The Destroyer of Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ally shrugged. “So?”

  “You’ve performed the spell twice before,” said Conmager.

  Ally scowled. “So what?”

  Conmager shrugged. “I could train you, and you could practice. Or you could sit in your room in the dark and brood.”

  Ally pushed her dirty hair out her face. She could not remember the last time she had showered. “I think I’m entitled to sit and brood, if I want to.”

  Conmager looked unperturbed. “True. But do you really want to?”

  She glared at him. Conmager stared back, face calm, and she finally looked away. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “You should mourn,” said Conmager. He smiled, his eyes sad. “But the dead are dead, Ally. You are not.”

  Ally did not want to think about that. “So what did I do wrong?”

  Conmager tapped his cane against the floor. “The white magic is based upon regeneration, not will. You tried to force the bowl to move. That is the use of the will. You need to summon the white magic with your spirit, not drive it with your will”

  Ally frowned. “What is the difference?”

  Conmager coughed. “If you summon the white magic with your spirit, it will accomplish your desire. Yet the will is about dominance and force. Thus, they are incompatible.”

  Ally grumbled. “That is so obtuse.”

  Conmager chuckled. “I said much the same to Alastarius, years ago. Yet it is the truth. Perhaps I should put it a different way. The black magic is the magic of entropy, decay, erosion, crumbling. Despair, really. It is the magic of the self and the will. The white magic, on the other hand, is centered in the spirit, not the will. It is the magic of harmony, regeneration, growth, healing. Hope as opposed to despair. A spell of the black magic would compel the bowl to move through sheer force of will. But a spell of the white magic would move the bowl by giving it energy, not forcing it.”

  Ally thought about it. “That…makes sense.” A strange memory surged through her. She remembered standing on a rock in the forest, Conmager sitting at her feet. She told him of the will and the spirit…

  “What is it?”

  Ally shook her head. “Alastarius told you that, didn’t he? Years ago.”

  Conmager frowned. “How did you know that?”

  Ally ignored his words and tried to focus her mind. She muttered the incantation, her hands shaping the gestures of the spell. The white magic flooded into her mind, filling her blood with warmth. She did not try to force the bowl, but instead poured some of the fire from her blood into it.

  The bowl floated off the table, trembling. It rose a few inches and fell back to the wood with a thump.

  “Very good,” said Conmager. A momentary flush of pleasure broke through her apathy-clouded mind. “But what did you remember?”

  Ally blinked. “What did you mean?”

  Conmager waved a finger. “You get that expression when you remember something strange.”

  Ally scowled. “Now you sound like Mary.”

  Conmager chuckled. “True. What did you remember?”

  Ally stared into space. “It…I…was standing on a rock. You were sitting on the ground, listening to me. I was telling you everything you just told me, almost word for word.” A pain tugged at her head. “And I was…a man. It’s bizarre, remembering myself as a man.”

  “You seem to have received some of Alastarius's memories, in addition to his powers,” said Conmager.

  Ally shivered. “How many of his memories?”

  "I don't know,” said Conmager. “How far back can you remember? As yourself, not as Alastarius.”

  Ally stared at the floor. “I woke up on a dead plain. The Crimson Plain, I think. Then the soldiers found me. I can remember nothing before that. Nothing.”

  Conmager nodded. “So you remember nothing of how Alastarius’s powers came to you?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?” said Conmager.

  Ally’s temper flared. “I can’t remember! All right? I can’t remember!”

  Conmager watched her. “Perhaps you’re blocking the memories, as you did before.”

  “Maybe I want to,” said Ally. “I remembered something and looked what happened. My parents…my parents are dead. God only knows what will happen if I remember more.”

  “The remembering may have saved your life,” said Conmager. “The spell you cast, the spell that drove off the winged demons and the changelings. Cast it again.”

  Ally frowned. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” said Conmager.

  Ally stared out the window. She caught a glimpse of Arran prowling amongst the barren trees. “I can’t, all right? I don’t know why. It…Lithon told me what to do, and the incantation sort of popped into my mind…and I just did it. It seemed like…the right thing to do. I don’t know why I worked, and I don’t know how I did it.” Such a feat of white magic now seemed miles beyond her grasp.

