The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

Sir Luthar Belphon’s head exploded in a spray of brains, blood, and twisted steel. He fell from the back of his charger and hit the paved street, his armor clattering.

  “Luthar!” screamed Sir Arran Belphon. His horse galloped another thirty feet before he could stop. “Luthar!” He spun his horse around and thundered across the scorched ground to his fallen brother.

  Another explosion shook the city, sending the smell of sulfur and burned flesh into the air.

  Arran could not believe the devastation that surrounded him. Five years ago this had been the Royal Square of Carlisan, capital city of the greatest of the High Kingdoms. Five years ago the Temple of the True Gods had stood at one end of the Square, the high tower of the White Council at the other end, and the Scepteris Palace had towered like a mountain over the city. Five years ago the Knights and the White Council had broken the might of the Black Council. Lord Marugon, last of the Warlocks, had fled across the Crimson Plain and vanished into the Tower of Endless Worlds. The winged demons, the Black Council’s allies, had been driven into the Wastes.

  Peace had reigned.

  Now the Square stood in ruin, the high tower of the White Council smashed, the Temple a heap of rubble, and the Scepteris Palace in flames. Men bearing guns, hell-machines that spat burning death, had slaughtered the Wizards of the White Council. The winged demons had swarmed out of the Wastes, armed with more of the infernal guns. Marugon himself had returned from some distant world, bringing hell-forged war machines of terrible power. And now Carlisan stood in ruins, its white walls and towers smashed by Marugon’s guns.

  Much had changed in five years.

  In his twenty years, Arran had never seen such horrors.

  A man in the black uniform of Marugon’s gunmen stepped out from behind a heap of rubble. A long black gun, the kind the gunmen called a Kalashnikov, rested in his hands. He grinned down at Luthar, gloating over his kill.

  With a cry of rage Arran spurred his horse forward, his shield raised, and drew his Sacred Blade. An aura of blue power flashed around the razor-sharp steel.

  The soldier spun, contempt flashing across his unshaven face. He raised his weapon and fired. The first salvo shredded Arran’s shield, blasting it to wooden kindling. Arran jerked the reins to the side. The second salvo shot past his shoulder, the bullets brushing against his shoulder plates.

  The gunman aimed for a third salvo, but by then it was too late for him. Arran's Sacred Blade flashed down in a blaze of blue flame and took off the gunman’s hands. The soldier screamed, staggering, and Arran whipped his sword around and decapitated the gunman.

  His brother remained motionless, blood spreading beneath him.

  “Luthar!” said Arran. He dropped his ruined shield, slid from his saddle, and ran to his brother’s side. “Luthar!”

  Luthar’s face, its lean, dark-eyed features so similar to Arran’s, gazed up in a mask of astonishment. The bullet had shredded the back of his skull, driving the shards of his helm into his head. Blood pooled on the paving stones beneath his ruined helm. Luthar’s Sacred Blade, its blue glow extinguished, lay besides his body.

  “Luthar,” whispered Arran. A sob choked out the rest of his words.

  Arran took his Sacred Blade in both hands and stood. He would stand over his fallen brother, stand until Marugon’s soldiers and their accursed guns swarmed over the city’s ruins. He would raise a ring of fallen enemies until the hated bullets shredded his flesh…

  “Sir Arran!”

  Arran blinked through his tears. “Sir Liam?”

  A Knight on a black horse galloped towards Arran, his gleaming armor coated by ash and blood. The hilts of two Sacred Blades rose over his shoulders. The Knight reined up, staring down at Arran with hard gray eyes.

  “Sir Arran,” said Sir Liam Mastere, the only Knight who could wield two Sacred Blades in battle. “You must come with me.”

  “Luthar’s dead!” said Arran.

  “I know,” said Liam, his voice tired. “I’m sorry, Sir Arran, but you must come with me.”

  Arran shook his head. Another explosion rumbled through the city. “No. I can’t leave him. I’ll avenge him.”

  “You must ride with me at once,” said Liam.

