The Destroyer of Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Yeah.” Mary smiled. “Lithon was telling me about it. He’s really excited. I guess it help keeps his mind off things. Is he any good?”

  “Not yet,” said Arran, putting his plate in the sink, “but for his age, he’s very good. I see his potential. He’s very fast. He’ll be better than me, someday. He’ll be better than Sir Liam, perhaps one of the best swordsmen who ever lived. And I’m teaching him to shoot, as well.” He remembered the horrors on the fields outside Carlisan. “A sword is often not much use against a gun. I will teach him pistols; Allard will teach him rifles.”

  Mary snorted. “Allard?”

  “Allard has become a skilled marksman,” said Arran, “better than I am at long range. I must get started. Lithon is no doubt waiting.”

  “All right,” said Mary. “Remember, if you hurt Ally…”

  “Yes, you’ll shoot me,” said Arran, “assuming I do not shoot myself first.”

  ###

  Lithon swung the wooden practice sword in a high loop. Arran parried, turned his own wooden blade down, and caught Lithon’s weapon as it descended in a low swing. Lithon blinked in surprise, and Arran whipped his sword up and tapped Lithon on the side of the head.

  Lithon’s face fell. “You saw through it.”

  Arran shrugged. “It was an obvious feint. A swordsman with any experience would have seen it coming.” He frowned. “Did I teach you that?”

  Lithon shook his head. “I thought of it myself. It seemed like it would work…the high swing flows right into a low one.”

  “It does,” said Arran, “but that will only work if you’re faster than your opponent.”

  “But I am faster than you!” said Lithon.

  “True,” said Arran, “and you’ll be faster yet someday, I think. But you are only fourteen, and I’ve been practicing with the sword since I was half your age. It was a good thought, but I’m taller than you. Even if you had gotten through my guard, a low swing would only have wounded me in the knee or leg. Not bad, certainly, but you’ll want to hit vital spots.”

  Lithon looked thoughtful. “Sword fighting isn’t at all like it is in the movies, is it? That’s all flashy and fancy.”

  “Yes,” said Arran. “Players and actors use all manner of fancy moves and tumbling tricks, but a real fight, when two men try to kill each other, is almost always over quickly.”

  Lithon looked away. “Like when you saved us, killed those winged demons.”

  Arran nodded. “And if a real fight lasts a long time,” he thought of his fight with Khan-Mar-Dan at the edge of the world, “then the first one to make a mistake usually loses. And dies in the process, as well.” He stepped back. “We’re almost done. Let us go through the basic movements one last time.”

  “We already did that,” said Lithon.

  Arran snorted. “And we’ll do it again and again, until your muscles know them better than you do yourself. We shall do them until you can do them without thinking, until they are part of your very reflexes.” He dropped the wooden sword and drew his Sacred Blade. “And we’re going to try something different.”

  Lithon gray eyes got wide. “What are we doing?”

  Arran gestured with the blade. Luthar’s Sacred Blade stood propped in the corner of the attic. “My brother’s sword. Go and see if you can draw it.”

  Lithon shrugged. “Okay.” He went to the corner and drew the Sacred Blade. The silvery steel flashed, and the gem embedded in the blade shone with a faint blue glow. Lithon staggered and put both hands around the hilt.

  “Is it heavy?” said Arran. “Too heavy to lift?”

  “No.” Lithon looked with wonder at the blade. “It was just…I almost lost my balance, because it was so long. It looks like it should be heavier than it is,” he swung the sword in a slow loop, “but it’s not. It’s only a little heavier than the wooden sword.”

  “Good,” said Arran. “That means you have the potential to become a Knight of the Order.” A bit of excitement stirred at the thought. Arran had been the last Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade for years, but perhaps he could train more.

  Lithon looked dubious. “But I’m supposed to be the King of Carlisan, aren’t I? Can I be King and a Knight at the same time? Does it work that way?”

  “Yes,” said Arran. “Five Kings of Carlisan, your own ancestors, have been Knights. King Arkan, called Torchbearer, was both King of Carlisan and Master of the Order of the Sacred Blade. He led the war that freed Narramore and Rindl from the rule of the Warlocks.” He took his Sacred Blade in both hands. “Now, let us…”

  “What’s this?” Lithon pointed at the glowing gem. “Your sword doesn’t have one. What is it?”

