A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Very well,” said Goth. He turned and departed, his leather jacket creaking with his stride.

  Wycliffe scowled and headed for his office. Some days he wished Marugon had never left him with Goth and the winged demons. True, they were useful, and could eliminate opponents with remarkable celerity. Yet they liked to satisfy their appetites, and they often made a tremendous mess doing so. Wycliffe suspected that a large percentage of Chicago’s unsolved murders in the last year could be traced back to Goth and his kin.

  And even after all these years, the winged demons still made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They were like rabid wolves. If he didn’t have the black magic to keep them at bay, Wycliffe knew they would turn on him and devour him.

  A woman waited outside his office door.

  He smiled. “Miss Louis. I’m so pleased that you could make it.” She stood by his office door, iPad and notepad in hand.

  Miss Louis smiled. “I almost didn’t. Your security men are…very thorough.”

  Wycliffe unlocked the office door. “They are, aren’t they? I admit, the whole Hell’s Angels look almost threw me. But they’re very…effective and very professional.” He opened the door and flipped the light switch. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  Miss Louis strode into his office. Wycliffe watched her and smiled. The winged demons were not the only ones with appetites. He had been busy the last year, and he hadn’t indulged himself for a long time.

  He locked the door behind him and settled in his office chair.

  “Well,” said Miss Louis, opening the voice recorder app on her iPad. “We might as well get started…”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” said Wycliffe. “You won’t need to record anything”

  Miss Louis blinked. A nervous smile tugged at her lips. “Why…why not?”

  “Because I will dictate each and every word in the interview,” said Wycliffe.

  Miss Louis laughed. “My memory isn’t that good.”

  “You’ll have some help,” said Wycliffe. “But first, I want to relax. Take off all your clothes and come over here.”

  Miss Louis’s eyebrows knitted in a scowling frown. “What the hell?”

  Wycliffe offered her his best smile. “Oh, come now. You surely must find me attractive. Take off your clothes and come to me.”

  Miss Louis stood, glaring. “That whole thing about the interview was bullshit, isn’t it? This is a seduction. And a bad one, I might add. Most guys have the class to buy me a drink and flowers first. Good day, Senator. Rest assured my editor will hear about this, at length, as will my lawyer.” She turned to leave.

  Wycliffe smiled and summoned the full force of the Voice’s black magic. “Stop.”

  She froze. Wycliffe watched her tremble as she struggled against his will.

  “Turn around.”

  Miss Louis turned, trembling. “What…what the hell is this? What are you doing to me?”

  “You needn’t know,” said Wycliffe. “Take off your clothes.”

  Her hands jerked to her jacket, pulled it off, and began undoing the buttons of her blouse. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I…I can’t stop.” She began to cry. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

  Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Do shut up.” Miss Louis’s jaw clicked shut. Her blouse joined her jacket on the floor. “And enjoy yourself. Wait…that’s not too likely, is it? Pretend to enjoy yourself, then.”

  Miss Louis’s lips peeled in a wide grin, her eyes wide and terrified, as she undid her bra and slid out of her skirt.

  ###

  “You will then conclude the interview,” said Wycliffe. “Describe how you were impressed by my sincerity and integrity and so forth.”

  Miss Louis managed a nod, her hair tangled, her clothes rumpled, her eyes glassy.

  Wycliffe smiled. “That’s a good girl. Don’t worry, in a few hours you won’t remember any of this.” He considered the timing for a moment. What would Goth do to her in five days? He thought about it and shuddered. But suppose he could turn it to his advantage? If she did a favorable interview with him, and then was found dead a few days later…

  Miss Louis twitched every now and then.

  “A few more instructions,” said Wycliffe. “There is an abandoned parking fifteen blocks west of here. Five days hence, you will drive there alone and in secret…”

  He drove the instructions into her mind with the Voice, the black magic tangling like icy needles in his throat. Her face twisted with horror until he buried the instructions deep in her subconscious, a technique he had developed after years of practice with the Voice. She would follow his wishes, even if she could not remember why.

  “Now,” said Wycliffe, the Voice vibrating in his words, “carry out your instructions, and remember only those things I have told you to remember.”