  “No!” said Arran. “I will not leave my brother! I will fight here until…”

  Liam slapped Arran across the face with an armored gauntlet. “Come to your senses, young Knight! Your brother is dead! You are not. Will you stand here and die, or will you yet do some service to your King and your Order?”

  “What?” said Arran, his jaw stinging.

  “Prince Lithon Scepteris yet lives,” said Sir Liam. “He and his older sister, the Princess Anna, wait at the western gate with an escort of Knights. It is the King’s wish that we escort them from the city at once.”

  Arran bristled. “Then we are to run from a battle?”

  “The battle is lost!” said Liam, his face darkening. “The city is lost, the High Kingdoms are lost, and I fear the world is lost! But we yet have a chance to save something.” He clenched a fist. “Master Alastarius made a Prophecy before Marugon killed him. He said that if Prince Lithon were saved, then not all would be lost. I need your help, Arran. I cannot get Lithon out of the city by myself.”

  “Alastarius?” Arran remembered the old Wizard, the Master of the White Council. Among all the Wizards, only Alastarius had possessed the gift of Prophecy. “He…he said that?”

  Sir Liam nodded. “Throw your life away if you wish, but decide quickly. I do not have long to tarry.”

  Gunfire echoed through the streets, followed by a chorus of screams. Arran looked down at his brother’s body. “I’ll come.”

  “Good man,” said Liam. “Hurry!”

  Arran paused and took up Luthar’s Sacred Blade. He could not wield it, of course – all Knights, save for Sir Liam, could only wield one Sacred Blade at a time. Yet Arran did not want to leave his brother’s sword for Marugon’s accursed gunmen.

  “Hurry,” said Sir Liam as Arran climbed into his saddle. “The way to the western gate is clear, but not for long.”

  Arran nodded and put spurs to his horse.

  They galloped through the streets of Carlisan. Fires raged in most of the houses, and bullet holes riddled their walls. Heaps of corpses lay at the corners, blood seeping from their wounds. The survivors staggered back and forth, their faces dazed and stunned. One bloody woman, her clothes brunt and ragged, knelt in the street and tried to bury herself. Another explosion rocked the city, and chunks of flaming rubble rained around them. Arran winced and raised an armored hand to cover his face, pebbles and shards of burning wood bouncing off his breastplate. He heard a long salvo of gunfire, followed by a cacophony of agonized screams.

  Arran gritted his teeth and followed Liam.

  The wreckage of the western gate loomed before them. The doors had been thrown down and smashed, flames dancing over their ruined timbers. Corpses lay strewn across the ground. The sickly stench of burned flesh hung over the square, over all Carlisan, like a funeral shroud.

  Sixty Knights, battered and sooty, sat atop their chargers. Arran’s heart sunk. Five years ago there had been five thousand Knights to defend the High Kingdoms against the Warlocks and winged demons. Now Sir Liam could only find sixty to guard the Crown Prince of Carlisan?

  A young woman sat atop a gray palfrey, a wailing toddler cradled in her arms. Arran recognized Princess Anna and her younger brother Crown Prince Lithon. When Arran had seen Anna last, she had looked radiant and majestic in her gown and jewels. Now she seemed just another huddled refugee slumped over her horse.

  “Knights!” said Sir Liam, reining in his horse. “The King has commanded that we conduct his heir from the city with all speed.”

  “So, we are to run from our foes, then?” said a Knight with a blood-crusted helm and breastplate.

  “It pains me,” said Liam, “but we have no other choice. The King has commanded…”

  A deafening thunderclap drowned out Liam’s
words. The ground bucked and heaved, and Arran struggled to keep his horse under control. Anna’s palfrey whinnied, and two Knights rushed to her and the toddler’s side. Arran spun his horse around and gazed towards the heart of the city. A huge ball of flame and smoke rose from where the Scepteris Palace had stood. Even at this distance, Arran could feel the fireball’s heat.

  He wondered if Lord Marugon had brought the end of the world.

  “My brothers,” said Liam, voice shaking. “I suspect that Crown Prince Lithon is now King Lithon.” Anna stifled a sob. “We must take the King and his sister to safety. Who will ride with me?”