  Arran hesitated. “I do not know. It was a gift from my brother. He said it would aid me in my last despair.”

  “Last despair,” said Lithon. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No,” said Arran, “so hopefully I shall not need it, whatever it is.”

  Lithon looked at the Sacred Blade. “I’m going to have to kill him someday, aren’t I?”

  “Who?”

  “Marugon,” said Lithon. “That’s what Alastarius’s Prophecy is about. Me killing Marugon.”

  “Perhaps,” said Arran. “He did say ‘overthrow’, not kill. And the Prophecy does not seem…precise. Alastarius Prophesied that you would bring him back from the dead. I think Conmager assumed that you would raise Alastarius back to life. Instead you saw his spirit, told Ally what to do, and that act brought him back to the mortal realm, if only for a short while. And I spent a long time looking for Alastarius on Earth, and I was really looking for your sister.”

  Lithon looked at the floor. “It frightens me. Marugon would kill me, if we ever fought.”

  “Perhaps,” said Arran again, “but you are only fourteen, remember. You likely will not have to fight him until you are a man.”

  “I want to fight him,” said Lithon, eyes flashing. For a moment he seemed much older than his years. “He killed my parents.”

  “Then I shall do my best to make you ready for that day,” said Arran. He lifted his Sacred Blade. “Enough talk. I shall call out my move, and you shall respond with the appropriate block or parry. Swing high!” He whipped his Sacred Blade for Lithon’s head. Lithon sidestepped and parried with Luthar’s blade, the swords ringing. “Good! But parry with the flat of your blade, not the edge, lest the force of a foe’s blow drives your blade into your own flesh.” Lithon nodded. “Right swing, low!” He swung, aiming for Lithon’s hip. Lithon parried, the swords clanging. “Good. Middle thrust.” Lithon blocked the thrust and stepped inside Arran’s guard, launching a counterblow. Arran pivoted and caught the blow with a low parry. “Improvising. Good! Now, come at me with the basic thrusts and swings. Try not to chop my head off.”

  Lithon grinned. “That would make Ally mad.”

  Arran gave him a look. Lithon attacked, working Luthar’s sword through the thrusts and swings. Arran back around the attic, parrying. Lithon’s progress pleased him. The boy’s blows were still clumsy, but very fast. He would become only better with time.

  Lithon looked over Arran’s shoulder and blinked. “Ally!” He lowered his sword.

  Arran lunged forward. Lithon’s eyes widened, and Arran had his sword at the boy’s neck in a blink.

  “Hey!” said Lithon.

  “A lesson,” said Arran, stepping back and lowering his sword. “Never take your eyes from an opponent, for any reason. Even a very compelling one.”

  Ally snorted. “Flatterer.” She wore jeans and blue button-down shirt, the tail dangling to mid-thigh. “I came up to tell…Lithon!” She rushed forward. “You’re hurt!”

  “Huh?” said Lithon. Arran’s blade had left a small cut in his neck. “Oh. I guess I am.” He put his hand over the cut. “Arran must have nicked me.”

  “My apologies,” said Arran. “I did not mean to wound you.”

  Lithon shrugged. “Oh, it’s okay. I’ll go clean it up.” He sheathed Luthar’s Sa
cred Blade and propped it in the corner. “Thanks for the lesson, Arran.” Arran nodded, and Lithon disappeared down the stairs.

  Ally glared. “You hurt him.”

  Arran shrugged. “It was an accident.”

  “You could have hurt him badly.”

  “It was an important lesson,” said Arran, sheathing his Sacred Blade. He picked up Luthar’s sword and hooked the scabbard to his belt. “He should keep his eyes on his opponent. A drop of blood spilled now may save him from much more harm in the future.”

  Ally sighed. “I guess you’re right. So you’re teaching him to defend himself?”

  “I shall try,” said Arran. “I suspect it will be necessary, given what he will face.”

  Ally shuddered. “We don’t have much of a future, Lithon and I.”

  “No man can see the future,” said Arran.