  The woman’s eyes fluttered. An expression of profound bewilderment crossed her face. “Senator…”

  “Ah, but I’ve kept you most of the morning,” said Wycliffe. “You should have enough material for a remarkably thorough article. Or so I should hope.”

  “I…the interview?” said Miss Louis.

  Wycliffe leaned forward, frowning. “Are you feeling quite all right? You look a bit pale.”

  Miss Louis stood, blinking. “I…you know, I feel…I feel…I don’t know. Just not right.”

  “Well, it’s been quite a long night,” said Wycliffe. He almost smiled. “You’ve likely worn yourself out. Go home and get some rest. You’ll feel better then.” He thought of Goth.

  She would not feel better for long.

  Anne Louis nodded, and Wycliffe watched her face. He saw the memories struggling to break free from her subconscious, but the power of the Voice kept them at bay. “I…thank you, Senator. For everything.”

  Wycliffe smiled and rose to his feet. “The pleasure, I assure you, was entirely mine.” He shook her hand. She shook back and then withdrew her hand as if she had touched something filthy.

  He watched Anne Louis retreat into the hallway.

  A pity Goth would kill her.

  He dropped back into his desk chair with a contented sigh. It had been a most enjoyable evening and early morning, but he was tired. He would go down to his bunker under 13A and sleep for a few hours. Then the demands of the campaign waited.

  Wycliffe smiled and rapped his knuckles on the desk. Vice President of the United States of America. Who would have ever thought?

  The wall intercom chimed. Wycliffe glared at it, considered ignoring it, and got up and hit the switch. “Yes?”

  “Sir, it’s Thomson in 13A,” said a rough male voice. “There’s a caravan at the door.”

  Wycliffe frowned. “A caravan? But there aren’t any caravans coming…” He snapped his fingers. “Wait. Goddamn it. That’s last month’s caravan, isn’t it? They’re a week and a half late.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Thomson. “Should I let them in?”

  “Do they have a good reason for being late?” said Wycliffe.

  “They say portions of the Tower corridors became inaccessible for some reason,” said Thomson. “They had to take the long way around.”

  “Very well,” said Wycliffe. “Let them in. I’ll be in the bunker if anything else comes up…”

  “Sir? There is one more thing,” said Thomson.

  Wycliffe heard the disgust in the freight handler’s voice. “What?”

  “One of those stinking dog-faced things came with the caravan,” said Thomson. “It says it has a message for you from Mr. Marugon.”

  “An imp,” said Wycliffe. “Very well. I’ll be there momentarily.” He hoped Marugon’s messenger had good news. With the campaign coming up, he did not need any complications. He checked his appearance in the mirror, retrieved his shoes from under the desk, and headed for warehouse 13A.

  The interior of 13A bustled. Marugon had sent close to a hundred men and four times as many donkey-pulled wagons on the caravan. The black-uniformed soldiers unloaded sacks of go
ld from their carts, while Wycliffe’s freight handlers loaded guns, bullets, grenades, uniforms, and the assorted other baggage required by an army. Thomson stood on the platform by the opened door to the Tower, barking orders at everyone in sight.

  “Thomson!” Wycliffe climbed the stairs to the door’s platform. “What news?”

  Thomson leafed through a sheaf of papers. “Everything on the list is present, but…”

  “Well?” said Wycliffe. “But what?”

  Thomson pointed. Six black wooden crates stood in a neat stack. Each had been marked with Marugon’s sigil of a burning eye and a clawed hand. Marugon’s men took care to give the boxes a wide berth. So did Wycliffe’s freight handlers.

  “What,” said Wycliffe, folding his arms, “are those?”

  “Got me, sir,” said Thomson. “They came extra. According to the wagon drivers, Mr. Marugon personally ordered these boxes sent along.”

  Wycliffe heard a claw tapping against the metal floor. An imp sat huddled on the corner of the platform, a rolled scroll cradled in its claws.

  “Well, Gloaming,” said Wycliffe. “I see you have found your way to Earth once more.” Thomson scowled in disgust and stalked off.

