chair. “How did you find out she was my advisor?”

Wycliffe waved his hand. “Oh, I just placed a few phone calls. I do have some influence, you know.”  The hair on the back of Simon’s neck prickled. “I told her I was a potential employer, and that you had mentioned her as a reference.” 

“What did she say about me?” said Simon. 

“Quite a few good things,” said Wycliffe. “Diligent, dedicated, a good writer, and a good public speaker…with a tendency towards insufferable haughtiness. Her exact words.”

Simon sighed. “Sounds like her.”  Dr. Francis had told him as much many times. 

“I was surprised at the public speaking part.”  Wycliffe leaned back in his chair. “You tend to sputter, I’ve noticed.”

“It’s person to person,” said Simon, “or if I get flustered. If I have to speak before a crowd, and if I can prepare, I can do it. But, frankly, why do you care? I’m nobody. You’re a Senator.”

“Right to the point? Good.” Wycliffe folded his hands on the desk. “I want to hire you.”

“Doing what?” said Simon. “Sweeping floors, cleaning toilets, or handling freight? I’ll pass.”

Wycliffe chuckled. “You’ve a little too much education for that, I think, despite the modern opinion that the study of history is less than useless. No, I have other tasks in mind for you. I want you to write articles, pamphlets, campaign planks, and speeches. To put it simply, I want to employ you as a public relations man. Think you can do that?”

“I…sure,” said Simon. “But that sounds like a full time job. I have studies.” 

Wycliffe waved a hand. “You’re too used to the notion of work coming in eight hour shifts with a half-hour lunch break in the smoking lounge. No, I will give you assignments. You may work on them here or at home as you prefer.”

“But my classes,” said Simon. “I have one semester of classes left, then I just have to finish my dissertation.”

“By no means do I wish to disrupt your education,” said Wycliffe. “We can work around it. I understand that your dissertation is on the role of the Roman army in the collapse of the Empire?” Simon nodded. “I rather look forward to reading it. You will let me read it, won’t you?”  He grinned. “If you work here, that is.” 

Too much had come at Simon too fast. “How much are you offering for this?”

Wycliffe leaned back in his chair. “Seventy-five thousand a year.” 

Simon blinked. His jaw almost fell off its hinges and hit the carpet. “Seventy-five thousand?” He could not imagine making that much money in three years, let alone one. 

“I won’t go any higher than eighty,” said Wycliffe. 

“I didn’t think congressional aides got paid that much,” said Simon. 

Wycliffe smiled. “I prefer to hire all my people myself. You will be working for me, not the government. The government does provide a staff and office for all congressmen and senators. However,” he grinned, “I have money of my own. I hire all my own aides, people I can trust, and maintain offices here and in Washington at my own expense. It makes for an excellent PR boost. Not spending the taxpayers’ money on curtains for my office and all that.”

“I can imagine,” said Simon. 

“So, will you consider my offer?” said Wycliffe. “Educated men, truly educated, are an increasing rarity these days. You would make a useful asset. And it’s not one-sided. This would make an ideal job for you, given your circumstances.”  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “What do you say?”

Simon swallowed. Something about Wycliffe unsettled him. And what if the Senator had made his money through illegal means? But Marchson Appliances probably had slave-labor plants in Bangladesh. The gas station he had worked at during high school had broken numerous labor and food-sanitation laws. Simon had to work somewhere. And he could not afford to pass on Wycliffe’s generous offer.

“You seem uncertain,” said Wycliffe.

“I don’t know,” said Simon. “It…just seems too good to be true.”

Wycliffe laughed and slapped the desk. “Mr. Wester, I am too good to be true. A poor boy from Chicago grows up and becomes a Senator? If that’s not the American dream, then what is? Why, it’s almost as if there’s a hint of black magic about my story! I’m offering you a chance, Mr. Wester. I suggest you take it.” 

Simon frowned. Wycliffe was right. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” said Wycliffe. He stood and extended his hand, and Simon shook it. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Wester. You will not regret this.”

Simon looked at the shorter man and nodded. “I hope not.” Some of his doubts dissipated. Wycliffe was a politician, and he couldn’t risk ruining his career in a scandal over shady activity.

Besides, Simon doubted that Wycliffe had been involved in anything truly nasty.