  Ally raised an eyebrow. “Alastarius did. And look at how well that worked out. He’s dead, my parents are dead, and someday Marugon will kill me too…”

  Arran took her hands in his own. “Do not do this to yourself. I despaired after Antarese and I almost perished. You must not despair. Marugon fears Lithon. He fears you, what you might become. He has tried his utmost to kill you both and failed. That is reason for hope, I should think.”

  Ally stared at him. “Do you think we have a future?”

  “What do you mean?” said Arran.

  “I love you, you know,” said Ally. “And I think you love me.”

  Arran nodded. “The Ildramyn.”

  Ally frowned. “What about it?”

  “It…told me that I would find light and healing, if I could survive,” said Arran. “I think it meant you.”

  Ally almost smiled. “And what I am to you, then?”

  “I…” Arran thought for a moment. “Hope. I had no hope, for a very long time. And now I do.”

  Ally blinked several times, tears in her eyes. “Arran…I…I…” She coughed and looked up at him. “We should go downstairs. Conmager’s probably wondering what happened to us.”

  Arran smiled. “Or what we’re doing.”

  She punched him in the arm. “Pervert.”

  “I don’t know the word.”

  “Oh. Um…lecher?”

  “Ah. I see,” said Arran. “Now you speak like Mary.”

  Ally rubbed her forehead. “Oh, God. Mary. She thinks…never mind that, she’s probably told you what she thinks.”

  “At some length,” said Arran, “and considerable volume.”

  Ally laughed. It did Arran good to see some of the shadows lift from her face, even for a few seconds. “Well, come on. We have things to talk about with Conmager.”

  They went downstairs together.

  ###

  “A terrible, terrible tragedy,” said Wycliffe, shaking his head. The glare of the camera lights irritated him, but he tried not to let it show. “Yes, Dr. Simon Wester did work for me some years ago, from 2003 to 2004, I believe. He left to pursue an academic career, and his wife to write novels. Their deaths are a terrible loss to our community and to the nation.” The Voice buzzed just beneath his words, conveying grief and sympathy.

  The blond reporter leaned forward, her face a mask of sincerity and solemn concern. “Were you and Dr. Wester close, Mr. Vice President?” Wycliffe considered using the Voice to drive her to his bed, but decided against it. It had been weeks since Marugon’s rampage through Chicago, yet the city was still in an uproar.

  He did not need any more controversy.

  Wycliffe put on a thoughtful face. “Not very, I’m afraid. Dr. Wester respected each other as professional colleagues.” He still could not believe how the Westers had hidden Lithon Scepteris for all those years. “I was almost a historian myself, you know. But I vow that the terrorists who committed these heinous acts shall be brought to justice. It will be this administration’s firm policy to protect the American people from such travesties.”

  The reporter nodded. “Do you have any special plans for the upcoming Christmas holiday?”

  Wycliffe laughed. “I’m afraid not. Christmas is going to be a working holiday for President Jones and myself. We’ve got a lot of work to do to combat the corruption that has seeped into every level of American life, and by God we’re going to do it.”

  “Well, that’s all the time we have,” said the reporter. “We’d like to thank Vice President-Elect Wycliffe for taking time out of his very busy schedule to speak with us.”

  Wycliffe smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

  “And that’s a wrap!” called the cameraman. Wycliffe leaned back in his chair and looked around the conference room. A row of lights, cameras, microphones, and other assorted television equipment lined the wall. A horde of television people moved amongst the machinery, and three men in suits hurried up the reporter and began talking all at once.

  “Pardon, but I must be on my way,” said Wycliffe, slipping off his microphone and handing it back to the reporter. “Please speak with Mr. Markham, the office manager. He’ll assist you with removing your equipment.” The producers and the reporters smiled, nodded, and thanked him.

  Wycliffe slipped back into the corridor and headed to his office. Gracchan party functionaries hurried up and down the hallways, all of them stopping when Wycliffe passed. He got to his office and shut the door. Stacks of paper stood scattered around the room and on his desk, a legacy to the chaos of the last few weeks.

  He dropped into his chair with a sigh, stared at the ceiling, and tried to think.