  Conmager leaned forward, dark eyes keen. “You knew how to cast the spell because Alastarius knew. Some of his memories passed on to you, we know that. What if his knowledge of the white magic came to you as well?” He tapped his temple. “The knowledge of the spell rested within your mind. You were only blocking it, I think. It was your power, your need, that called the spirit of Alastarius.” He looked thoughtful. “It seemed as if he had more to tell us. I suspect you sent him back.”

  Ally stared at him. “Why would I have done that?”

  “Because you did not want to hear what he had to say.” Conmager hesitated. “It has been difficult for you, I have no doubt of that…”

  “Oh, how perceptive!” She looked back out the window. Arran continued on his patrol, moving with the grace of a stalking cat. She found it both frightening and compelling to watch him.

  “But you did not want to remember,” said Conmager, folding his arms. “You still don’t. That is why you have blocked the memories…”

  Ally stood and scowled. “I don’t want to talk about this any more. I’m going back to bed.” She stalked past Conmager, stormed up the stairs, and did not look back.

  ###

  “Ally.”

  Ally groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets tighter. “Go away.” She did not want to wake up.

  Grief and pain filled the waking world.

  “Ally!”

  She cracked open and eye. “What?”

  Lithon stood over her bed. A pale ray of moonlight illuminated his grim face.

  She sat up. “What is it?”

  He tugged at her shoulder. “You have to come downstairs.”

  Her frown widened. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “You know those gray things we saw,” said Lithon, “you know, with red eyes and skinny arms…”

  Ally felt a chill. “The changelings.”

  “Yes, them,” said Lithon, twitching with impatience. “One’s in the woods. You have to come downstairs. Conmager and Arran are watching it. If it finds us, we have to run.”

  “Oh God.” Raw fear bit at Ally’s stomach. “I’m…I’m not even dressed. I can’t run, not again.”

  “Then you should hurry up and get dressed. I’ll wait for you in the living room.” Lithon disappeared through the door and shut it behind him.

  Ally climbed to her feet, shaking. All her clothes had burned with her parents’ house, but Conmager had purchased new ones. She reached into a battered dresser and pulled on a sweaters, jeans, and boots. Something dark passed over the moon, throwing her room into darkness. For a terrible moment Ally thought it was a winged demon, but it was only a cloud.

  Ally shivered and hurried downstairs.

  The living room was dark. Arran and Conmager kneeled on the couch, staring out the front windows. Allard stood by the front door, an Uzi ready in his arms. Mary sat in the shadows behind him, another gun resting in her lap. Both Arran and Conmager held Glocks, and even Lithon held a gun.

  “What is it?” said Ally, creeping forward.

  “Hush!�
� said Conmager. He gestured at the windows. “Watch.”

  Ally knelt besides Arran, her knees sinking into the cushions. He smelled of gun oil and smoke and sweat. She felt safer besides him, though she could not say why.

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Here.” He pressed a pair of heavy binoculars into her hands. “Lift them slowly. Look at the driveway, where it wends past the large tree.”

  Ally nodded and raised the binoculars. A shimmering image of green light danced before her eyes. Arran had given her night-vision binoculars. She turned them, scanning the driveway, and froze.

  “Yes,” said Conmager, his voice a low rasp. “You see it.”

  A changeling stood a hundred yards away, half-hidden beneath the trees. The creature took a few steps forward and stopped, staring at the house. Ally lowered the binoculars, her heart hammering in her chest, sweat beading on her forehead. “Why is it here?”

  “Looking for us, I’d imagine,” said Conmager. “I’m not surprised.” He lifted his cane and muttered something under his breath. “Marugon has imbued it with a spell of seeking. He’s probably done the same for all the changelings. No doubt hundreds of them seek us, driven on by the black magic.”

  “Hundreds?” said Ally. “My God. We’ve got to run before the rest of them find us.”