  “I will!” said Arran, lifting his Sacred Blade. The other Knights took up the cry. The glow of sixty Sacred Blades outshone the burning light of the Scepteris Palace’s ruin.

  Sir Liam put spurs to his horse. The other Knights followed him, Anna secure in their midst. They galloped through the ruined gate and into the scorched farmlands surrounding Carlisan’s battered wall. The horses’ hooves kicked up puffs of gray ash.

  “To the west!” said Sir Liam, pointing with his glowing swords. Marugon and his hell-machines had come from the west.

  For the first time, Arran wondered where Sir Liam planned to take the young King.

  They thundered down the western road. Carlisan burned in its death throes behind them. Torn and blasted corpses littered the countryside, once the mighty armies of Carlisan. Five hundred of Marugon’s men armed with the Kalashnikovs had slaughtered a hundred thousand swordsmen, pikemen, and archers. Clouds of black smoke drifted over the battlefield, some of it rising from burning corpses.

  “Ahead!” said Sir Liam. “Prepare…”

  Gunfire ripped down the road. Four Knights fell from the saddle, blood bursting from their torn armor.

  Arran wheeled his horse around. A dozen of Marugon’s soldiers blocked the road, Kalashnikovs in their hands.

  “Charge!” said Sir Liam. “Ride them down!” Three more Knights died, bullets shredding their bodies. Screams of agony, the thunder of the guns, and the shriek of tearing metal filled the air.

  “For the King!” screamed a Knight, a moment before a bullet pierced his helm.

  Arran spurred his mount forward, his Sacred Blade flashing. The Knights gave a great cry and charged. Anna and the child, caught in their midst, rode with them.

  The gunmen shifted their aim and began mowing down the Knights. Arran gritted his teeth and tried to control his skittish mount. A horse screamed and died as bullets thudded into its body. Arran wondered if they would all die before they could reach the gunmen.

  The gunmen ceased fire. They dug through their belts, pulling out small black boxes and jamming them into the guns.

  “They are out of bullets!” said Sir Liam. “Quickly, before they reload!”

  The surviving Knights thundered at the gunmen. Arran began to mutter the oath of the Knight of the Sacred Blade. “A Knight protects the King. A Knight fights against treachery and fends off injustice. A Knight sheds blood for his brothers...”

  The gunmen snapped their weapons back up and fired.

  Princess Anna’s chest disintegrated. Her horse screamed and reared back, and a salvo of bullets thudded into the horse’s flanks. The animal teetered and began to fall, King Lithon clutched in the arms of his dead sister.

  “No!” said Arran. He leapt from his saddle and snatched the King from Anna’s arms. The horse gave a final scream and fell. Arran jumped back from the dying animal, clutching the King to his armored chest with his free hand.

  A black-uniformed soldier stepped forward, weapon raised. Arran spun, his Sacred Blade flashing in a sapphire blur. He cut the gun in half with a spray of sparks. The gunman snarled an oath and yanked a Glock from his belt. But before he could raise the weapon Arran drove his blade through the gunman’s throat.

  He spun around, looking for new enemies.

  None of the gunmen remained standing. Arran lowered his sword, his breath burning in his throat. Dead men and horses carpeted across the road. Of the sixty Knights that had ridden out with Liam Mastere, only thirty remained standing.

  “Sir Arran!” Sir Liam galloped over, Sacred Blades covered in blood. “The King! Is he…”

  Arran looked down at the screaming toddler. “He’s alive.”

  “Thank the gods,” said Sir Liam.

  “But Princess Anna is dead,” said Arran.

  Sir Liam looked at the Princess, crushed beneath the body of her horse. A spasm crossed the old Knight’s face. “Damnation,” he whispered. “Damn them all, Arran.”

  Arran managed a nod. “Sir Liam.” The old Knight gazed down at the Princess's corpse. “Sir Liam, we must hurry.”

  Sir Liam glanced up, blinking. “Yes…yes, you’re right. Here, I shall take the King.”

  Arran handed King Lithon over to Sir Liam and climbed back into the saddle.

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