  The official fervor over Marugon’s rampage last month had begun to subside. Neither the FBI nor the CIA nor the Chicago police had had any luck tracking the “terrorists”. Wycliffe supposed that whoever had escaped with the Wester children had covered their tracks very well. A few people still claimed to have seen devils flying in the night sky, but no one of importance believed them. The feds’ investigation had gone cold, and the hordes of journalists and private investigators swarming through Chicago had found nothing.

  And none of them had discovered anything linking that night’s carnage with Wycliffe or his organization.

  But it still worried him. Some link could yet be found. One of the expended bullets traced to a gun, perhaps, or a witness who had seen the winged demons leaving the compound. And Marugon had not yet found Lithon or Ally, and he would rip apart the world to find them. Sooner or later, it would be traced back to Wycliffe. He had so much to keep secret. Between the arsenal in warehouse 13A, the deals with Kurkov’s organization, the Stanford Matthews Tobacco Company (scheduled for full production next year), and the deal with Marugon, Wycliffe had the potential for enormous scandals. Any one of those scandals could destroy him, and not even the Voice could keep Wycliffe's numerous enemies at bay if the truth became public knowledge.

  And if Marugon kept on his course, the truth would come out.

  This led Wycliffe to one inescapable, terrifying conclusion.

  Wycliffe had to rid himself of Marugon. He had not labored for twenty years only to have his efforts destroyed by his partner’s madness.

  Wycliffe got up and paced the office, stepping around stacks of paper. “How? How?” He muttered to himself over and over again, pacing in a circle around his desk.

  Direct confrontation was out of the question. Marugon’s black magic would crush Wycliffe like a bug. And Marugon had the winged demons and the changelings, now numbering over six hundred.

  Wycliffe sighed and looked out the window. Jones’s demand for Secret Service protection no longer seemed unreasonable. But what could Secret Service agents do against the likes of Marugon and Goth? Perhaps Wycliffe could wait until Jones had assumed office. Then he could send military forces against Marugon and the winged demons. The idea appealed to him. He had used Marugon to reach power, and after he had the power, he could use the strength of the military to smash Marugon. Wycliffe could even take credit for smashing a hideous terrorist cell lurking in the heart of Chicago. But that way had risks as well, treme
ndous risks.

  And suppose Marugon blew Wycliffe’s cover even before Inauguration Day?

  The intercom buzzed, and Wycliffe hit the button. “What?”

  “Mr. Vice President,” said a male voice, one of the new security guards he had hired since Marugon’s rampage. “Mr. Kurkov is here to see you.”

  Wycliffe blinked. “Kurkov? Send him in at once.”

  “Yes, sir.” The intercom clicked off.

  Wycliffe sighed and dropped into his chair. With all the trouble, he had almost forgotten about Kurkov’s bomb. At least Marugon had promised to return to his world once the bomb had been delivered. But that damned bomb was yet another scandal in the making.

  The door opened, and Vasily Kurkov strolled into the office, his leather jacket creaking. He smelled of cigarette smoke and liquor.

  “Vasily,” said Wycliffe. “I dearly hope you have some good news for me.”

  Kurkov laughed. “I am the angel of good news.” He sat in the guest chair and put his boots on Wycliffe’s desk.

  “Well?” said Wycliffe. “Out with it already.”

  Kurkov grinned. “The little bomb Lord Marugon wants so badly? It will arrive in Los Angeles in another three days.”

  Tension and relief mixed in Wycliffe’s stomach. “After all these years you’ve spent looking, and all the mess getting it over the Pacific, it’s finally going to arrive?”

  Kurkov looked pleased with himself. “Yes. The freighter left Vladivostok on time. It encountered no storm or squalls while the crossing. It may even arrive at Los Angeles a little early.”

  “Early?” said Wycliffe. “Has hell frozen over?”

  Kurkov snorted. “Hilarious.” He produced a cigarette and lit up. “Yes, yes, let’s make fun of Kurkov, after all my efforts on your behalf.”

  Wycliffe gave him a look. “And how many hundreds of millions of dollars have you made from these efforts? I think your ego can withstand some nettling.”

  Kurkov snickered. “Perhaps.” He flicked some ash onto the carpet. “But I am leaving for Los Angeles tonight.”