  “There’s no need to fear, not yet,” said Arran, voice low. His dark eyes glinted with the moonlight reflecting off the snow. “We can kill this one, if it comes for us, and have plenty of time to escape.”

  Conmager snorted. “There may be no need to flee. The wards may turn it back, destroy any memory that it ever found this place.”

  “Then let us hope they work,” said Arran.

  They sat in silence for a long moment, Ally’s heart thundering like a drum. Even without the night-vision binoculars, she saw the changeling across the moon-lit snow, a dark blotch beneath a barren tree. She could almost feel its red eyes on the house, staring into her.

  “This is my fault,” muttered Allard. “My fault. I handed out the cigarettes, I let them…”

  “Shut up,” said Conmager. He tensed, propped his pistol against the back of the couch, and took aim. “It’s not working. Sir Arran. Can you manage a shot through the head at this distance?”

  “I should,” said Arran, closing one eye and sighting down his Glock’s barrel, “unless there is a branch or some other obstruction that I cannot see.”

  “All five of us should shoot,” said Allard, “one of us is bound to hit the poor bastard.”

  “Very well,” said Conmager. His hands tensed around his gun. “On the count of three.” Ally braced herself for the gunshots. “One, two…”

  “Wait.” Arran lowered his pistol. “It’s moving.”

  “No.” Conmager grinned. “It’s leaving.”

  Ally watched as the changeling staggered away. It moved with a drunken, looping walk, its head lolling back and forth. It vanished down the snowy driveway and did not return.

  “It worked.” Conmager slid his gun back into its holster. “The wards turned it back. It will regain its senses in a few hours. By then it will have wandered miles away. And it will have no memory of this place.” He shrugged into his coat and picked up his cane. “I’ll go back on watch.” He disappeared out the front door.

  “God. That scared me half to death.” Mary stood and handed her gun to Allard. “I’m going to go cook something.”

  Allard snickered. “That’s what you always do when something bad happens. You go and cook something.”

  Mary snorted. “You have a problem with that?”

  Allard grinned. “It keeps me fed, doesn’t it?” They moved towards the kitchen, still talking. Lithon hurried after them.

  Ally slipped away from them. “I’m going back to bed.”

  “Wait.” Arran moved towards her, a dark shadow in the dim room. “You have not eaten all day. Mary told me. You should eat something before you go to bed.”

  Ally scowled. “I’m not hungry.”

  Arran stepped closer. “You must keep up your strength. We need you.”

  Ally shook her head. “No, you don’t. Alastarius’s Prophecy was about Lithon, remember? He’s the one that’s supposed to overthrow Marugon.”

  “But the Prophecy said Lithon would bring Alastarius back…”

  “And he has, hasn’t he?” said Ally, thinking of Alastarius’s shade. “And he’s still the one who will overthrow Marugon, Alastarius or no Alastarius. It’s…it’s…” She stared at Arran, and suddenly she had one of her premonitions, her insights. Of course, those premonitions must have come from the white magic locked inside her skull. “Conmager needs Lithon, not me. But you need me.”

  Arran blinked. “I do not believe that is true. Lithon will need…”

  “You need me,” said Ally. Arran fell silent. “Find Alastarius on Earth. That’s what Siduri told you, wasn’t it? Find Alastarius. Find me, his heir, on Earth. You had no other choice, save to kill yourself. The guilt and the despair drove you across your world, through the Tower, and here to Earth. And now you’ve found me, as close to Alastarius as you will ever get. You need me. Without me, you have no purpose.”

  Arran looked away. “You cannot understand.” A muscle in his jaw trembled. “It…”

  “I understand just fine,” said Ally. “I saw my parents die, remember?”

  Arran glared at her. “As did I. Marugon’s soldiers overran my family’s estate. My mother perished in the fighting. My father was slain in the battle outside Carlisan’s walls.” His voice was as cold and dead as the ice outside. “I saw my brother die, only a few feet away, and I could do nothing to save him. And Carlisan was destroyed. The High Kingdoms were destroyed. You saw your parents die. I saw everything destroyed.”