  Gloaming hissed and bowed. “My master Lord Marugon of the Wastes sends greetings to you, Lord Wycliffe of Chicago.”

  “You have something to tell me, I assume?” said Wycliffe.

  Gloaming bowed again. “Gloaming does. He has news and messages for Lord Wycliffe. Does Lord Wycliffe have flesh, fresh flesh, for faithful Gloaming?”

  Wycliffe grimaced and thought of Goth. “You devils are all alike. I may have something for you, if I like your messages. First the news from your world.”

  “Great news,” said Gloaming. “Antarese has fallen to my master’s men.”

  “Antarese?” said Wycliffe. “You mean the last of the High Kingdoms?”

  “Yes,” said Gloaming. “My master’s men destroyed Antarese with their guns. They killed the Antardrim, every last one. There are no High Kingdoms left. There are no Knights left. There are no Wizards left. My master is the master of the world.”

  “Excellent,” said Wycliffe, some unease entering his mind. If Marugon had conquered his world, would he have any more need of his alliance with Wycliffe? Still, even if Marugon wished to terminate their arrangement, Wycliffe had learned more than enough of the black magic to accomplish his goals. “And the messages?”

  “Three messages, Lord Wycliffe,” said Gloaming. “First. Lord Marugon will come to your world in four months time.”

  Wycliffe frowned. “He will? Very well. And the second message?”

  “My master grows impatient. He wants his…his,” Gloaming stuttered over the words, forked tongue flashing, “his new-klee-ar device.”

  Wycliffe scowled. “His nuclear device, you mean.” That had been a nagging problem for years. “Please inform Lord Marugon that my associates are making every effort to locate and purchase a nuclear device. Regardless of cost.” He suppressed a mental wince. “And the third message.”

  Gloaming bowed and offered up the scroll. “My master has a project he wishes you to undertake to prepare for his arrival.”

  “Indeed?” Wycliffe took the scroll, broke the seal, and began reading. “I don’t have time to embark on some sort of project…” His voice trailed off as he read the message.

  “My master instructed me to say that everything you require is in the black crates,” said Gloaming.

  Something fell out of the scroll, and Wycliffe grabbed it before it fell to the floor. It was a cigarette, its sides marked with odd swirling designs. The paper felt thick and grainy beneath Wycliffe’s fingers.

  Wycliffe finished reading the scroll, and a shiver of fear went down his spine. “Tell Lord Marugon that I will carry out his project with all haste.”

  Gloaming cackled.

  Chapter 6 - Scorpions' Hold

  Year of the Councils 972

  Arran awoke to agony and darkness, cool air brushing against his skin.

  He lay naked on something soft, and pain raged through the left side of his chest and stomach. He moaned and tried to move, and that send another wave of agony through him. His throat felt drier than the desert dust.

  His breath shuddered through parched lips. Had he died in the desert?

  Perhaps he was dead and this was hell.

  He trembled until the darkness swallowed him once more.

  ###

  Dreams flitted through Arran’s feverish mind.

  He saw his training as a squire in Carlisan, his older brother Luthar at his side. Their father Lord Carolus had been high in the King’s favor. There had been sword practices, banquets, tournaments, and a city filled with light and song. Luthar had married to a kind and generous woman. Arran had been betrothed…to who? He couldn’t remember, save for her face and her pale smooth skin.

  He had been happy.

  Then came the war against the Black Council and the winged demons. Arran served as Luthar’s squire, and the armies of the High Kingdoms and the White Council had been victorious, the winged demons driven into the Wastes and the Warlocks slain …

  All except one.

  And Lord Marugon, the last of the Warlocks, fled into the Tower of Endless Worlds, and the High Kingdoms rejoiced. For no one who entered the Tower of Endless Worlds ever came out again.

  And then Marugon returned.

  Arran thrashed and sweated in his sleep.

  The roar of machine guns and the screams of the dying filled his mind. He saw the Scepteris Palace explode once more, saw Carlisan burn, saw Luthar’s head disintegrate as a bullet ploughed through it. Luthar’s wife had been with child, and Arran had never seen her again. Perhaps she lay dead in the ruins of Carlisan, or survived as an enslaved prostitute in the brothels for Marugon’s soldiers.