  “Everything you ever loved,” whispered Ally. Even in her own pain, she still flinched to see the raw agony in Arran’s eyes.

  “I thought to find Alastarius on Earth, to demand answers from him,” said Arran. “He would tell me about his damned Prophecy. And then I met you, this beautiful young woman who knew so much of my world.” He shook his head. “And I was really looking for you all along. Find Alastarius on Earth. No. Find Ally Wester on Earth. And I did.” He stepped closer, looking down at her. “You are right. You have become all that I have left. Lithon is my King, but you are my purpose.” He put his hard strong hands on her shoulders. “I cannot let any harm come to you. I cannot.” His grim face cracked for a moment, showing such pain that Ally wanted to comfort him. “I will protect you to my last breath.”

  “I…” Ally swallowed. Tears welled up in her eyes. She wanted somebody to protect her. She wanted to fall against him and weep into his shoulder. “I…good night, Arran.”

  She turned and hurried up the stairs, feeling Arran’s eyes on her back.

  Chapter 3 - Hate and Black Magic

  Anno Domini 2012

  Arran knocked the snow from his boots and his cloak. A low wind whistled past him, sinking a chill deep into his clothes and bones. He pushed open the kitchen door and stepped inside, weapons thumping against legs. Some leftover food sat on the counter, and Arran ate a piece of cold bacon as he slid out of his cloak and coat. He heard laughter coming from the living room.

  Allard lay sprawled on the couch, a sandwich in hand, watching the TV. Its glass screen showed something called a “sitcom”. It reminded Arran of the shows of traveling buffoons that had wandered the High Kingdoms in his youth.

  Allard groaned. “Don’t tell me it’s my turn already.”

  “It is.” Arran leaned against the wall. “At least it’s stopped snowing.”

  “Small comfort,” said Allard, climbing to his feet. His coat and gun lay in the corner. “Time to go freeze myself for another eight hours.”

  Arran looked at Allard’s Uzi. “You shouldn't leave that lying around.”

  “Hey, some of us like to relax at the end of the day.” Allard tugged on his coat. “I suppose you’re going to go upstairs and s
wing that thing,” he waved a hand at Arran’s sword, “around in circles.”

  “More or less,” said Arran. “I prefer to be ready. Lying about and watching televised buffoons is hardly the way to maintain readiness.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Allard picked up gun and checked the ammunition clip.

  “Where’s Conmager?” said Arran.

  “In the barn, enchanting more bullets,” said Allard. He slung the gun over his shoulder and opened the front door. “We used up most of them in Chicago.” He stepped outside. “Well, enjoy working yourself to a threat.”

  “Try not to freeze to death,” said Arran. Allard smirked and disappeared out the door. Arran strode upstairs and looked around. The bedrooms were empty. He reached up, grabbed a chain dangling from the ceiling, and pulled it. A collapsible wooden staircase swung down from the ceiling, and Arran climbed into the attic. It ran the length of the farmhouse, sunlight filtering through a dirty skylight. Asides from a few boxes stacked in one corner, the spacious attic lay empty. Arran had begun using the space to practice his sword work. He did not want to lose his edge in the relative peace of Conmager’s safe house.

  He stopped.

  Ally stood at the far end of the attic, barefoot in black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Her arms blurred in a flurry of punches. As he watched, she spun and kicked at the air, foot level with her face.

  She stopped. “Oh.” Her leg lowered. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I just came up,” said Arran. “I can leave, if you wish.”

  “No, no.” She wiped sweat from her forehead. “It’s fine. I was almost done, anyway.”

  “Do you practice often?” said Arran. She had told him of the martial arts she knew.

  “Yeah,” said Ally. “I always used to practice an hour every day. Now…it’s more like three or four. Asides from Conmager’s lessons, I don’t have much else to do.” She shrugged. “It passes the time. And it keeps me from thinking too much.”

  Arran nodded. “I understand. It is good that you practice.”

  Ally shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” She smirked. “I always thought I could take care of myself.” A tremor entered her voice. “Turns out that I couldn’t.”