  The Wizards had been slaughtered and the Knights hunted down. Only Sir Liam and Arran remained to take King Lithon to Earth and to safety. And Arran had taken up the hell-forged guns, and Liam rejected him as a damned thing.

  He had spent nine years spent fighting against Marugon’s soldiers, watching the remaining High Kingdoms destroyed one by one.

  He saw once more the ruin of Antarese, the pain so recent that it cut like a knife.

  Arran could bear no more, and the agonizing despair crushed him. He wanted to see no more, to hear no more, and to dream no more. He wanted nothingness.

  The darkness washed over him, blacker than before.

  ###

  His eyes fluttered open.

  A woman’s face, lean and intent, stared down at him, silver-streaked dark hair tied back. Her fingers writhed through strange motions, and she murmured a whispering song.

  Just as the Wizards had once cast their spells.

  “Rest,” she whispered, her voice low and husky. White sparks glimmered in her green eyes. “Rest, tormented one. Rest and heal.”

  Arran coughed. Warmth filled him, and some of the pain dissipated.

  White light pulled him back down into sleep.

  ###

  Arran drifted in a warm daze.

  A man’s voice spoke, deep with a strange accent. “Do you think he will live?”

  “I do not know.” It was the woman with the husky voice. “His wounds are serious, but I think they will heal. Yet the wounds to his spirit are deeper, I deem. Something has utterly crushed him, and he simply may not have the will to live.”

  “Good,” said the man. “I hope he dies.”

  “Jabir, you are merciful as ever.”

  Jabir growled. “He is a danger to the clan. You saw the weapons he carried. Death-rods, used by the Lord of the Ugaoun and his minions.”

  “I remind you, Jabir, that he slew the Ugaoun that captured me.”

  Jabir snorted. “A deserter, then, from the armies of the Lord of the Ugaoun.”

  Steel scraped against stone. “I think he is a Knight of the Sacred Blade.”

  “There are no more Knights,” said J
abir. “The winged hunters killed them all. This man likely took those swords from a fallen Knight. And who ever heard of a Knight wielding two swords at once?”

  “Liam Two Swords did,” said the woman.

  The man scoffed. “Liam Two Swords is dead. No doubt his ashes lie in the rubble of old Carlisan.”

  “He used that Sacred Blade,” said the woman. “It burned in his hand and the fire destroyed the Ugaoun. Who but a Knight can do that?”

  “Deserter or Knight, he is still a danger to the clan,” said Jabir. “If he is a deserter, they will send men to hunt him down. And if he is a Knight, the Ugaoun will come for him. Or even the Lord of the Ugaoun himself. Throw him out into the desert, I say, and let the jackals pick his bones. You said he does not want to live. Then let him die, I say! It will be better for all of us.”

  The woman’s voice dripped with mockery. “How virtuous of you, Jabir. None are more cursed by the gods than those who betray a guest.”

  “That wretch is not our guest,” snarled Jabir. “And don’t speak to me of virtue. You haven’t that right.”

  “And why is that?” said the woman.

  “You know,” said Jabir. “How many years have we been wed? And yet you still fail.”

  “Perhaps the failure is not in me. Maybe I should have let the Ugaoun violate me. Perhaps the winged hunter could have gotten me with child.”

  There was the sound of angry footsteps walking away.

  ###

  Arran could see light.

  With some effort, he lifted his head. He lay on a stone bed with a soft mattress. Bandages covered his chest and stomach, and a splint held his left leg in place. His eyes came into focus, and he saw that the bed was in a chamber of rough stone, illuminated by a lantern on a low stone table. A curtain covered an entrance in the far wall.

  Arran tried to stand, and a line of agony shot up his leg.

  “Peace!” It was the woman’s voice. “Lie still.”

  Arran stopped struggling. He tried to speak. “Thirsty.”

  “A moment.” She walked into his line of sight. She wore dust-colored trousers, boots, and a loose jacket. A hooded mantle covered her head and shoulders. Strands of silver-shot dark hair hung over her forehead. Despite the silver, she looked only a few years older than Arran.